Where the Red Fern Grows (7 page)

    The girl pup saved him. Like a cat in a corn crib, she sneaked in from behind and sank her needlesharp teeth in the coon's back.

    It was too much for Old Ringy. He turned the boy pup loose, turned around, and slapped her clear off the log. She came running to me, yelping her head off. I grabbed her up in my arms and looked for the boy pup. When the coon had turned him loose, he too had fallen off the log. He was trying to get back to the coon. I darted in and grabbed him by the hind leg.

    With a pup under each arm and running as fast as I could, I lit out for the house. Coming out of the bottoms into a fresh-plowed field I set my pups down so I could get a little more speed. I started yelling as soon as I came in sight of the house.

    Mama came flying out with my sisters right behind her. Papa was out by the barn harnessing his team. Mama yelled something to him about a snake. He dropped the harness, jumped over the rail fence, and in a long lope started for me.

    Mama reached me first. She grabbed me and shouted, "Where did it bite you?"

    "Bite me?" I said. "Why Mama, I'm not bit. I've got him, Mama. I've got him."

    "Got what?" Mama asked.

    "A big coon," I said. "The biggest one in the river bottoms. He's this big, Mama." I made a circle with my arms as big as a twenty-gallon keg.

    Mama just groaned way down deep and covered her face with her hands. Some big tears squeezed out between her fingers. Almost in a whisper, I heard her say, "Thank God; I thought you were snake-bitten."

   My sisters, seeing Mama crying, puckered up and started bawling.

    "He needs a whipping," the oldest one said, "that's what he needs, scaring Mama that way."

    Something busted loose inside me and I cried a little, too.

    "I didn't mean to scare Mama," I sniffed. "I just wanted everyone to know I caught a coon."

    Up until this time Papa hadn't said a word. He just stood looking on.

    "Here now," he said, "let's have none of this crying. He didn't mean to scare anyone."

    Taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he stepped over to Mama, put his arm around her, and started drying her eyes.

    Mama poked her head around him and glared at me. "Billy Colman," she shouted, "if you ever scare me like that again, I'll take a switch and wear you to a frazzle."

    This hurt my feelings and I really did get tuned up. "Everyone's mad at me," I said, "and I haven't done anything but catch the biggest coon on the river."

    Mama came over. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to be cross, but you did scare me. I thought a rattlesnake had bitten you."

    "Now that that's all settled," Papa said, "we had better go get that coon." Looking at Mama, he said, "Why don't you and the girls go with us. I don't think it'll take long."

    Mama looked at me, smiled, and turned to the girls. "Would you like to go?" she asked.

    Their only answer was a lot of squealing and jumping up and down.

    On the way, Mama noticed some blood on my shirt. She stopped me and started looking me over.

    "Where did that come from?" she asked. "Did that coon bite you?"

    "No, Mama," I said. "I didn't get close enough for him to bite me."

    With a worried look on her face, she jerked out my shirt. "You don't seem to be scratched anywhere," she said.

    "Maybe this is where it came from," Papa said.

    He reached down and picked up my boy pup. His little black nose was split wide open and was bleeding.

    I saw a relieved look come over Mama's face.

    Looking at me, she started shaking her head. "I don't know," she said. "I just don't know."

    "Did that coon get hold of this pup?" Papa asked.

    "He sure did, Papa," I said, "but it wasn't the coon's fault. If it hadn't been for Little Ann, he'd have eaten him up."

    I told how my dogs had tied into the coon.

    Papa laughed as he fondled my pup. "This dog is going to be a coon hound," he said, "and I mean a good one."

    The coon started squalling as soon as we came in sight.

    "My goodness," Mama said, "you wouldn't think anything so small would be so vicious."

    Papa picked up a club. "Now everybody stand back out of the way," he said. "This won't take long."

    My pups were wanting to get to the coon so badly that they were hard to hold. I had to squeeze them up tight to keep them from jumping right out of my arms.

    My sisters, with eyes as big as blue marbles, got behind Mama and peeked around her.

    Papa whacked the coon a good one across the head. He let out a loud squall, growled, and showed his teeth. He tried hard to get to Papa but the trap held him.

    The girls buried their faces in Mama's dress and started bawling. Mama turned her back on the fight. I heard her say, "I wish we hadn't come. Poor thing."

    Papa whacked him again and it was all over.

    It was too much for Mama and the girls. They left. I heard the tall cane rattling as they ran for the house.

    After the coon was killed, I walked over. Papa was trying to get the coon's paw from the trap. He couldn't do it. Taking a pair of pliers from his pocket, he said, "It's a good thing I had these along or we would have had to cut his foot off."

    After Papa had pulled the nails, he lifted the coon's paw from the hole. There, clamped firmly in it, was the bright piece of tin.

    In a low voice Papa said, "Well, I'll be darned. All he had to do was open it up and he was free, but he wouldn't do it. Your grandfather was right."

    A sorrowful look came over Papa's face as he ran his fingers through the soft, yellow hair. "Billy," he said, "I want you to take a hammer and pull the nails from every one of those traps. It's summertime now and their fur isn't any good. Besides, I don't think this is very sportsmanlike. The coon doesn't have a chance. It's all right this time. You needed this one, but from now on I want you to catch them with your dogs. That way they have a fifty-fifty chance."

    "I will, Papa," I said. "That's what I intended to do."

    While we were skinning the coon, Papa asked me when I was going to start training my dogs.

    "I don't know," I said. "Do you think they're too young?"

    "No, I don't think so," he said. "I've heard that the younger they are the better it is."

    "Well, in that case," I said, "I'll start tomorrow."

    With the help of my oldest sister, we started giving my pups their first lessons. She would hold their collars while I made trails with the hide for them to follow.

    I'd climb trees that leaned out over the river, jump out into the water, swim to the other side, and make trails up and down the bank. With a long pole and wire, I'd drag the hide on top of rail fences, swing it through the air, and let it touch the ground twenty or thirty feet away. I did everything with that hide a coon would do and probably a lot of things a coon couldn't do.

    It was a beautiful sight to see my pups work those trails. At first they were awkward and didn't know what to do, but they would never quit trying.

    Old Dan would get so eager and excited, he would overrun a trail. Where it twisted or turned, he would run straight on, bawling up a storm. It didn't take him long to realize that a smart old coon didn't always run in a straight line.

    Little Ann never overran a trail. She would wiggle and twist, cry and whine, and pretty soon she would figure it out.

    At first they were afraid of water. I never would admit it even to myself. I always said that they just didn't like to get wet. They would follow the trail to the stream and stop. Sitting down on their rears, they would cry and beg for help. With a pup under each arm, I'd wade out into the stream and set them down in the cool water. Nine times out of ten, one pup would swim one way and the other one would go just the opposite way. I had a time with this part of their training, but my persistence had no bounds.

    It wasn't long until they loved the water. Old Dan would jump as far out as he could and practically knock the river dry. Little Ann would ease herself in and swim like a muskrat for the opposite shore.

    I taught my dogs every trick I knew and any new ones I heard about. I taught them how to split up on a riverbank to search for the hidden trail, because it was impossible to tell where a coon would come out of the water. Sometimes he might swim downstream and other times he might swim upstream. Maybe he would come back to the bank he had just left, or he would cross over to the other side. Perhaps he would stop in the middle of the stream on an old drift.

    Sometimes he would come out of the water by catching the dangling limbs of a leaning birch and climbing up, never touching the bank. Or he could come out on the same trail he used to go in, and backtrack. He would sometimes crawl up under an undermined bank or into an old muskrat den.

    One of the favorite tricks of a smart old ringtail is the treebarking trick. This he accomplished by running far up on the side of a tree and using his stout legs for leverage, springing twenty or thirty feet away before touching the ground. Dumb hounds trail up to the tree and start bawling treed. I taught my dogs to circle for a good hundred yards to be sure he was still in the tree before bawling.

    In order to learn more about coon hunting, I'd hang around my grandfather's store and listen to the stories told by the coon hunters. Some of the tales I heard were long and tall, but I believed them all.

    I could always tell when Grandpa was kidding me by the twinkle in his eyes. He told me how a coon could climb right up the fog and disappear in the stars, and how he could leap on a horse's back and run him over your dogs. I didn't care, for I loved to hear the tall tales. Anything that had a coon hair in it I believed completely.

    All through that summer and into the late fall the training went on. Although I was worn down to a frazzle, I was a happy boy. I figured I was ready for the ringtails.

    Late one evening, tired and exhausted, I sat down by a big sycamore and called my dogs to me. "It's all "over," I said. "There'll be no more lessons. I've worked hard and I've done my best. From now on it's all up to you. Hunting season is just a few days away and I'm going to let you rest for I want you to be in good shape the night it opens."

    It was wonderful indeed how I could have heart-to-heart talks with my dogs and they always seemed to understand. Each question I asked was answered in their own doggish way.

    Although they couldn't talk in my terms, they had a language of their own that was easy to understand. Sometimes I would see the answer in their eyes, and again it would be in the friendly wagging of their tails. Other times I could hear the answer in a low whine or feel it in the soft caress of a warm flicking tongue. In some way, they would always answer.

VIII

    THE DAY HUNTING SEASON OPENED, I WAS AS NERVOUS AS Sarnie, our house cat. Part of that seemingly endless day was spent getting things ready for the coming night.

    I cleaned my lantern and filled it full of oil. With hog lard I greased my boots until they were as soft as a hummingbird's nest. I was grinding my ax when Papa came around.

    He smiled as he said, "This is the big night, isn't it?"

    "It sure is, Papa," I said, "and I've waited a long time for it."

    "Yes, I know," he said. "I've been thinking- there's not too much to do around here during the hunting season. I'm pretty sure I can take care of things, so you just go ahead and hunt all you want to."

    "Thanks, Papa," I said. "I guess I'll be out pretty late at night, and I'll probably have to do a lot of sleeping in the daytime."

    Papa started frowning. "You know," he said, "your mother doesn't like this hunting of yours very much. She's worried about you being out all by yourself."

    "I can't see why Mama has to worry," I said. "Haven't I been roaming the woods ever since I was big enough to walk, and I'm almost fourteen now."

    "I know," said Papa. "It's all right with me, but women are a little different than men. They worry more.

    "Now just to be on the safe side, I think it would be a good idea for you to tell us where you'll be hunting. Then if anything happens, we'll know where to look."

    I told him I would, but I didn't think anything was going to happen.

    After Papa had left, I started thinking. "He doesn't even talk to me like I was a boy any more. He talks to me like I was a man." These wonderful thoughts made me feel just about as big as our old red mule.

    I had a good talk with my dogs. "I've waited almost three years for this night," I said, "and it hasn't been easy. I've taught you everything I know and I want you to do your best."

    Little Ann acted like she understood. She whined and saved me a wash job on my face. Old Dan may have, but he didn't act like it. He just lay there in the sunshine, all stretched out and limber as a rag.

    During supper Mama asked me where I was going to hunt.

    "I'm not going far," I said, "just down on the river."

    I could tell Mama was worried and it didn't make me feel too good.

    "Billy," she said, "I don't approve of this hunting, but it looks like I can't say no; not after all you've been through, getting your dogs, and all that training."

    "Aw, he'll be all right," Papa said. "Besides, he's getting to be a good-size man now."

    "Man!" Mama exclaimed. "Why, he's still just a little boy."

    "You can't keep him a little boy always," Papa said. "He's got to grow up some day."

    "I know," Mama said, "but I don't like it, not at all, and I can't help worrying."

    "Mama, please don't worry about me," I said. "I'll be all right. Why, I've been all over these hills, you know that."

    "I know," she said, "but that was in the daytime. I never worried too much when it was daylight, but at night, that's different. It'll be dark and anything could happen."

    "There won't be anything happen," I said. "I promise I'll be careful."

    Mama got up from the table saying, "Well, it's like I said, I can't say no and I can't help worrying. I'll pray every night you're out."

    The way Mama had me feeling, I didn't know whether to go hunting or not. Papa must have sensed how I felt. "It's dark now," he said, "and I understand those coons start stirring pretty early. You had better be going, hadn't you?"

    While Mama was bundling me up, Papa lit my lantern. He handed it to me, saying, "I'd like to see a big coonskin on the smokehouse wall in the morning."

    The whole family followed me out on the porch. There we all got a surprise. My dogs were sitting on the steps, waiting for me.

    I heard Papa laugh. "Why, they know you're going hunting," he said, "know it as well as anything."

    "Well, I never," said Mama. "Do you really think they do? It does look like they do. Why, just look at them."

    Little Ann started wiggling and twisting. Old Dan trotted out to the gate, stopped, turned around, and looked at me.

    "Sure they know Billy's going hunting," piped the little one, "and I know why."

    "How do you know so much, silly?" asked the oldest one.

    "Because I told Little Ann, that's why," she said, "and she told Old Dan. That's how they know."

    We all had to laugh at her.

    The last thing I heard as I left the house was the voice of my mother. "Be careful, Billy," she said, "and don't stay out late."

    It was a beautiful night, still and frosty. A big grinning Ozark moon had the countryside bathed in a soft yellow glow. The starlit heaven reminded me of a large blue umbrella, outspread and with the handle broken off.

    Just before I reached the timber, I called my dogs to me. "Now the trail will be a little different tonight," I whispered. "It won't be a hide dragged on the ground. It'll be the real thing, so remember everything I taught you and I'm depending on you. Just put one up a tree and I'll do the rest."

    I turned them loose, saying, "Go get 'em."

    They streaked for the timber.

    By the time I had reached the river, every nerve in my body was drawn up as tight as a fiddlestring. Big-eyed and with ears open, I walked on, stopping now and then to listen. The way I was slipping along anyone would have thought I was trying to slip up on a coon myself.

    I had never seen a night so peaceful and still. All around me tall sycamores gleamed like white streamers in the moonlight. A prowling skunk came wobbling up the riverbank. He stopped when he saw me. I smiled at the fox-fire glow of his small, beady, red eyes. He turned and disappeared in the underbrush. I heard a sharp snap and a feathery rustle in some brush close by. A small rodent started squealing in agony. A night hawk had found his supper.

    Across the river and from far back in the rugged mountains I heard the baying of a hound. I wondered if it was the same one I had heard from my window on those nights so long ago.

    Although my eyes were seeing the wonders of the night, my ears were ever alert, listening for the sound of my hounds telling me they had found a trail.

    I was expecting one of them to bawl, but when it came it startled me. The deep tones of Old Dan's voice jarred the silence around me. I dropped my ax and almost dropped my lantern. A strange feeling came over me. I took a deep breath and threw back my head to give the call of the hunter, but something went wrong. My throat felt like it had been tied in a knot. I swallowed a couple of times and the knot disappeared.

    As loud as I could, I whooped, "Who-e-e-e. Get him, Dan. Get him."

    Little Ann came in. The bell-like tones of her voice made shivers run up and down my spine. I whooped to her. "Who-e-e-e. Tell it to him, little girl. Tell it to him."

    This was what I had prayed for, worked and sweated for, my own little hounds bawling on the trail of a river coon. I don't know why I cried, but I did. While the tears rolled, I whooped again and again.

    They straightened the trail out and headed down river. I took off after them as fast as I could run.

    A mile downstream the coon pulled his first trick. I could tell by my dogs' voices that they had lost the trail. When I came to them they were out on an old drift, sniffing around.

    The coon had pulled a simple trick. He had run out on the drift, leaped into the water, and crossed the river. To an experienced coon hound, the crude trick would have been nothing at all, but my dogs were just big, awkward pups, trailing their first live coon.

    I stood and watched, wondering if they would remember the training I had given them. Now and then I would whoop, urging them on.

    Old Dan was having a fit. He whined and he bawled. He whimpered and cried. He came to me and reared up, begging for help.

    "I'm not going to help you," I scolded, "and you're not going to find him out on that drift. If you would just remember some of the training I gave you, you could find the trail. Now go find that coon."

    He ran back out on the drift and started searching.

    Little Ann came to me. I could see the pleading in her warm gray eyes. "I'm ashamed of you, little girl," I said. "I thought you had more sense than this. If you let him fool you this easily, you'll never be a coon dog."

    She whined, turned, and trotted downstream to search again for the lost trail.

    I couldn't understand. Had all the training I had given them been useless? I knew if I waded the river they would follow me. Once on the other side, it would be easy for them to find the trail. I didn't want it that way. I wanted them to figure it out by themselves. The more I thought about it, the more disgusted I became. I sat down and buried my face in my arms.

    Out on the drift, Old Dan started whining. It made me angry and I got up to scold him again.

    I couldn't understand his actions. He was running along the edge of the drift, whimpering and staring downriver. I looked that way. I could see something swimming for the opposite shore. At first I thought it was a muskrat. In the middle of the stream, where the moonlight was the brightest, I got a good look. It was Little Ann.

    With a loud whoop, I told her how proud I was. My little girl had remembered her training.

    She came out on a gravel bar, shook the water from her body, and disappeared in the thick timber. Minutes later, she let me know she had found the trail. Before the tones of her voice had died away, Old Dan plowed into the water. He was so eager to join her I could hear him whining as he swam.

    As soon as his feet touched bottom in the shallows, he started bawling and lunging. White sheets of water, knocked high in the moonlight by his churning feet, gleamed like thousands of tiny white stars.

    He came out of the river onto a sand bar. In his eagerness, his feet slipped in the loose sand and down he went. He came out of his roll, running and bawling. Ahead of him was a log jam. He sailed over it and disappeared down the riverbank. Seconds later I heard his deep voice blend with the sharp cries of Little Ann.

    At that moment no boy in the world could have been more proud of his dogs than I was. Never again would I doubt them.

    I was hurrying along, looking for a shallow riffle so I could wade across, when the voices of my dogs stopped. I waited and listened. They opened again on my side of the stream. The coon had crossed back over.

    I couldn't help smiling. I knew that never again would a ringtail fool them by swimming the river.

    The next trick the old fellow pulled was dandy. He climbed a large water oak standing about ten feet from the river and simply disappeared.

    I got there in time to see my dogs swimming for the opposite shore. For half an hour they worked that bank. Not finding the trail, they swam back. I stood and watched them. They practically tore the riverbank to pieces looking for the trail.

    Old Dan knew the coon had climbed the water oak. He went back, reared up on it, and bawled a few times.

    "There's no use in doing that, boy," I said. "I know he climbed it, but he's not there now. Maybe it's like Grandpa said, he just climbed right on out through the top and disappeared in the stars."

    My dogs didn't know it, but I was pretty well convinced that that was what the coon had done.

    They wouldn't give up. Once again they crossed over to the other shore. It was no use. The coon hadn't touched that bank. They came back. Old Dan went up the river and Little Ann worked downstream.

    An hour and a half later they gave up and came to me begging for help. I knelt down between their wet bodies. While I scratched and petted them, I let them know that I still loved them.

    "I'm not mad," I said. "I know you did your best. If that coon can fool both of us, then we're just beat. We'll go someplace else to hunt. He's not the only coon in these bottoms."

    Just as I picked up my ax and lantern, Little Ann let out a bawl and tore out down the riverbank. Old Dan, with a bewildered look on his face, stood for a moment looking after her. Then, raising his head high in the air, he made my eardrums ring with his deep voice. I could hear the underbrush popping as he ran to join her.

    I couldn't figure out what had taken place. Surely Little Ann had heard or seen something. I could tell by their voices that whatever it was they were after, they were close enough to see it and were probably running by sight.

    The animal left the bottoms and headed for the mountains. Whatever it was, it must have realized my dogs were crowding it too closely. At the edge of the foothills it turned and came back toward the river.

    I was still trying to figure out what was going on, when I realized that on striking the river the animal had again turned and was coming straight toward me. I set my lantern down and tightened my grip on the ax.