by Wilson Rawls
I went off to bed with my heart all torn up in little pieces, and cried myself to sleep.
The next day Papa had to go to the store. Late that evening I saw him coming back. As fast as I could, I ran to meet him, expecting a sack of candy. Instead he handed me three small steel traps.
If Santa Claus himself had come down out of the mountains, reindeer and all, I would not have been more pleased. I jumped up and down, and cried a whole bucketful of tears. I hugged him and told him what a wonderful papa he was.
He showed me how to set them by mashing the spring down with my foot, and how to work the trigger. I took them to bed with me that night.
The next morning I started trapping around the barn. The first thing I caught was Samie, our house cat. If this didn’t cause a commotion! I didn’t intend to catch him. I was trying to catch a rat, but somehow he came nosing around and got in my trap.
My sisters started bawling and yelling for Mama. She came running, wanting to know what in the world was going on. None of us had to tell her. Samie told her with his spitting and squalling.
He was mad. He couldn’t understand what that thing was that was biting his foot, and he was making an awful fuss about it. His tail was as big as a wet corncob and every hair on his small body was sticking straight up. He spit and yowled and dared anyone to get close to him.
My sisters yelled their fool heads off, all the time saying, “Poor Samie! Poor Samie!”
Mama shushed them up and told me to go get the forked stick from under the clothesline. I ran and got it.
Mama was the best helper a boy ever had. She put the forked end over Samie’s neck and pinned him to the ground.
It was bad enough for the trap to be biting his foot, but to have his neck pinned down that way was too much. He threw a fit. I never heard such a racket in all my life.
It wasn’t long until everything on the place was all spooked up. The chickens started cackling and flew way up on the hillside. Daisy, our milk cow, all but tore the barn lot up and refused to give any milk that night. Sloppy Ann, our hog, started running in circles, squealing and grunting.
Samie wiggled and twisted. He yowled and spit, but it didn’t do him any good. Mama was good and stout. She held him down, tight to the ground. I ran in and put my foot on the trap spring, mashed it down, and released his foot. With one loud squall, he scooted under the barn.
After it was all over, Mama said, “I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble with that cat. I think he has learned his lesson.”
How wrong Mama was. Samie was one of those nosy kind of cats. He would lie up on the red oak limbs and watch every move I made.
I found some slick little trails out in our garden down under some tall hollyhocks. Thinking they were game trails, and not knowing they were Samie’s favorite hunting trails, I set my traps. Samie couldn’t understand what I was doing out there, messing around his hunting territory. He went to investigate.
It wasn’t long until I had him limping with all four feet. Every time Papa saw Samie lying around in the warm sun with his feet wrapped up in turpentine rags, he would laugh until big tears rolled down his cheeks.
Mama had another talk with Papa. She said he was going to have to say something to me, because if I caught that cat one more time, it would drive her out of her mind.
Papa told me to be a little more careful where I set my traps.
“Papa,” I said, “I don’t want to catch Samie, but he’s the craziest cat I ever saw. He sees everything I do, and just has to go sniffing around.”
Papa looked over at Samie. He was lying all sprawled out in the sunshine with all four paws bandaged and sticking straight up. His long tail was swishing this way and that.
“You see, Papa,” I said, “he’s watching me right now, just waiting for me to set my traps.”
Papa walked off toward the barn. I heard him laughing fit to kill.
It finally got too tough for Samie. He left home. Oh, he came in once in a while, all long and lean looking, but he never was the same friendly cat any more. He was nervous and wouldn’t let anyone pet him. He would gobble down his milk and then scoot for the timber.
Once I decided to make friends with him because I felt bad about catching him in my traps. I reached out my hand to rub his back. He swelled up like a sitting hen. His eyeballs got all green, and he growled way down deep. He spat at me, and drew back his paw like he was going to knock my head off. I decided I’d better leave him alone.
In no time at all I cleaned out the rats. Then something bad happened. I caught one of Mama’s prize hens. I got one of those “young man peach tree” switchings over that.
Papa told me to go down in the canebrakes back of our fields and trap. This opened up all kinds of new wonders. I caught opossums, skunks, rabbits, and squirrels.
Papa showed me how to skin my game. In neat little rows I tacked the hides on the smokehouse wall. I’d stand for hours and admire my magnificent trophies.
There was only one thing wrong. I didn’t have a big coonskin to add to my collection. I couldn’t trap old Mister Ringtail. He was too smart for me. He’d steal the bait from the traps, spring the triggers, and sometimes even turn them over.
Once I found a small stick standing upright in one of my traps. I showed it to Papa. He laughed and said the stick must have fallen from a tree. It made no difference what Papa said. I was firmly convinced that a smart old coon had deliberately poked that stick in my trap.
The traps helped my dog-wanting considerably, but like a new toy, the newness wore off and I was right back where I started from. Only this time it was worse, much worse. I had been exposed to the feel of wildlife.
I started pestering Mama again. She said, “Oh, no! Not that again. I thought you’d be satisfied with the traps. No, Billy, I don’t want to hear any more about hounds.”
I knew Mama meant what she said. This broke my heart. I decided I’d leave home. I sneaked out a quart jar of peaches, some cold corn bread, and a few onions, and started up the hollow back of our house. I had it all figured out. I’d go away off to some big town, get a hundred dogs, and bring them all back with me.
I made it all right until I heard a timber wolf howl. This stopped my home-leaving.
When the hunting season opened that fall, something happened that was almost more than I could stand. I was lying in bed one night trying to figure out a way I could get some dogs when I heard the deep baying of a coon hound. I got up and opened my window. It came again. The deep voice rang loud and clear in the frosty night. Now and then I could hear the hunter whooping to him.
The hound hunted all night. He quit when the roosters started crowing at daybreak. The hunter and the hound weren’t the only ones awake that night. I stayed up and listened to them until the last tones of the hound’s voice died away in the daylight hours.
That morning I was determined to have some hounds. I went again to Mama. This time I tried bribery. I told her if she’d get me a hunting dog, I’d save the money I earned from my furs, and buy her a new dress and a boxful of pretty hats.
That time I saw tears in her eyes. It made me feel all empty inside and I cried a little, too. By the time she was through kissing me and talking to me, I was sure I didn’t need any dogs at all. I couldn’t stand to see Mama cry.
The next night I heard the hound again. I tried to cover my head with a pillow to shut out the sound. It was no use. His voice seemed to bore its way through the pillow and ring in my ears. I had to get up and again go to the window. I’m sure if that coon hunter had known that he was slowly killing a ten-year-old boy, he would have put a muzzle on his hound.
Sleep was out of the question. Even on nights when I couldn’t hear the hound, I couldn’t sleep. I was afraid if I did, he would come and I would miss hearing him.
By the time hunting season was over, I was a nervous wreck. My eyes were red and bloodshot. I had lost weight and was as thin as a bean pole. Mama checked me over. She looked at my tongue and turned back o
ne of my eyelids.
“If I didn’t know better,” she said, “I’d swear you weren’t sleeping well. Are you?”
“Why, Mama,” I said, “I go to bed, don’t I? What does a boy go to bed for if it isn’t to sleep?”
By the little wrinkles that bunched up on her forehead, I could tell that Mama wasn’t satisfied. Papa came in during one of these inspections. Mama told him she was worried about my health.
“Aw,” he said, “there’s nothing wrong with him. It’s just because he’s been cooped up all winter. A boy needs sunshine, and exercise. He’s almost eleven now, and I’m going to let him help me in the fields this summer. That will put the muscles back on him.”
I thought this was wonderful. I’d finally grown up to be a man. I was going to help Papa with the farm.
III
THE DOG-WANTING DISEASE NEVER DID LEAVE ME ALTOGETHER. With the new work I was doing, helping Papa, it just kind of burned itself down and left a big sore on my heart. Every time I’d see a coon track down in our fields, or along the riverbanks, the old sore would get all festered up and start hurting again.
Just when I had given up all hope of ever owning a good hound, something wonderful happened. The good Lord figured I had hurt enough, and it was time to lend a helping hand.
It all started one day while I was hoeing corn down in our field close to the river. Across the river, a party of fishermen had been camped for several days. I heard the old Maxwell car as it snorted and chugged its way out of the bottoms. I knew they were leaving. Throwing down my hoe, I ran down to the river and waded across at a place called the Shannon Ford. I hurried to the campground.
It was always a pleasure to prowl where fishermen had camped. I usually could find things: a fish line, or a forgotten fish pole. On one occasion, I found a beautiful knife stuck in the bark of a sycamore tree, forgotten by a careless fisherman. But on that day, I found the greatest of treasures, a sportsman’s magazine, discarded by the campers. It was a real treasure for a country boy. Because of that magazine, my entire life was changed.
I sat down on an old sycamore log, and started thumbing through the leaves. On the back pages of the magazine, I came to the “For Sale” section—“Dogs for Sale”—every kind of dog. I read on and on. They had dogs I had never heard of, names I couldn’t make out. Far down in the right-hand corner, I found an ad that took my breath away. In small letters, it read: “Registered redbone coon hound pups—twenty-five dollars each.”
The advertisement was from a kennel in Kentucky. I read it over and over. By the time I had memorized the ad, I was seeing dogs, hearing dogs, and even feeling them. The magazine was forgotten. I was lost in thought. The brain of an eleven-year-old boy can dream some fantastic dreams.
How wonderful it would be if I could have two of those pups. Every boy in the country but me had a good hound or two. But fifty dollars—how could I ever get fifty dollars? I knew I couldn’t expect help from Mama and Papa.
I remembered a passage from the Bible my mother had read to us: “God helps those who help themselves.” I thought of the words. I mulled them over in my mind. I decided I’d ask God to help me. There on the banks of the Illinois River, in the cool shade of the tall white sycamores, I asked God to help me get two hound pups. It wasn’t much of a prayer, but it did come right from the heart.
When I left the campground of the fishermen, it was late. As I walked along, I could feel the hard bulge of the magazine jammed deep in the pocket of my overalls. The beautiful silence that follows the setting sun had settled over the river bottoms. The coolness of the rich, black soil felt good to my bare feet.
It was the time of day when all furried things come to life. A big swamp rabbit hopped out on the trail, sat on his haunches, stared at me, and then scampered away. A mother gray squirrel ran out on the limb of a burr oak tree. She barked a warning to the four furry balls behind her. They melted from sight in the thick green. A silent gray shadow drifted down from the top of a tall sycamore. There was a squeal and a beating of wings. I heard the tinkle of a bell in the distance ahead. I knew it was Daisy, our milk cow. I’d have to start her on the way home.
I took the magazine from my pocket and again I read the ad. Slowly a plan began to form. I’d save the money. I could sell stuff to the fishermen: crawfish, minnows, and fresh vegetables. In berry season, I could sell all the berries I could pick at my grandfather’s store. I could trap in the winter. The more I planned, the more real it became. There was the way to get those pups—save my money.
I could almost feel the pups in my hands. I planned the little doghouse, and where to put it. Collars I could make myself. Then the thought came, “What could I name them?” I tried name after name, voicing them out loud. None seemed to fit. Well, there would be plenty of time for names.
Right now there was something more important—fifty dollars—a fabulous sum—a fortune—far more money than I had ever seen. Somehow, some way, I was determined to have it. I had twenty-three cents—a dime I had earned running errands for my grandpa, and thirteen cents a fisherman had given me for a can of worms.
The next morning I went to the trash pile behind the barn. I was looking for a can—my bank. I picked up several, but they didn’t seem to be what I wanted. Then I saw it, an old K. C. Baking Powder can. It was perfect, long and slender, with a good tight lid. I took it down to the creek and scrubbed it with sand until it was bright and new-looking.
I dropped the twenty-three cents in the can. The coins looked so small lying there on the shiny bottom, but to me it was a good start. With my finger, I tried to measure how full it would be with fifty dollars in it.
Next, I went to the barn and up in the loft. Far back over the hay and up under the eaves, I hid my can. I had a start toward making my dreams come true—twenty-three cents. I had a good bank, safe from the rats and from the rain and snow.
All through that summer I worked like a beaver. In the small creek that wormed its way down through our fields, I caught crawfish with my bare hands. I trapped minnows with an old screen-wire trap I made myself, baited with yellow corn bread from my mother’s kitchen. These were sold to the fishermen, along with fresh vegetables and roasting ears. I tore my way through the blackberry patches until my hands and feet were scratched raw and red from the thorns. I tramped the hills seeking out the huckleberry bushes. My grandfather paid me ten cents a bucket for my berries.
Once Grandpa asked me what I did with the money I earned. I told him I was saving it to buy some hunting dogs. I asked him if he would order them for me when I had saved enough. He said he would. I asked him not to say anything to my father. He promised me he wouldn’t. I’m sure Grandpa paid little attention to my plans.
That winter I trapped harder than ever with the three little traps I owned. Grandpa sold my hides to fur buyers who came to his store all through the fur season. Prices were cheap: fifteen cents for a large opossum hide, twenty-five for a good skunk hide.
Little by little, the nickels and dimes added up. The old K. C. Baking Powder can grew heavy. I would heft its weight in the palm of my hand. With a straw, I’d measure from the lip of the can to the money. As the months went by, the straws grew shorter and shorter.
The next summer I followed the same routine.
“Would you like to buy some crawfish or minnows? Maybe you’d like some fresh vegetables or roasting ears.”
The fishermen were wonderful, as true sportsmen are. They seemed to sense the urgency in my voice and always bought my wares. However, many was the time I’d find my vegetables left in the abandoned camp.
There never was a set price. Anything they offered was good enough for me.
A year passed. I was twelve. I was over the halfway mark. I had twenty-seven dollars and forty-six cents. My spirits soared. I worked harder.
Another year crawled slowly by, and then the great day came. The long hard grind was over. I had it—my fifty dollars! I cried as I counted it over and over.
As I set the ca
n back in the shadowy eaves of the barn, it seemed to glow with a radiant whiteness I had never seen before. Perhaps it was all imagination. I don’t know.
Lying back in the soft hay, I folded my hands behind my head, closed my eyes, and let my mind wander back over the two long years. I thought of the fishermen, the blackberry patches, and the huckleberry hills. I thought of the prayer I had said when I asked God to help me get two hound pups. I knew He had surely helped, for He had given me the heart, courage, and determination.
Early the next morning, with the can jammed deep in the pocket of my overalls, I flew to the store. As I trotted along, I whistled and sang. I felt as big as the tallest mountain in the Ozarks.
Arriving at my destination, I saw two wagons were tied up at the hitching rack. I knew some farmers had come to the store, so I waited until they left. As I walked in, I saw my grandfather behind the counter. Tugging and pulling, I worked the can out of my pocket and dumped it out in front of him and looked up.
Grandpa was dumbfounded. He tried to say something, but it wouldn’t come out. He looked at me, and he looked at the pile of coins. Finally, in a voice much louder than he ordinarily used, he asked, “Where did you get all this?”
“I told you, Grandpa,” I said, “I was saving my money so I could buy two hound pups, and I did. You said you would order them for me. I’ve got the money and now I want you to order them.”
Grandpa stared at me over his glasses, and then back at the money.
“How long have you been saving this?” he asked.
“A long time, Grandpa,” I said.
“How long?” he asked.
I told him, “Two years.”
His mouth flew open and in a loud voice he said, “Two years!”
I nodded my head.
The way my grandfather stared at me made me uneasy. I was on needles and pins. Taking his eyes from me, he glanced back at the money. He saw the faded yellow piece of paper sticking out from the coins. He worked it out, asking as he did, “What’s this?”
