Where the Red Fern Grows

by Wilson Rawls

  “Yes, I know,” I said.

  When we reached the store we saw the team was already hitched to the buggy and was standing in front of the store. Grandpa had loaded the tent and several boxes of groceries.

  I had never seen him in such high spirits. He slapped Papa on the back, saying, “I’m sure glad you could go with us. It’ll do you good to get out once in a while.”

  Papa laughed and said, “It looked like I had to go or have everyone in the family mad at me.”

  Looking in the buggy I saw my ax. I didn’t think I ever wanted to see it again, but for some reason it didn’t look like I thought it would. There was no blood on it and it looked harmless enough laying there all clean and bright.

  Grandpa saw me looking at it. He came over.

  “I kept it a few days,” he said, “just in case the marshal wanted to ask some questions. Everything seems to be all right now, and we may need a good ax on this hunt.”

  Grandpa sensed how I felt about the ax. He waited in silence for my answer.

  The excitement of the hunt was so strong in me, even the sight of the ax brought back only a fleeting remembrance of Rubin’s accident.

  I said, “Yes, we will need one. Besides, it’s a good one and there’s no use in throwing it away.”

  Grandpa laughed, reached over, and screwed my cap around on my head, saying, “That the boy, that’s what I wanted you to say. Now, you better go to the barn and get some hay and make a bed in the buggy box for your dogs.”

  “Aw, Grandpa,” I said, “they can walk. They don’t ever get tired; besides, they’re used to walking.”

  “Walk!” Grandpa almost shouted. “They’re not going to walk. No, sir, not if I can help it. You want them to be footsore when we get there?”

  Papa chuckled and said, “We can’t win a gold cup with two sore-footed hounds, can we?”

  “Of course not,” Grandpa said. “Now, you go and get that hay like I said.”

  As I turned to go to the barn I couldn’t help but smile. It made me feel good to have my papa and grandpa so concerned about my dogs.

  I had taken only a few steps when Grandpa said, “Oh, wait a minute.”

  I stopped and turned around.

  Walking up to me and glancing toward the house as he did, he whispered, “In that empty kraut barrel in the harness room, there’s a jug of corn liquor. Cover it up in the hay so your grandma won’t see it, and bring it back with you.”

  With a twinkle in his eye, he said, “You never can tell when we’ll need some medicine.”

  I knew my father wouldn’t drink any of the liquor, but if Grandpa wanted to take along a whole barrel, it was all right with me.

  Just when I thought we were ready to leave, Grandma came bustling out.

  Grandpa got nervous. He whispered and asked, “Did you hide the jug good?”

  I nodded my head.

  Grandma handed Grandpa a pair of long-handle underwear and a scarf, saying, “I knew you’d forget something.”

  Grandpa snorted but knew there was no use arguing with her.

  She started picking around in the groceries, asking about salt, pepper, and matches.

  “Nannie, we’ve got everything,” he said. “You must think I’m a baby and don’t know how to pack a grub box.”

  “A baby,” Grandma snorted. “Why, you’re worse than a baby. At least they have a little sense. You don’t have any at all. An old codger like you out chasing a coon all over the hills.”

  At her biting remark, I thought Grandpa was going to blow up. He snorted like Daisy, our milk cow, when she had seen a booger.

  I crawled up in the buggy box with my dogs and hung my feet out.

  Grandma came over and asked me about warm clothes. I told her I had plenty.

  She kissed me good-bye and we were on our way.

  XV

  OVER A DIM ROCKY ROAD, IN A NORTHEASTERLY DIRECTION, our buggy moved on.

  I noticed that the road stayed at the edge of the foothills, but always in sight of the river.

  About the middle of the afternoon we stopped at a small stream to water the team. Papa asked Grandpa if he intended to go all the way to the campground before stopping.

  “No,” he said, “I figure to put up for the night when we reach Bluebird Creek. With a good early start in the morning we can make the campgrounds in plenty of time to pitch our tent and set up camp.”

  Late that evening we reached Bluebird Creek. We didn’t set up our tent. With a tarp we made a lean- to and built a large fire out in front of it.

  While Grandpa fed and watered the team, Papa and I carried our bedding to the shelter and made down our beds.

  Grandpa said, “While we’re cooking supper, you see to your dogs. Feed them and fix them a warm bed.”

  “I figure to cook them some corn-meal mush,” I said. “That’s what they’re used to eating.”

  “Mush!” Grandpa growled. “They’re not going to have mush, not if I can help it.”

  He walked over to a grocery box, mumbling as he did, “Mush! A hound can’t hunt on a bellyful of that stuff.”

  He came back and handed me two large cans of corned-beef hash, saying, “Here. Reckon they’ll eat this.”

  I wanted to hug my old grandpa’s neck. “Sure, Grandpa,” I said, “they’ll love that.”

  Opening one of the cans, I dumped it out on a piece of bark in front of Old Dan. He sniffed at it and refused to eat. I laughed, for I knew why. While I was opening the other can, Grandpa came over.

  “What’s the matter,” he asked. “Won’t he eat it?”

  “Sure, Grandpa,” I said, “he’ll eat, but not before Little Ann gets her share.”

  With the second can opened, I fed her on another piece of bark. Both of them started eating at the same time.

  With an astonished look on his face, Grandpa exclaimed, “Well, I’ll be darned. I never saw anything like that. Why, I never saw a hound that wouldn’t eat. Did you train them to do that?”

  “No, Grandpa,” I said. “They’ve always been that way. They won’t take anything away from each other, and everything they do, they do it as one.”

  Papa had overheard our conversation. He said, “You think that’s strange. You should have seen what I saw one day.

  “One of the girls threw two cold biscuits out in the back yard to Old Dan. He stood and looked at them for a bit, then, picking both of them up in his mouth, he trotted around the house. I followed just to see what he was going to do. He walked up in front of the doghouse, laid them down, and growled; not like he was mad. It was a strange kind of a growl. Little Ann came out of the doghouse and each of them ate a biscuit. Now, I saw this with my own eyes. Believe me, those dogs are close to each other—real close.”

  After Papa had stopped talking, silence settled over the camp.

  Grandpa stood staring at my dogs. In a slow voice, as if he were picking his words, he said, “You know, I’ve always felt like there was something strange about those dogs. I don’t know just what it is, and I can’t exactly put my finger on it, yet I can feel it. Maybe it’s just my imagination. I don’t rightly know.”

  Turning to my father, he said, “Did you ever notice the way they watch this boy? They see every move he makes.”

  Papa said, “Yes, I’ve noticed a lot of things they have done. In fact, I could tell you of a few that you would never believe, but right now here’s something you had better believe. Supper is ready.”

  While I was helping myself to hot dutch-oven corn bread, fried potatoes, and fresh side meat, Grandpa poured the coffee. Instead of the two cups I expected to see, he set out three and filled them to the brim with the strong black liquid.

  I had never been allowed to drink coffee at home and didn’t exactly know what to do. I glanced at Papa. He seemed too busy with his eating to pay any attention to me. Taking the bull by the horns, I reached over and ran my finger through the cup’s handle. I held my breath as I walked over and sat down by a post oak stump. Nothing was s
aid. Grandpa and Papa paid no attention to what I did. My head swelled up as big as a number-four washtub. I thought, “I’m not only big enough to help Papa with the farm. Now I’m big enough to drink coffee.”

  With supper over and the dishes washed, Grandpa said, “Well, we had better turn in as I want to get an early start in the morning.”

  Long after Grandpa and Papa had fallen asleep, I lay thinking of the big hunt. My thoughts were interrupted when the wonders of night life began to stir in the silence around us.

  From a ridge on our right a red fox started barking. He was curious and, in his small way, challenging the intruders that had dared to stop in his wild domain. From far back in the flinty hills, the monotonous call of a hoot owl floated down in the silent night. It was the mating call and was answered from a distant mountain.

  I could hear the stamping feet of our horses, and the grinding, crunching noise made by their strong teeth as they ate the hard, yellow kernels of corn in their feed boxes. A night hawk screamed as he winged his way through the starlit night. An eerie screech from a tree close by made shivers run up and down my spine. It was a screech owl.

  I didn’t like to hear the small owl, for there was a superstition in the mountains concerning them. It was said that if you heard one owl it meant nothing at all, but if you heard more than one, it meant bad luck.

  I lay and listened to the eerie twittering sound. It was coming from the left of our camp. The creepy noise stopped, and for several moments there was silence. When next I heard the cry, it was coming from the right. I sat up in alarm. Had I heard two owls?

  My movement had awakened Grandpa. In a sleepy voice, he asked, “What’s the matter? Can’t you sleep? What are you sitting up like that for?”

  “Grandpa, I heard two screech owls,” I said.

  Grunting and mumbling, he sat up. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he said, “You heard two screech owls. Why, that’s nothing. I’ve heard two—oh, I see. You’re thinking of the bad-luck superstition. There’s nothing to that; nothing at all. Now you lie down and go to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a big day.”

  I tried hard to fall asleep, but couldn’t. I couldn’t get the owls out of my mind. Had I really heard two? Were we going to have bad luck? Surely nothing bad could happen. Not on such a wonderful hunt.

  I found peace in my mind by telling myself that the owl had changed trees. Yes, that was it. He had simply flown out of one tree to another.

  The next morning, while having breakfast, Grandpa started kidding me about the screech owls.

  “I wish you could have caught one of those owls last night,” he said. “We could have boiled him in our coffee pot. I’ve heard there is nothing like strong hoot-owl coffee.”

  “It wasn’t a hoot owl, Grandpa,” I said. “It was a screech owl. I don’t know for sure if I heard one or two. It could have been just one.” Pointing to a small red oak, I said, “I think the first time I heard him, he was over there. The next time, it was over in that direction. Maybe he changed trees. I sure hope so.”

  Grandpa saw I was bothered. “You don’t believe that hogwash superstition, do you? Bad luck! Baw, there’s nothing to it.”

  Papa laughed, and said, “These mountains are full of that jinx stuff. If a man believed it all, he’d go crazy.”

  The encouraging words from Papa and Grandpa helped some, but there was still some doubt. It’s hard for a young boy to completely forget things like that.

  Breakfast over, and our gear stowed back in the buggy, we left Bluebird Creek.

  On that day Grandpa drove a little faster than he had on the previous one. I was glad of this, for I was anxious to reach the campground.

  About noon he stopped the team. I heard him ask Papa, “Is this Black Fox Hollow?”

  “No,” Papa said. “This is Waterfall. Black Fox is the next one over. Why?”

  “Well,” Grandpa said, “there’s supposed to be a white flag in the mouth of Black Fox. That’s where we leave the road. The camp is in the river bottoms.”

  By this time I was so excited, I stood up in the buggy box so I could get a better view.

  “Maybe you ought to step them up a little, Grandpa,” I said. “It’s getting pretty late.”

  Papa joined in with his loud laughter. “You just take it easy,” he said. “We’ll get there in plenty of time. Besides, these mares can’t fly.”

  I saw the flag first. “There it is, Grandpa,” I shouted.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Over there. See, tied on that grapevine.”

  As we left the main road, I heard Papa say, “Boy, look at all those tracks. Sure has been a lot of traveling on this road.”

  “That smoke over there must be coming from the camps,” Grandpa said.

  When we came in sight of the camp, I couldn’t believe what I saw. I stared in amazement. I had never seen so many people at one gathering. Tents were spread out over an acre and a half of ground; all colors, shapes, and sizes. There were odd-looking cars, buggies, wagons, and saddle horses.

  I heard Grandpa say almost in a whisper, “I knew there would be a lot of people here but I never expected so many.”

  I saw the astonished look on my father’s face.

  Off to one side of the camp, under a large black gum tree, we set up our tent. I tied my dogs to the buggy, and fixed a nice bed for them under it. After everything was taken care of, I asked if I could look around the camp.

  “Sure,” Grandpa said. “Go any place you want to go, only don’t get in anyone’s way.”

  I started walking through the large camp. Everyone was friendly. Once I heard a voice say, “That’s the boy who owns the two little red hounds. I’ve heard they’re pretty good.”

  If my head had gotten any bigger, I know it would have burst.

  I walked on, as straight as a canebrake cane.

  I looked at the hounds. They were tied in pairs here and there. I had seen many coon hounds but none that could equal these. There were redbones, blue ticks, walkers, and blood hounds. I marveled at their beauty. All were spotlessly clean with slick and glossy coats. I saw the beautiful leather leashes and brass-studded collars.

  I thought of my dogs. They were tied with small cotton ropes, and had collars made from old checkline leather.

  As I passed from one set of dogs to another, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had a chance to win. I knew that in the veins of these hounds flowed the purest of breeded blood. No finer coon hounds could be found anywhere. They came from the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, the bayou country of Louisiana, the Red River bottoms of Texas, and the flinty hills of the Ozarks.

  Walking back through the camp, I could feel the cold fingers of doubt squeezing my heart. One look at my dogs drove all doubt away. In the eyes of Little Ann it seemed I could read this message: “Don’t worry. Just wait. We’ll show them.”

  That night, Grandpa said, “Tomorrow they’ll have a contest for the best-looking hound. Which one are you going to enter?”

  I told him I didn’t think I’d enter either one of my dogs. They were so little. I didn’t think they had a chance.

  Grandpa got all huffed up. He said, “It doesn’t make any difference how little they are. They’re coon hounds, aren’t they?”

  I asked him if he had seen any of the other hounds.

  He said, “Yes, I’ve seen them all. Sure they’re big and good dogs, too, but it makes no difference. I don’t care if your dogs are no bigger than a snuff can. They still have a chance. Now, which one are you going to enter?”

  I couldn’t decide. I said, “I’ll think it over tonight and let you know tomorrow.”

  The next morning when I stepped outside the tent I saw men everywhere. They were combing and brushing their dogs, and getting them pruned for the beauty contest. Beautiful combs and brushes were used to brush expensive oils into their glossy hair.

  Going over to my dogs, I stood and looked at them. I started to untie Old Dan but, taking a closer look at him, I could see
he could never win a beauty contest. His face and ears were a mass of old scars, caused from the many fights with tough old coons and bobcats. I held his head in my hands and felt sorry for him, but loved him that much more.

  I looked Little Ann over and couldn’t see any scars. I laughed because I knew why. She was too smart to walk right up in the face of a fight. She would wait until Old Dan took hold and then dart in.

  I untied her rope and walked her over to our tent.

  My father and grandfather were gone. No doubt they were over in some tent visiting old friends and making new ones.

  Looking around to find something I could use to groom my dog, I saw Grandpa’s open suitcase. There, right on top, was the very thing I needed, his beautiful bone-handled hairbrush and his ivory comb. Picking them up, I turned them over and over in my hand.

  Little Ann stood looking at me. Impulsively I reached down and raked her from shoulder to hip with the brush. She seemed to like it. I knew I shouldn’t do it, but I decided to use them.

  Knowing I had no oils, I got some butter from our grocery box. With the homemade butter and Grandpa’s hair set, I brushed her until she shone. All the time I was grooming her, she tried to lick the butter from my hands.

  The job completed, I stepped back and inspected her. I was surprised at the change. Her short red hair glistened and every one was in perfect place.

  Shaking my finger at her, I said, “If you lay down and roll, I’ll wear you out,” although I knew I wouldn’t.

  Hearing a lot of movement outside, I looked out. Men were setting their dogs on a long table which had been built in the center of the campground. Leading Little Ann to it, I picked her up and set her on the table, too.

  I told her to act like a lady. She wagged her tail as though she understood. I untied the rope and stepped back.

  After the dogs were all lined up, the judging started. Four judges walked around and around the table, looking at them from all angles. When one of them would point at a hound, he was taken down and eliminated from the contest. Dog after dog was disqualified. Little Ann was still on the table.

  My eyes were wide, my throat dry, and my heart thumping. One judge stopped in front of Little Ann. My heart stopped, too. Reaching over, he patted her on the head.