Where the Red Fern Grows

by Wilson Rawls

  Turning to me, he asked, “Is this your dog?”

  I couldn’t speak. I just nodded my head.

  He said, “She’s a beautiful hound.”

  He walked on down the line. My heart started beating again.

  There were eight dogs left. Little Ann was still holding her own. Then there were four. I was ready to cry. Two more were taken down. Little Ann and a big walker hound owned by a Mr. Kyle were the only ones left. The judges couldn’t seem to make up their minds.

  Everyone started shouting, “Walk them! Walk them!”

  I didn’t know what they meant.

  Mr. Kyle and I were told to go to one end of the table. Our dogs were placed at the other end. Mr. Kyle snapped his fingers and called to his dog.

  The big hound started walking toward his master. What a beautiful sight it was. He walked like a king. His body was stiff and straight, his head high in the air, his large muscles quivered and jerked under his glossy coat, but something went wrong. Just before he reached the end, he broke his stride, turned, and jumped down from the table.

  A low murmur ran through the crowd.

  It was my turn. Three times I tried to call to Little Ann. Words just wouldn’t come out. My throat was too dry. The vocal cords refused to work, but I could snap my fingers. That was all I needed. She started toward me. I held my breath. There was silence all around me.

  As graceful as any queen, with her head high in the air, and her long red tail arched in a perfect rainbow, my little dog walked down the table. With her warm gray eyes staring straight at me, on she came. Walking up to me, she laid her head on my shoulder. As I put my arms around her, the crowd exploded.

  During the commotion I felt hands slapping me on the back, and heard the word “congratulations” time after time. The head judge came over and made a speech. Handing me a small silver cup, he said, “Congratulations, son. It was justly won.”

  The tears came rolling. I gathered my dog up in my arms and walked to our tent. Grandpa followed, proudly carrying the cup.

  That evening the head judge stepped up on the table. He had a small box in his hand. He shouted, “Over here, men! I have some announcements to make.”

  We all gathered around.

  In a loud voice, he said, “Gentlemen, the contest will start tonight. I’m sure most of you men have been in these hunts before. For those of you who haven’t, I will explain the rules. Each night five sets of dogs will be taken out to hunt. A judge will go along with each pair of hounds. Every morning, the judges will turn in that night’s catch. The two hounds that tree the most coons will qualify for the championship runoff. The other four sets will be eliminated from the hunt. Of course, if there is a tie, both sets will qualify. On the following nights, only those hounds tying the first night’s score, or getting more, will be in the runoff.

  “Now, gentlemen, this hunt must be carried out in a sportsmanlike way. If the coon is treed where he can’t be caught, such as in a bluff, it will not be counted. You must catch the coon, skin it, and turn the hide over to your judge.

  “You are allowed to take an ax, a lantern, and a gun with bird shot, which you can use to get a coon out of a tree.

  “Twenty-five sets of hounds have been entered in the hunt. In this box, I have twenty-five cards. Everyone in the contest will now line up for the drawing. The card you draw will tell you what night your hounds are to hunt.”

  Walking along in the line, I noticed the beautiful red coats, the caps, and the soft leather boots worn by the other hunters. I felt out of place in my faded blue overalls, old sheepskin coat, and scuffed and worn shoes, but to the wonderful men it made no difference. They treated me like a man, and even talked to me like a man.

  When it came my time to draw, my hand was shaking so hard I could hardly get it in the box. Pulling the card out, I saw I had drawn the fourth night.

  After the hunters had left, we stood around our campfires sipping strong black coffee and listening to the baying of the hounds. Time after time, we heard the tree bark.

  Once two hounds came close to the camp, hot on a trail. We listened to their steady bawling. All at once they stopped.

  After several minutes of waiting, a hunter said, “You know what? That old coon took to the river and in some way has fooled those dogs.”

  Another one said, “Yes, sir, he sure has.”

  A friendly hunter looked at me and asked, “Do you think he could have fooled your dogs?”

  Thinking his question over, I said, “You know, sometimes when I am hunting, away back in the mountains or down on the river, I sing a little song I made up myself. One of the verses goes like this:

  You can swim the river, Old Mister Ringtail,

  And play your tricks out one by one.

  It won’t do any good, Old Mister Ringtail,

  My Little Ann knows every one.

  The hunters roared with laughter. Some slapped me on the back.

  Tired and sleepy, but with a smile on my face, I went off to bed.

  The next morning two blue tick hounds, from the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, came out in the lead with three big coons to their credit. The other four sets were eliminated.

  The following morning all five sets of dogs were eliminated. None had even tied the blue ticks, although two sets had gotten two coons, and one of these had treed a third one in a bluff.

  That day, while eating dinner, my grandfather asked me if my dogs had ever treed three coons in one night.

  I said, “Yes, four different times, but that’s all.”

  “Where do you think we should hunt on our night?” Papa asked.

  I told him if we could get our judge to go with us in the buggy, we would be better off if we could go far downriver and get out of the range where other dogs had hunted.

  He said, “That’s a good idea. I’ll go to see the judges about it.”

  While I was washing the dishes, Grandpa said, “I think I’ll shave.”

  I should’ve left the tent then, but I wasn’t done with my dish-washing.

  With a pin, Grandpa hung a small mirror on the tent wall. After much snorting, mumbling, and screwing of his face this way and that, the job was completed. Dabbing a little water on his iron-gray hair, he reached for his brush and comb.

  From the corner of my eye I watched him. I had tried to clean the beautiful brush but hadn’t been able to get all the short red hair from it.

  With two fingers, Grandpa pulled some of the hair from the bristles. Holding it in front of him, he looked it over carefully. Then, bending over close to the mirror, peeking over his glasses, he inspected his head. Straightening up, he looked at the brush again. Turning around quickly, he looked straight at me and said, “Say, young—”

  Not waiting for anything more, I scooted for the door. Crawling under the buggy, I lay down between my dogs. I knew he wouldn’t be mad at me, but it would be best to stay away for a while.

  The third night, the blue ticks were tied by two black and tan hounds from the bayou country of Louisiana.

  All that day I was restless. I prowled through the camp. Every little while I would go and see how Old Dan and Little Ann were. Once I took two weenies from our groceries. I heated them and gave them to my dogs for a treat. Old Dan swallowed his down in one gulp, and looked at me as if to say, “Is that all?” Little Ann ate hers in a ladylike way. I could have sworn I saw a small grin on her face.

  Grandpa was hopping around like a grasshopper, going here and there. Once, passing a tent, I heard his voice. I knew he was bragging about my dogs. I smiled to myself.

  Another hunter stopped me and asked, “Is it true that your hounds have treed six coons in one night, three up in one tree, or is that old man just blowing off steam?”

  I told him my grandfather had a little steam, but he was the best grandpa a boy ever had.

  He patted me on the head, turned, and walked away laughing.

  XVI

  IN THE AFTERNOON OUR JUDGE CAME OVER AND INTRODUCED himself. H
e told us he’d be going with us that night.

  About sundown we piled in our buggy and drove a few miles downriver. I noticed other hunters doing the same thing. Everyone was trying to get away from the already-hunted territory.

  It was dark by the time Grandpa stopped. I untied the ropes from my dogs. Little Ann reared up on me and whined. Old Dan walked off a few yards, stretched his body, and dragged his claws through the soft bottom soil. Opening his mouth, he let out one loud bawl, and then disappeared in the thick timber. Little Ann was right on his heels.

  We took off after them.

  Grandpa got nervous. He said to me, “Don’t you think you ought to whoop to them?”

  I told him to wait a little while. There would be plenty of time for whooping.

  He snorted and said he thought a hunter always whooped to his dogs.

  “I do, Grandpa,” I said, “but not before they strike a trail.”

  We walked on. Every now and then we would stop and listen. I could hear the loud snuffing of Old Dan. Once we caught a glimpse of Little Ann as she darted across an opening that was bathed in moonlight. She was as silent as a ghost and as quick as a flitting shadow.

  Papa said, “It sure is a beautiful night for hunting.”

  The judge said, “You can’t beat these Ozark Mountain nights for beauty. I don’t care where you go.”

  Grandpa started to say something. His voice was drowned out by the bell-like cry of Little Ann.

  In a whisper, I said, “Come on, Dan. Hurry and help her.”

  As if in answer to my words, his deep voice hammered its way up through the river bottoms. I felt the blood tingling in my veins. That wonderful feeling that only a hunter knows crept over my body.

  Looking over at Grandpa, I said, “Now you can whoop.”

  Jerking off his hat and throwing back his head, he let out a yell. It wasn’t a whoop, or a screech, it was about halfway in between. Everyone laughed.

  The coon was running upriver toward our campground. We turned and followed. I could tell by the dogs’ voices that they were running side by side, and were hot on the trail. Closing my eyes, I could almost see them running, bodies stretched to their fullest length, legs pounding up and down, white steam rolling from their hot breath in the frosty night.

  Grandpa got tangled up in some underbrush, and lost his hat and spectacles. It took us a while to find the glasses. Papa said something about getting them wired on with bailing wire. Grandpa snorted. The judge laughed.

  The coon crossed the river and ran on upstream. Soon my dogs were out of hearing distance. I told Papa we had better stay on our side of the river and keep going until we could hear them again.

  Twenty minutes later we heard them coming back. We stopped.

  “I think they have crossed back to our side,” I said.

  All at once the voices of my dogs were drowned out by a loud roar.

  “What in the world was that?” Grandpa said.

  “I don’t know,” the judge said. “Reckon it was wind or thunder?”

  About that time we heard it again.

  The judge started laughing. “I know now what it is,” he said. “Those hounds have run that coon right back by our camp. The noise we heard was the other hunters whooping to them.”

  Everyone laughed.

  A few minutes later I heard my dogs bawling treed. On reaching the tree, Papa ran his hand back under his coat. He pulled out Grandpa’s gun.

  “That’s a funny-looking gun,” the judge said. “It’s a 410-gauge pistol, isn’t it?”

  “It’s the very thing for this kind of work,” Papa said. “You couldn’t kill a coon with it if you tried, especially if you’re using bird shot. All it will do is sting his hide a little.”

  At the crack of the gun, the coon gave a loud squall and jumped. My dogs lost no time in killing him.

  We skinned the coon, and soon were on our way again.

  The next time my dogs treed, they were across the river from us. Finding a riffle, we pulled off our shoes and started across.

  Grandpa very gingerly started picking his way. His tender old feet moved from one smooth rock to another. Everything was fine until we reached midstream, where the current was much swifter. He stepped on a loose round rock. It rolled and down he went.

  As the cold river water touched his body, he let out a yell that could have been heard for miles. He looked so funny we couldn’t keep from laughing.

  Papa and the judge helped him to his feet. Laughing every step of the way, we finally reached the other side. Grandpa kept going in his wet clothes until we reached the tree where the dogs were.

  After killing the coon, we built a large fire so Grandpa could dry his clothes. He’d get up as close to the fire as he could, and turn this way and that. He looked so funny standing there with his long underwear steaming. I started rolling with laughter.

  He looked over at me and snapped, “What’s so funny?”

  I said, “Nothing.”

  “Well, why are you laughing?” he said.

  At this remark, Papa and the judge laughed until their eyes watered.

  Mumbling and grumbling, Grandpa said, “If you fellows were as cold as I am, you wouldn’t be laughing.”

  We knew we shouldn’t be laughing, but we couldn’t help ourselves.

  The judge looked at his watch. “It’s after three o’clock,” he said. “Do you think they’ll tree another one?”

  As if to throw the words back in the judge’s face, Old Dan opened up. I stood up and whooped. “Whoo-e-e! Get him, Dan! Get him! Put him up a little tree.”

  There was a mad scramble. Grandpa tried to put his britches on backwards. The judge and Papa ran over to help him with his shoes. Each one tried to put a shoe on the wrong foot. I was laughing so hard I could do nothing.

  A hundred yards from the fire, I realized we had forgotten the coonskins. I ran back for them.

  My dogs had jumped the coon in swampland. He tore out for the river bottoms. I could tell they were close to him by their fast bawling. All at once their baying stopped. We stood still and listened. Old Dan bawled treed a few more times and then stopped.

  Grandpa asked, “What’s happened?”

  I told him the coon had probably pulled some kind of trick.

  Coming up to my dogs, we saw they were working up and down an old rail fence. We stood and watched. Every now and then, Old Dan would rear up on a large hackberry tree that was standing about seven feet from the fence and bawl treed.

  As yet Little Ann had not bawled the tree bark. We watched her. She was working everywhere. She climbed up on the rail fence and followed its zigzag course until she disappeared in the darkness.

  I told Papa I was sure the coon had walked the rail fence and in some way had fooled my dogs.

  Old Dan would keep coming back to the hackberry tree. He would rear up on it and bawl treed. We walked up to him. Looking the tree over, we could see that the coon wasn’t in it.

  The judge said, “It looks like he has them fooled.”

  “Maybe you had better call them off,” Grandpa said. “We can go someplace else and hunt. We’ve got to get one more coon, even if I have to tree it myself.”

  For some reason, no one laughed at his remark.

  “It’s almost daylight,” Papa said.

  “Yes, that’s what has me worried,” I said. “We don’t have time to do any more hunting. If we lose this one, we’re beat.”

  Hearing the word beat, Grandpa began to fidget. He asked me, “What do you think happened? How did that coon fool them?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” I said. “He walked that rail fence. The hackberry tree has something to do with his trick, but I don’t know what.”

  “Son,” the judge said, “I wouldn’t feel too badly if I were you. I’ve seen some of the very best hounds fooled by a smart old coon.”

  Regardless of all the discouraging talk, the love and belief I had in my little red hounds never faltered. I could see them now and t
hen, leaping over old logs, tearing through the underbrush, sniffing and searching for the lost trail. My heart swelled with pride. I whooped, urging them on.

  In a low voice, the judge said, “I’ll say one thing. They don’t give up easily.”

  Birds began to chirp all around us. The sky took on a light gray color. Tiny dim stars were blinking the night away.

  “It looks like we’re beat,” Papa said. “It’s getting daylight.”

  At that moment, the loud clear voice of a redbone hound, bawling treed, rang through the river bottoms. It was the voice of Little Ann.

  Sucking in a mouthful of air, I held it. I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs. I closed my eyes tight and gritted my teeth to keep the tears from coming.

  “Let’s go to them,” Grandpa said.

  “No, wait a minute,” I said.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Wait till Old Dan gets there,” I said. “It’s daylight now, and if we walk up to the tree, the coon will jump out. It’s hard to keep a coon in a tree after daylight. Let’s wait until Old Dan gets there. Then if he jumps, he won’t have a chance to get away.”

  “The boy’s right,” the judge said. “It’s hard to keep a coon in a tree after daybreak.”

  Just then we heard Old Dan. His deep voice shattered the morning silence. Searching for the lost trail, he had crossed the fence and worked his way out into an old field. Turning around, we saw him coming. He was a red blur in the gray morning shadows. Coming to the rail fence, and without breaking his stride, he raised his body into the air. About halfway over and while still in the air he bawled.

  Hitting the ground with a loud grunt, he ran past us. Everyone whooped to him. Ahead was a deep washout about ten feet wide. On the other side was a canebrake. His long red body, stretched to its fullest length, seemed to float in the air as he sailed over it. We could hear the tall stalks rattling as he plowed his way through them. A bunch of sleepy snow birds rose from the thick cane, flitted over, and settled in a row on the old rail fence.

  Nearing the tree, we could see it was a tall sycamore, and there high in the top was the coon.