Where the Red Fern Grows

by Wilson Rawls

  Grandpa threw a fit. He hopped around whooping and hollering. He threw his old hat down on the ground and jumped up and down on it. Then he ran over and kissed Little Ann right on the head.

  After we killed and skinned the coon, the judge said, “Let’s walk back to that old fence. I think I know how the old fellow pulled his trick.”

  Back at the fence, the judge stood and looked around for a few minutes. Smiling, he said, “Yes, that’s how he did it.”

  “How?” Grandpa asked.

  Still smiling, the judge said, “That old coon walked this rail fence. Coming even with the hackberry tree, he leaped up on its side, and climbed up. Notice how thick the timber is around here. See that limb way up there in the top, the one that runs over and almost touches the sycamore?”

  We saw what he meant.

  “The coon walked out on that limb,” he said, “leaped over, and caught the sycamore limb. Repeating this over and over, from tree to tree, he worked his way far out into the river bottoms. What I can’t figure out is how that hound found him.”

  Gazing at Little Ann, he shook his head and said, “I’ve been hunting coons and judging coon hunts for forty years, but I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  He looked at me. “Well, son,” he said, “you have tied the leading teams. There’s only one more night of eliminations. Even if some of them get more than three coons, you will still be in the runoff, and from what I’ve seen here tonight, you have a good chance of winning the cup.”

  I knew that Little Ann had scented the coon in the air, the same as she had the ghost coon. I walked over and knelt down by her side. The things I wanted to say to her I couldn’t, for the knot in my throat, but I’m sure she understood.

  As we came into the campground, the hunters came out of their tents and gathered around us. The judge held up the three big coon hides. There was a roar from the crowd.

  One man said, “That was the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.”

  “What was a beautiful sight?” Grandpa asked.

  “Last night those little red hounds brought that coon right through camp.”

  The judge said, “We figured they did when we heard the noise.”

  Laughing, the man said, “We heard them when they ran up the other side of the river. Way up above here they crossed over. We could tell they were coming back so we doused all the fires and, sure enough, they came right through camp. Those two little hounds weren’t fifty yards behind the coon, running side by side. Boy, they were picking them up and laying them down, and bawling every time their feet touched the ground. I’ll tell you, it was the prettiest sight I ever saw.”

  When the judge started telling about the last coon Little Ann had treed I took my dogs over to our tent and fed and watered them. After they had had their fill, I gave them a good rubdown with a piece of gunny sack. Taking them out to the buggy, I tied them up. I stood and watched while they twisted around in the hay making their bed.

  That day I tried to get some sleep in our tent, but the soaking Grandpa had taken in the river had given him a cold, causing him to snore. I never heard such a racket in all my life. I’d have sworn he rattled the paper sacks in our grocery boxes. Taking a blanket, I went out to my dogs. Little Ann had wiggled up as close to Old Dan as she could. Prying them apart, I lay down between them and fell asleep.

  The last night of the eliminations turned out like the second night. None of the judges turned in more than two hides.

  That day, about noon, the owners of the other winning teams and I were called for a conference with the head judge. He said, “Gentlemen, the eliminations are over. Only three sets of hounds are left for the runoff. The winner of tonight’s hunt will receive the gold cup. If there is a tie for the championship, naturally there will be another runoff.”

  He shook hands with each of us and wished us good luck.

  Tension began to build up in the camp. Here and there hunters were standing in small groups, talking. Others could be seen going in and out of tents with rolls of money in their hands. Grandpa was the busiest one of all. His voice could be heard all over the camp. Men were looking at me, and talking in low tones. I strutted like a turkey gobbler.

  That evening, while we were having supper, a hunter dropped by. He had a small box in his hand. Smiling, he said, “Everyone has agreed that we should have a jackpot for the winner. I’ve been picked to do the collecting.”

  Grandpa said, “You may as well leave it here now.”

  Looking at me, the hunter said, “Son, I think almost every man in this camp is hoping you win it, but it’s not going to be easy. You’re going up against four of the finest hounds there are.” Turning to my father, he said, “Did you know the two big walker hounds have won four gold cups?”

  Very seriously, Papa said, “You know I have two mules down on my place. One is almost as big as a barn. The other one isn’t much bigger than a jack rabbit, but that little mule can outpull the big one every time.”

  Smiling, the hunter turned to leave. He said, “You could be right.”

  Papa asked me again where I thought we should start hunting.

  I had been thinking about this all day. I said, “You remember where we jumped the last coon in the swamp?”

  Papa said, “Yes.”

  “Well, the way I figure, more than one coon lives in that swamp,” I said. “It’s a good place for them as there are lots of crawfish and minnows in those potholes. If a hound jumps one there, he has a good chance to tree him.”

  Papa asked, “Why?”

  “It’s a long way back to the river, and about the same distance to the mountains,” I said. “Either way he runs, a dog can get pretty close to him, and so he would have to take to a tree.”

  That evening we climbed into Grandpa’s buggy and headed for the swamp. It was dark by the time we reached it.

  Grandpa handed Papa his gun, saying. “You’re getting to be a pretty good shot with this thing.”

  “I hope I get to shoot it a lot tonight,” Papa said.

  Under my breath, I said, “I do, too.”

  After untying the ropes from my dogs, I held onto their collars for a minute. Pulling them up close, I knelt down and whispered, “This is the last night. I know you’ll do your best.”

  They seemed to understand and tugged at their collars. When I turned them loose, they started for the timber. Just as they reached the dark shadows, they stopped, turned around, and stared straight at me for an instant.

  The judge saw their strange actions. Laying a hand on my shoulder, he asked, “What did they say, son?”

  I said, “Nothing that anyone could understand, but I can feel that they know this hunt is important. They know it just as well as you or I.”

  It was Little Ann who found the trail. Before the echo of her sharp cry had died away, Old Dan’s deep voice floated out of the swamp.

  “Well, let’s go,” Papa said eagerly.

  “No, let’s wait a minute,” I said.

  “Wait? Why?” Grandpa asked.

  “To see which way he’s going to run,” I said.

  The coon broke out of the swamp and headed for the river. Listening to my dogs, I could tell they were close to him. I said to Papa, “I don’t think he’ll ever make it to the river. They’re right on his heels now.”

  By the time we had circled the swamp, they were bawling treed.

  The judge said, “Boy, that was fast.”

  I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder. Looking at me, he smiled and nodded his head. Papa and I knew I had judged the coon perfectly. He didn’t have time to reach the river or the mountains.

  My dogs had treed the coon in a tall ash which stood about fifty yards from the river. I knew the fifty yards had saved us a good hour, because he could have pulled trick after trick if he had gotten in the water.

  We spied the coon in the topmost branches. At the crack of the gun, he ran far out on a limb and jumped. He landed in an old fallen treetop. He scooted through it.
Coming out on the other side, he ran for the river. The tangled mass of limbs slowed my dogs and they all but tore the treetop apart getting out of it. The coon was just one step ahead of them as they reached the river. We heard them hit the water.

  Running over, we stood and watched the fight. The coon was at home in the river. He crawled up on Old Dan’s head, trying to force him under. Before he could do it, Little Ann reached up and pulled him off.

  In a scared voice, Papa said, “That water looks deep to me.”

  “Maybe you had better call them off,” said the judge. “That’s a big coon and he could drown one of them easily in that deep water.”

  “Call them off?” I said. “Why, you couldn’t whip them off with a stick. There’s no use for anyone to get scared. They know exactly what they’re doing. I’ve seen this more times than one.”

  Grandpa was scared and excited. He was jumping up and down, whooping and hollering.

  Papa raised the gun to aim.

  I jumped and grabbed his arm. “Don’t do that,” I yelled. “You’re sure to hit one of my dogs.”

  Round and round in the deep water the fight went on. The coon climbed on Old Dan’s head and sank his teeth in one of his long tender ears. Old Dan bawled with pain. Little Ann swam in and caught one of the coon’s hind legs in her mouth. She tried hard to pull him off. All three disappeared under the water.

  I held my breath.

  The water churned and boiled. All three came to the top about the same time. The coon was between the bank we were standing on and my dogs. He swam toward us. They caught him again just as he reached shore. He fought his way free and ran for a large sycamore. Old Dan caught him just as he started up. I knew that was the end of the fight.

  After it was all over and the coon had been skinned, Grandpa said, “I hope we don’t have to go through that again tonight. For a while I sure thought your dogs were goners.”

  The judge said, “Well, have you ever seen that? Look over there!”

  Old Dan was standing perfectly still, with eyes closed and head hanging down. Little Ann was licking at his cut and bleeding ears.

  “She always does that,” I said. “If you’ll watch, when she gets done with him, he’ll do the same for her.”

  We stood and watched until they had finished doctoring each other. Then, trotting side by side, they disappeared in the darkness.

  We followed along, stopping now and then to listen.

  XVII

  LOOKING UP THE SKY, PAPA SAID, “THAT DOESN’T LOOK GOOD up there. I think we are in for a storm.”

  The sky had turned a dark gray. Fast-moving clouds were rolling through the heavens.

  Grandpa said, “Looks like we’re going to get some wind, too.”

  Scared and thinking everyone might want to stop hunting because of a few clouds, I said, “If a storm is brewing, it’s a good night to hunt. All game stirs just before a storm.”

  Thirty minutes later, Papa said, “Listen.”

  We stood still. A low moaning sound could be heard in the tops of the tall sycamores.

  Grandpa said, “I was afraid of that. We’re going to get some wind.”

  We heard a rattling in the leaves and underbrush. It was beginning to sleet. The air turned cold and chilly.

  From far downriver, we heard the deep baying of a hound on a trail. It was Old Dan. Seconds later, the rhythmic crying of Little Ann could be heard. Swallowing the lump that had jumped up in my throat, I whooped as loud as I could.

  The ground was turning white with sleet. The storm had really set in. We hurried along.

  I said to Papa, “If this keeps up that old coon won’t run long. He’ll head for his den.”

  “If it gets much worse,” Grandpa said, “I know some coon hunters that won’t be running very long. They’ll be frozen too stiff to run.”

  The judge asked if there was any danger of getting lost.

  “I don’t know,” Papa said. “It’s all strange country to me.”

  My dogs’ voices sounded far away. I knew they were much closer than they sounded as they were downwind from us. Finding three large sycamores growing close together, we stopped on the leeward side.

  Papa shouted above the wind, “I don’t know if we can take much more of this.”

  “It is bad,” Grandpa replied, “and it looks like it’s going to get worse.”

  “You can’t see over fifteen feet now,” the judge said. “Do you think we can find the buggy?”

  “I think we can find the buggy all right,” Papa said.

  I could no longer hear the voices of my dogs. This had me worried. I didn’t want to leave them out in the storm.

  “Can anyone hear the hounds?” Grandpa asked.

  “I can’t,” Papa said.

  The judge spoke up. “Fellows, I think we’d better go in,” he said. “There’s no telling where they are. They may have crossed the river.”

  Scared and knowing I had to do something, I said, “They’re closer than you think, probably treed by now. You can’t hear them for this wind.” I begged, “Let’s go a little further.”

  There was no reply and no one made a move to leave the shelter of the trees.

  Taking a few steps, I said, “I’ll take the lead. Just follow me.”

  “Billy, we couldn’t find them,” Papa said. “You can’t see or hear a thing. We had better start back for camp.”

  “I think so, too,” the judge said.

  At this remark, I cried, “I’ve been out in storms like this before, all by myself. I’ve never left my dogs in the woods, and I’m not going to now, even if I have to look for them by myself.”

  No one answered.

  “Please go just a little further,” I begged. “I just know we’ll hear them.”

  Still no one spoke or made a move to go on.

  Stepping over to my father, I buried my face in his old mackinaw coat. Sobbing, I pleaded with him not to turn back.

  He patted my head. “Billy,” he said, “a man could freeze to death in this storm, and besides, your dogs will give up and come in.”

  “That’s what has me worried,” I cried. “They won’t come in. They won’t, Papa. Little Ann might, but not Old Dan. He’d die before he’d leave a coon in a tree.”

  Papa was undecided. Making up his mind, he stepped away from the tree and said to the others, “I’m going on with him. You fellows coming, or going back?”

  He turned and followed me. Grandpa and the judge fell in behind him.

  By this time the ground was covered with a thin white layer of sleet. We kept slipping and falling. I could hear Grandpa mumbling and grumbling. The wind-driven sleet stung our skin like thousands of pricking needles. Strong gusts of wind growled and moaned through the tops of the tall timber.

  Once during a momentary lull of the storm, I thought I heard the baying of a hound. I told my father I thought I had heard Old Dan.

  “From which direction?” he asked.

  “From that way,” I said, pointing to our left.

  We started on. A few minutes later Papa stopped. He shouted to my grandfather, “Did you hear anything?”

  “No,” Grandpa shouted back. “I can’t hear anything in this storm.”

  “I thought I did, but I’m not sure,” the judge said.

  “Where was it coming from?” Papa asked.

  “Over that way,” the judge said, pointing to our right.

  “That’s the way it sounded to me,” Papa said.

  At that moment, all of us heard the deep voice of Old Dan.

  “It sounds as if they’re close,” Grandpa said.

  “Let’s split up,” said the judge. “Maybe one of us can find them.”

  “No,” Papa said, “it’d be easy to get lost in this storm.”

  “I think they’re more to the right of us,” I said.

  “I do, too,” Papa said.

  We trudged on. Old Dan bawled again. The sound of his voice seemed to be all around us.

  “The
way that wind is whipping the sound through this timber,” the judge said, “we’d be lucky if we ever found them.”

  Papa shouted over the roar of the wind, “We can’t take much more of this. We’ll freeze to death.”

  The men were giving up. I felt the knot again as it crawled up in my throat. Salt water froze on my eyelashes. Kneeling down, I put my ear close to the icy ground in hopes I could hear my dogs, but I couldn’t hear anything above the roar of the blizzard.

  Standing up, I peered this way and that. All I could see was a white wall of whirling sleet. I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer and hoped for a miracle.

  We heard a sharp crack and a loud crashing noise. A large limb, torn from a tree by the strong wind, fell to the ground. The sharp crack of the limb gave me the idea. Shouting to my father, I said, “Shoot the gun. If my dogs are close enough to hear it, maybe Little Ann will come to us.”

  Papa didn’t hesitate. Pointing the gun high over his head, he pulled the trigger. The sharp crack rang out into the teeth of the storm.

  We waited.

  Just when I had given up all hope and had sunk to the lowest depth of despair, out of the white wall of driving sleet, my little dog came to me. I knelt down and gathered her in my arms.

  Taking one of the lead ropes from my pocket, I tied it to her collar. I said, “Find him, little girl. Please find Old Dan.”

  Right then I didn’t care about coons, gold cups, or anything. All I wanted was my dogs.

  I don’t know how she did it. Straight into the face of the storm she led us. Time after time she would stop and turn her head this way and that. I knew she couldn’t scent or see anything. Instinct alone was guiding her. Over a winding and twisting trail, we followed.

  Coming out of the bottoms, she led us into a thick canebrake. The tall stalks sheltered us from the storm. The roaring of the wind didn’t seem as loud. Like ghostly figures, large trees loomed out of the almost solid mass. Falling and stumbling, we kept pushing on.

  Grandpa shouted, “Hold up a minute. I’m just about all in.”

  We stopped.

  “Do you think that hound knows what she’s doing?” the judge asked. “Maybe we’re just running around in circles.”