Where the Red Fern Grows

  Looking at me, Papa said, “I hope she does. Some of these canebrakes cover miles. If we get lost in here, we’ll be in bad shape.”

  Grandpa said, “I think we’ve gone too far. The last time I heard Old Dan, he sounded quite close.”

  “That was because the wind carried the sound,” I said.

  The judge spoke up, “Fellows, no dog is worth the lives of three men. Now let’s do the smart thing and get out of here while we can. Our clothes are wet. If we keep on wandering around in this jungle, we’ll freeze to death. It doesn’t look like this blizzard is ever going to let up.”

  I could hear the roar of the blizzard back in the thick timber of the bottoms. Two large limbs being rubbed together by the strong wind made a grinding creaking sound. The tall slender cane around us rattled and swayed.

  I could feel the silence closing in. I knew the judge’s cold logic had had its effect on my father and grandfather. The men had given up. There was no hope left for me.

  Kneeling down, I put my arms around Little Ann. I felt the warm heat from her moist tongue caressing my ear. Closing my eyes, I said, “Please, Dan, bawl one more time, just one more time.”

  I waited for my plea to be answered.

  With its loud roaring, the north wind seemed to be laughing at us. All around, tall stalks of cane were weaving and dancing to the rattling rhythm of their knife-edged blades.

  My father tried to talk above the wind, but his words were lost in the storm. Just before another blast, clear as a foghorn on a stormy sea, Old Dan’s voice rang loud and clear. It seemed louder than the roar of the wind or the skeleton-like rustling of the tall swaying cane.

  I jumped to my feet. My heart did a complete flip-flop. The knot in my throat felt as big as an apple. I tried to whoop, but it was no use. Little Ann bawled and tugged on the rope.

  There was no mistaking the direction. We knew that Little Ann had been right all along. Straight as an arrow, she had led us to him.

  Old Dan was treed down in a deep gully. I slid off the bank and ran to him. His back was covered with a layer of frozen sleet. His frost-covered whiskers stood out straight as porcupine quills.

  I worked the wedges of ice from between his toes, and scraped the sleet from his body with my hands. Little Ann came over and tried to wash his face. He didn’t like it. Jerking loose from me, he ran over to the tree, reared up on it, and started bawling.

  Hearing shouting from the bank above me, I looked up. I could dimly see Papa and the judge through the driving sleet. At first I thought they were shouting to me, but on peering closer I could see that they had their backs to me. Catching hold of some long stalks of cane that were hanging down from the steep bank, I pulled myself up.

  Papa shouted in my ear, “Something has happened to your grandfather.”

  Turning to the judge, he said, “He was behind you. When was the last time you saw him?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” the judge said. “I guess it was back there when we heard the hound bawl.”

  “Didn’t you hear anything?” Papa asked.

  “Hear anything?” the judge exclaimed. “How could I hear anything in all that noise? I thought he was behind me all the time, and didn’t miss him until we got here.”

  I couldn’t hold back the tears. My grandfather was lost and wandering in that white jungle of cane. Screaming for him, I started back.

  Papa caught me. He shouted, “Don’t do that.”

  I tried to tear away from him but his grip on my arm was firm.

  “Shoot the gun,” the judge said.

  Papa shot time after time. It was useless. We got no answer.

  Little Ann came up out of the washout. She stood and stared at me. Turning, she disappeared quickly in the thick cane. Minutes later we heard her. It was a long, mournful cry.

  The only times I had ever heard my little dog bawl like that were when she was baying at a bright Ozark moon, or when someone played a French harp or a fiddle close to her ear. She didn’t stop until we reached her.

  Grandpa lay as he had fallen, face down in the icy sleet. His right foot was wedged in the fork of a broken box elder limb. When the ankle had twisted, the searing pain must have made him unconscious.

  Papa worked Grandpa’s foot free and turned him over. I sat down and placed his head in my lap. While Papa and the judge massaged his arms and legs, I wiped the frozen sleet from his eyes and face.

  Burying my face in the iron-gray hair, I cried and begged God not to let my grandfather die.

  “I think he’s gone,” the judge said.

  “I don’t think so,” Papa said. “He took a bad fall when that limb tripped him, but he hasn’t been lying here long enough to be frozen. I think he’s just unconscious.”

  Papa lifted him to a sitting position and told the judge to start slapping his face. Grandpa moaned and moved his head.

  “He’s coming around,” Papa said.

  I asked Papa if we could get him back to the gully where Old Dan was. I had noticed there was very little wind there and we could build a fire.

  “That’s the very place,” he said. “We’ll build a good fire and one of us can go for help.”

  Papa and the judge made a seat by catching each other’s wrists. They eased Grandpa between them.

  By the time we reached the washout, Grandpa was fully conscious again, and was mumbling and grumbling. He couldn’t see why they had to carry him like a baby.

  After easing him over the bank and down into the gully, we built a large fire. Papa took his knife and cut the boot from Grandpa’s swollen foot. Grandpa grunted and groaned from the pain. I felt sorry for him but there was nothing I could do but look on.

  Papa examined the foot. Shaking his head, he said, “Boy, that’s a bad one. It’s either broken or badly sprained. I’ll go for some help.”

  Grandpa said, “Now wait just a minute. I’m not going to let you go out in that blizzard by yourself. What if something happens to you? No one would know.”

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  The judge looked at his watch. “It’s almost five o’clock,” he said.

  “It’s not long till daylight,” Grandpa said. “Then if you want to go, you can see where you’re going. Now help me get propped up against this bank. I’ll be all right. It doesn’t hurt any more. It’s numb now.”

  “He’s right,” the judge said.

  “Think you can stand it?” Papa asked.

  Grandpa roared like a bear. “Sure I can stand it. It’s nothing but a sprained ankle. I’m not going to die. Build that fire up a little more.”

  While Papa and the judge made Grandpa comfortable, I carried wood for the fire.

  “There’s no use standing around gawking at me,” Grandpa said. “I’m all right. Get the coon out of that tree. That’s what we came for, isn’t it?”

  Up until then, the coon-hunting had practically been forgotten.

  The tree was about thirty feet from our fire. We walked over and took a good look at it for the first time. My dogs, seeing we were finally going to pay some attention to them, started bawling and running around the tree.

  Papa said, “It’s not much of a tree, just an old box elder snag. There’s not a limb on it.”

  “I can’t see any coon,” said the judge. “It must be hollow.”

  Papa beat on its side with the ax. It gave forth a loud booming sound. He said, “It’s hollow all right.”

  He stepped back a few steps, scraped his feet on the slick ground for a good footing, and said, “Stand back, and hold those hounds. I’m going to cut it down. We need some wood for our fire anyway.”

  Squatting down between my dogs, I held onto their collars.

  Papa notched the old snag so it would fall away from our fire. As the heavy ax chewed its way into the tree, it began to lean and crack. Papa stopped chopping. He said to the judge, “Come on and help me. I think we can push it over now.”

  After much grunting and pushing, snapping and popping, it fel
l.

  I turned my dogs loose.

  On hitting the ground, the snag split and broke up. Goggle-eyed, I stood rooted in my tracks and watched three big coons roll out of the busted old trunk.

  One started up the washout, running between us and the fire. Old Dan caught him and the fight was on. The second coon headed down the washout. Little Ann caught him.

  Hearing a loud yell from Grandpa, I looked that way. Old Dan and the coon were fighting close to his feet. He was yelling and beating at them with his hat. The judge and Papa ran to help.

  The third coon started climbing up the steep bank close to me. Just before reaching the top, his claws slipped in the icy mud. Tumbling end over end, down he came. I grabbed up a stick and threw it at him. Growling and showing his teeth, he started for me. I threw the fight to him then and there. Some ten yards away I looked back. He was climbing the bank. That time he made it and disappeared in the thick cane.

  Hearing a squall of pain from Little Ann, I turned. The coon was really working her over. He had climbed up on her back and was tearing and slashing. She couldn’t shake him off. Grabbing a club from the ground, I ran to help her.

  Before we had killed our coon, Old Dan came tearing in. We stood and watched the fight. When the coon was dead, Papa picked it up and we walked back to the fire.

  “How many coons were in that old snag?” Papa asked.

  “I saw three,” I said. “The one that got away climbed out over there.” I pointed in the direction the coon had taken.

  I never should have pointed. My dogs turned as one, and started bawling and clawing their way up the steep bank. I shouted and scolded, but to no avail. They disappeared in the rattling cane.

  We stood still, listening to their voices. The sound died away in the roaring storm. Sitting down close to the fire, I buried my face in my arms and cried.

  I heard the judge say to my father, “This beats anything I have ever seen. Why, those dogs can read that boy’s mind. He just pointed at that bank and away they went. I never saw anything like it. I can’t understand some of the things they have done tonight. Hounds usually aren’t that smart. If they were collies, or some other breed of dog, it would be different, but they’re just redbone hounds, hunting dogs.”

  Papa said, “Yes, I know what you mean. I’ve seen them do things that I couldn’t understand. I’d never heard of hounds that ever had any affection for anyone, but these dogs are different. Did you know they won’t hunt with anyone but him, not even me?”

  Hearing my grandfather call my name, I went over and sat down by his side. Putting his arm around me, he said, “Now, I wouldn’t worry about those dogs. They’ll be all right. It’s not long till daylight. Then you can go to them.”

  I said, “Yes, but what if the coon crosses the river? My dogs will follow him. If they get wet they could freeze to death.”

  “We’ll just have to wait and hope for the best,” he said. “Now straighten up and quit that sniffling. Act like a coon hunter. You don’t see me bawling, and this old foot is paining me something awful.”

  I felt better after my talk with Grandpa.

  “Come on, let’s skin these coons,” Papa said.

  I got up to help him.

  After the skins were peeled from the carcasses, I had an idea. Holding one up close to the fire until it was warm, I took it over and wrapped it around Grandpa’s foot. Chuckling, he said, “Boy, that feels good. Heat another skin the same way.”

  I kept it up for the rest of the night.

  XVIII

  JUST BEFORE DAWN, THE STORM BLEW ITSELF OUT WITH ONE last angry roar. It started snowing. A frozen silence settled over the canebrake.

  Back in the thick timber of the river bottoms, the sharp snapping of frozen limbs could be heard. The tall stalks of wild cane looked exhausted from the hellish night. They were drooping and bending from the weight of the frozen sleet.

  I climbed out of the deep gully and listened for my dogs. I couldn’t hear them. Just as I started back down the bank, I heard something. I listened. Again I heard the sound.

  Papa was watching me. “Can you hear the dogs?” he asked.

  “No, not the dogs,” I said, “but I can hear something else.”

  “What does it sound like?” he asked.

  “Like someone whooping,” I said.

  Papa and the judge hurried up the bank. We heard the sound again. It was coming from a different direction.

  “The first time I heard it,” I said, “it was over that way.”

  “It’s the men from camp,” the judge said. “They’re searching for us.”

  We started whooping. The searchers answered. Their voices came from all directions. The first one to reach us was Mr. Kyle. He looked haggard and tired. He asked if everything was all right.

  “Yes, we’re all right,” Papa said, “but the old man has a bad ankle. It looks like we’ll have to carry him out.”

  “Your team broke loose and came back to camp about midnight,” Mr. Kyle said. “This really spooked us. We were sure something bad had happened. Twenty-five of us have been searching since then.”

  Several men climbed down the bank and went over to Grandpa. They looked at his ankle. One said, “I don’t think it’s broken, but it sure is a bad sprain.”

  “You’re in luck,” another one said. “We have one of the best doctors in the state of Texas in our camp, Dr. Charley Lathman. He’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

  “Yes,” another said, “and if I know Charley, he’s probably got a small hospital with him.”

  Back in the crowd, I heard another man say, “You mean that Lathman fellow, who owns those black and tan hounds, is a doctor?”

  “Sure is,” another said. “One of the best.”

  Mr. Kyle asked where my dogs were. I told him that they were treed somewhere.

  “What do you mean, treed somewhere?” he asked.

  Papa explained what had happened.

  With a wide-eyed look on his face, he said, “Do you mean to tell me those hounds stayed with the tree in that blizzard?”

  I nodded.

  Looking at me, he said, “Son, I hope they have that coon treed, because you need that one to win the cup. Those two walker hounds caught three before the storm came up. When it got bad, all the hunters came in.”

  The judge spoke up. “I’ll always believe that those hounds knew that boy needed another coon to win,” he said. “If you fellows had seen some of the things those dogs have done, you’d believe it, too.”

  One hunter walked over to the broken snag. “Three out of one tree,” he said. “No wonder, look here! That old snag was half-full of leaves and grass. Why, it was a regular old den tree.”

  Several of the men walked over. I heard one say, “I’ve seen this happen before. Remember that big hunt in the Red River bottoms, when the two little beagle hounds treed four coons in an old hollow snag? They won the championship, too.”

  “I wasn’t there but I remember reading about it,” one said.

  “Say, I don’t see Benson,” Mr. Kyle said.

  The men started looking at each other.

  “He was searching farther downriver than the rest of us,” one fellow said. “Maybe he didn’t hear us shouting.”

  Some of the men climbed out of the gully. They started whooping. From a distance we heard an answering shout.

  “He hears us,” someone said. “He’s coming.”

  Everyone looked relieved.

  Mr. Benson struck the washout a little way above us. He was breathing hard, as if he’d been running. He started talking as soon as he was within hearing distance.

  “It scared me when I first saw them,” he said. “I didn’t know what they were. They looked like white ghosts. I’d never seen anything like it.”

  A hunter grabbed Mr. Benson by the shoulder, shaking him. “Get ahold of yourself, man,” he said. “What are you talking about?”

  Mr. Benson took a deep breath to control himself, and started again in
a much calmer voice. “Those two hounds,” he said. “I found them. They’re frozen solid. They’re nothing but white ice from the tips of their noses to the ends of their tails.”

  Hearing Mr. Benson’s words, I screamed and ran to my father. Everything started whirling around and around. I felt light as a feather. My knees buckled. I knew no more.

  Regaining consciousness, I opened my eyes and could dimly see the blurry images of the men around me. A hand was shaking me. I could hear my father’s voice but I couldn’t understand his words. Little by little the blackness faded away. My throat was dry and I was terribly thirsty. I asked for some water.

  Mr. Benson came over. He said, “Son, I’m sorry, truly sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. Your dogs are alive. I guess I was excited. I’m very sorry.”

  I heard a deep voice say, “That’s a hell of a thing to do. Come running in here saying the dogs are frozen solid.”

  Mr. Benson said, “I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I said I’m sorry. What more do you want me to do?”

  The deep voice growled again. “I still think it was a hell of a thing for a man to do.”

  Mr. Kyle took over. “Now let’s not have any more of this,” he said. “We have work to do. We’ve been standing here acting like a bunch of schoolkids. All this time that old man has been lying there suffering. A couple of you men cut two poles and make a stretcher to carry him.”

  While the men were getting the poles, Papa heated the coonskins again and rewrapped Grandpa’s foot.

  With belts and long leather laces from their boots, the hunters made a stretcher. Very gently they put Grandpa on it.

  Again Mr. Kyle took command. “Part of us will start for camp with him,” he said. “The others will go after the dogs.”

  “Here, take this gun,” Papa said. “I’ll go with him.”

  Looking at me, Mr. Kyle said, “Come on, son. I want to see your hounds.”

  Mr. Benson led the way. “As soon as we get out of this cane,” he said, “we may be able to hear them. They have the coon treed in a big black gum tree. You’re going to see a sight. Now I mean a sight. They’ve walked a ring around that tree clear down through the ice and snow. You can see the bare ground.”