Where the Red Fern Grows

  “Well, what did he do, Grandpa?” I asked. “I’m pretty sure he didn’t cross the river, so how did he work it?”

  Grandpa pushed the dishes back and, using his fork as a pencil, he drew an imaginary line on the tablecloth. “It’s called the backtracking trick,” he said. “Here’s how he worked it. He climbed that water oak but he only went up about fifteen or twenty feet. He then turned around and came down in his same tracks. He backtracked on his original trail for a way. When he heard your dogs coming he leaped far up on the side of the nearest tree and climbed up. He was in that tree all the time your dogs were searching for the lost trail. After everything had quieted down, he figured that they had given up. That’s when he came down and that’s when Little Ann either heard or saw him.”

  Pointing the fork at me, Grandpa said very seriously, “You mark my word, Billy, in no time at all that Little Ann will know every trick a coon can pull.”

  “You know, Grandpa,” I said, “she wouldn’t bark treed at the water oak like Old Dan did.”

  “Course she wouldn’t,” he said. “She knew he wasn’t there.”

  “Why, I never heard of such a thing,” Mama said. “I’d no idea coons were that smart. Why, for all anyone knows he may not be in the big tree at all. Maybe he pulled another trick. It’d be a shame if Billy cut it down and found there was no coon in it.”

  “Oh, he’s there, Mama,” I hastily replied. “I know he is. They were right on his tail when he went up. Besides, Little Ann was bawling her head off when I came to them.”

  “Of course he’s there,” Grandpa said. “They were crowding him too closely. He didn’t have time to pull another trick.”

  Grandpa left soon after supper, saying to me, “I’ll be back down in a few days and I want to see that coon hide.”

  I thanked him for helping me and walked out to the buggy with him.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. “I heard there was a fad back in the New England states. Seems like everyone is going crazy over coonskin coats. Now if this is true, I look for the price of coon hides to take a jump.”

  I was happy to hear this and told my father what Grandpa had said. Papa laughed and said, “Well, if you can keep the coons out of those big sycamores, you might make a little money.”

  Before I went to bed, Mama made me take a hot bath. Then she rubbed me all over with some liniment that burned like fire and smelled like a civet cat.

  It seemed like I had barely closed my eyes when Mama woke me up. “Breakfast is about ready, Billy,” she said.

  I was so stiff and sore I had trouble putting my clothes on. Mama helped me.

  “Maybe you’d better let that coon go,” she said. “I don’t think he’s worth all of this.”

  “I can’t do that, Mama,” I said. “I’ve gone too far now.”

  Papa came in from the barn. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You a little stiff?”

  “A little stiff!” Mama exclaimed. “Why he could hardly put his clothes on.”

  “Aw, he’ll be all right,” Papa said. “If I know anything about swinging an ax, it won’t be long before he’s as limber as a rag.”

  Mama just shook her head and started putting our breakfast on the table.

  While we were eating, Papa said, “You know I woke up several times last night and each time I was sure I heard a hound bawling. It sounded like Old Dan.”

  I quit the table on the run and headed for my doghouse. I didn’t have to go all the way. Little Ann met me on the porch. I asked her where Old Dan was and called his name. He was nowhere around.

  Little Ann started acting strangely. She whined and stared toward the river bottoms. She ran out to the gate, came back, and reared up on me.

  Mama and Papa came out on the porch.

  “He’s not here,” I said. “I think he has gone back to the tree.”

  “I don’t think he’d do that, would he?” Mama said. “Maybe he’s around someplace. Have you looked in the doghouse?”

  I ran and looked. He wasn’t there.

  “Everybody be quiet and listen,” I said.

  I walked out beyond the gate a little ways and whooped as loud as I could. My voice rang like a bell in the still, frosty morning. Before the echo had died away the deep “Ou-u-u-u” of Old Dan rolled out of the river bottoms.

  “He’s there,” I said. “He wanted to make sure the coon stayed in the tree. You see, Mama, why I have to get that coon. I can’t let him down.”

  “Well, I never in all my life,” she said. “I had no idea a dog loved to hunt that much. Yes, Billy, I can see now, and I want you to get him. I don’t care if you have to cut down every tree in those bottoms. I want you to get that coon for those dogs.”

  “I’m going to get him, Mama,” I said, “and I’m going to get him today if I possibly can.”

  Papa laughed and said, “Looks like there wasn’t any use in building that scarecrow. All you had to do was tell Old Dan to stay and watch the tree.”

  I left the house in a run. Now and then I would stop and whoop. Each time I was answered by the deep voice of Old Dan.

  Little Ann ran ahead of me. By the time I reached the big tree, their voices were making the bottoms ring.

  When I came tearing out of the underbrush, Old Dan threw a fit. He tried to climb the sycamore. He would back way off, then, bawling and running as fast as he could, he would claw his way far up on its side.

  Little Ann, not to be outdone, reared up and placed her small front paws on the smooth white bark. She told the ringtail coon that she knew he was there.

  After they had quieted down, I called Old Dan to me. “I’m proud of you, boy,” I said. “It takes a good dog to stay with a tree all night, but there wasn’t any need in you coming back. The coon wouldn’t have gotten away. That’s why we built the scarecrow.”

  Little Ann came over and started rolling in the leaves. The way I was feeling toward her, I couldn’t even smile at her playful mood. “Of course you feel good,” I said in an irritated voice, “and it’s no wonder, you had a good night’s sleep in a nice warm doghouse, but Old Dan didn’t. He was down here in the cold all by himself, watching the tree. The way you’re acting, I don’t believe you care if the coon gets away or not.”

  I would have said more but just then I noticed something. I walked over for a better look. There, scratched deep in the soft leaves were two little beds. One was smaller than the other. Looking at Little Ann, I read the answer in her warm gray eyes.

  Old Dan hadn’t been alone when he had gone back to the tree. She too had gone along. There was no doubt that in the early morning she had come home to get me.

  There was a lump in my throat as I said, “I’m sorry, little girl, I should’ve known.”

  The first half-hour was torture. At each swing of the ax my arms felt like they were being torn from their sockets. I gritted my teeth and kept hacking away. My body felt like it did the time my sister rolled me down the hill in a barrel.

  As Papa had said, in a little while the warm heat from the hard work limbered me up. I remembered what my father did when he was swinging an ax. At the completion of each swing, he always said, “Ha!” I tried it. Ker-wham. “Ha!” Ker-wham. “Ha!” I don’t know if it helped or not, but I was willing to try anything if it would hurry the job.

  Several times before noon I had to stop and rake my chips out of the way. I noticed that they weren’t the big, even, solid chips like my father made when he was chopping. They were small and seemed to crumble up and come all to pieces. Neither were the cuts neat and even. They were ragged and looked more like the work of beavers. But I wasn’t interested in any beautiful tree-chopping. All I wanted was to hear the big sycamore start popping.

  Along in the middle of the afternoon I felt a stinging in one of my hands. When I saw it was a blister I almost cried. At first there was only one. Then two. One after another they rose up on my hands like small white marbles. They filled up and turned a pale pinkish color. When one would burst,
it was all I could do to keep from screaming. I tore my handkerchief in half and wrapped my hands. This helped for a while, but when the cloth began to stick to the raw flesh I knew it was the end.

  Crying my heart out, I called my dogs to me and showed them my hands. “I can’t do it,” I said. “I’ve tried, but I just can’t cut it down. I can’t hold the ax any longer.”

  Little Ann whined and started licking my sore hands. Old Dan seemed to understand. He showed his sympathy by nuzzling me with his head.

  Brokenhearted, I started for home. As I turned, from the corner of my eye I saw Grandpa’s scarecrow. It seemed to be laughing at me. I looked over to the big sycamore. It lacked so little being cut down. A small wedge of solid wood was all that was holding it up. I let my eyes follow the smooth white trunk up to the huge spreading limbs.

  Sobbing, I said, “You think you have won, but you haven’t. Although I can’t get the coon, neither can you live, because I have cut off your breath of life.” And then I thought. “Why kill the big tree and not accomplish anything?” I began to feel bad.

  Kneeling down between my dogs, I cried and prayed. “Please God, give me the strength to finish the job. I don’t want to leave the big tree like that. Please help me finish the job.”

  I was trying to rewrap my hands so I could go back to work when I heard a low droning sound. I stood up and looked around. I could still hear the noise but couldn’t locate it. I looked up. High in the top of the big sycamore a breeze had started the limbs to swaying. A shudder ran through the huge trunk.

  I looked over to my right at a big black gum tree. Not one limb was moving. On its branches a few dead leaves hung silent and still. One dropped and floated lazily toward the ground.

  Over on my left stood a large hackberry. I looked up to its top. It was as still as a fence post.

  Another gust of wind caught in the top of the big tree. It started popping and snapping. I knew it was going to fall. Grabbing my dogs by their collars, I backed off to safety.

  I held my breath. The top of the big sycamore rocked and swayed. There was a loud crack that seemed to come from deep inside the heavy trunk. Fascinated, I stood and watched the giant of the bottoms. It seemed to be fighting so hard to keep standing. Several times I thought it would fall, but in a miraculous way it would pull itself back into perfect balance.

  The wind itself seemed to be angry at the big tree’s stubborn resistance. It growled and moaned as it pushed harder against the wavering top. With one final grinding, creaking sigh, the big sycamore started down. It picked up momentum as the heavy weight of the overbalanced top dove for the ground. A small ash was smothered by its huge bulk. There was a lighting-like crack as its trunk snapped.

  In its downward plunge, the huge limbs stripped the branches from the smaller trees. A log-sized one knifed through the top of a water oak. Splintered limbs flew skyward and rained out over the bottoms. With a cyclone roar, the big tree crashed to the ground, and then silence settled over the bottoms.

  Out of the broken, twisted, tangled mass streaked a brown furry ball. I turned my dogs loose and started screaming at the top of my voice, “Get him, Dan, get him.”

  In his eagerness, Old Dan ran head on into a bur oak tree. He sat down and with his deep voice told the river bottoms that he had been hurt.

  It was Little Ann who caught the coon. I heard the ringtail squall when she grabbed him. Scared half to death, I snatched up a club and ran to help her.

  The coon was all over her. He climbed up on her head, growling, slashing, ripping, and tearing. Yelping with pain, she shook him off and he streaked for the river. I thought surely he was going to get away. At the very edge of the river’s bank, she caught him again.

  I was trying hard to get in a lick with my club but couldn’t for fear of hitting Little Ann. Through the tears in my eyes I saw the red blurry form of Old Dan sail into the fight. He was a mad hound. His anger at the bur oak tree was taken out on the coon.

  They stretched Old Ringy out between them and pinned him to the ground. It was savage and brutal. I could hear the dying squalls of the coon and the deep growls of Old Dan. In a short time it was all over.

  With sorrow in my heart, I stood and watched while my dogs worried the lifeless body. Little Ann was satisfied first. I had to scold Old Dan to make him stop.

  Carrying the coon by a hind leg, I walked back to the big tree for my ax. Before leaving for home, I stood and looked at the fallen sycamore. I should have felt proud over the job I had done, but for some reason I couldn’t. I knew I would miss the giant of the bottoms, for it had played a wonderful part in my life. I thought of the hours I had whiled away staring at its beauty and how hard it had been finding the right name for it.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t want to cut you down, but I had to. I hope you can understand.”

  I was a proud boy as I walked along in the twilight of the evening. I felt so good even my sore hands had stopped hurting. What boy wouldn’t have been proud? Hadn’t my little hounds treed and killed their first coon? Along about then I decided I was a full-fledged coon hunter.

  Nearing our house, I saw the whole family had come out on the porch. My sisters came running, staring wide-eyed at the dead coon.

  Laughing, Papa said, “Well, I see you got him.”

  “I sure did, Papa,” I said. I held the coon up for all to see. Mama took one look at the lifeless body and winced.

  “Billy,” she said, “when I heard that big tree fall, it scared me half to death. I didn’t know but what it had fallen on you.”

  “Aw, Mama,” I said, “I was safe. Why, I backed way off to one side. It couldn’t have fallen on me.”

  Mama just shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “Some times I wonder if all mothers have to go through this.”

  “Come on,” Papa said, “I’ll help you skin it.”

  While we were tacking the hide on the smokehouse wall, I asked Papa if he had noticed any wind blowing that evening.

  He thought a bit and said, “No, I don’t believe I did. I’ve been out all day and I’m pretty sure I haven’t noticed any wind. Why did you ask?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Papa,” I said, “but I thought something strange happened down in the bottoms this afternoon.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Papa. “What do you mean, ‘something strange happened?”

  I told him about how my hands had gotten so sore I couldn’t chop any more, and how I had asked for strength to finish the job.

  “Well, what’s so strange about that?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but I didn’t chop the big tree down. The wind blew it over.”

  “Why that’s nothing,” Papa said. “I’ve seen that happen a lot of times.”

  “It wasn’t just the wind,” I said. “It was the way it blew. It didn’t touch another tree in the bottoms. I know because I looked around. The big tree was the only one touched by the wind. Do you think God heard my prayer? Do you think He helped me?”

  Papa looked at the ground and scratched his head. In a sober voice, he said, “I don’t know, Billy. I’m afraid I can’t answer that. You must remember the big sycamore was the tallest tree in the bottoms. Maybe it was up there high enough to catch the wind where the others couldn’t. No, I’m afraid I can’t help you there. You’ll have to decide for yourself.”

  It wasn’t hard for me to decide. I was firmly convinced that I had been helped.

  X

  MAMA MADE ME A CAP OUT OF MY FIRST COON HIDE. I WAS as proud of it as Papa would’ve been if someone had given him a dozen Missouri mules. Mama said afterwards that she wished she hadn’t made it for me because, in some way, wearing that cap must’ve affected my mind. I went coon crazy.

  I was out after the ringtails every night. About the only time I didn’t go hunting was when the weather was bad, and even then Mama all but had to hog-tie me.

  What wonderful nights they were, running like a deer through the
thick timber of the bottoms, tearing my way through stands of wild cane, climbing over drifts, and jumping logs, running, screaming, and yelling, “Who-e-e-e, get him, boy, get him,” following the voices of my little hounds.

  It wasn’t too hard for a smart old coon to fool Old Dan, but there were none that prowled the riverbanks that could fool my Little Ann.

  As Grandpa had predicted, the price of coonskins jumped sky-high. A good-size hide was worth from four to ten dollars, depending on the grade and quality.

  I kept the side of our smokehouse plastered with hides. Of course I would spread them out a little to cover more space. I always stretched them on the side facing the road, never on the back side. I wanted everyone in the country to see them.

  The money earned from my furs was turned over to my father. I didn’t care about it. I had what I wanted—my dogs. I supposed that Papa was saving it for something because I never saw anything new turn up around our home, but, like any young boy, I wasn’t bothered by it and I asked no questions.

  My whole life was wrapped up in my dogs. Everywhere I went they went along. There was only one place I didn’t want them to go with me and that was to Grandpa’s store. Other dogs were always there, and it seemed as if they all wanted to jump on Old Dan.

  It got so about the only time I went to see my grandfather was when I had a bundle of fur to take to the store. This was always a problem. In every way I could, I would try to slip away from my dogs. Sometimes I swore that they could read my mind. It made no difference what I tried; I couldn’t fool them.

  One time I was sure I had outsmarted them. The day before I was to make one of my trips I took my furs out to the barn and hid them. The next morning I hung around the house for a while, and then nonchalantly whistled my way out to the barn. I climbed up in the loft and peeked through a crack. I could see them lying in front of their doghouse. They weren’t even looking my way.