Where the Red Fern Grows Read online

  The next morning I started sneezing and came down with a terrible cold. I told Mama I had gotten my feet wet. She scolded me a little and started doctoring me.

  For three days and nights I stayed home. All this time I kept checking the handle of the lantern. My sisters shook the house from the roof to the floor with their playing and romping, but the handle never did fall.

  I went to my mother and asked her if God answered prayers every time one was said. She smiled and said, “No, Billy, not every time. He only answers the ones that are said from the heart. You have to be sincere and believe in Him.”

  She wanted to know why I had asked.

  I said, “Oh, I just wondered, and wanted to know.”

  She came over and straightened my suspenders, saying, “That was a very nice question for my little Daniel Boone to ask.”

  Bending over, she started kissing me. I finally squirmed away from her, feeling as wet as a dirt dauber’s nest. My mother never could kiss me like a fellow should be kissed. Before she was done I was kissed all over. It always made me feel silly and baby-like. I tried to tell her that a coon hunter wasn’t supposed to be kissed that way, but Mama never could understand things like that.

  I stomped out of the house to see how my dogs were.

  XII

  THE FAME OF MY DOGS SPREAD ALL OVER OUR PART OF THE Ozarks. They were the best in the country. No coon hunter came into my grandfather’s store with as many pelts as I did. Grandpa never overlooked an opportunity to brag. He told everyone the story of my dogs, and the part he had played in getting them.

  Many was the time some farmer, coming to our home, would say, “Your Grandpa was telling me you got three big coons over in Pea Vine Hollow the other night.” I would listen, knowing I only got one, or maybe none, but Grandpa was my pal. If he said I caught ten in one tree, it was just that way.

  Because of my grandfather’s bragging, and his firm belief in my dogs and me, a terrible thing happened.

  One morning, while having breakfast, Mama said to Papa, “I’m almost out of corn meal. Do you think you can go to the mill today?”

  Papa said, “I intended to butcher a hog. We’re about out of meat.” Looking at me, he said, “Shell a sack of corn. Take one of the mules and go to the mill for your mother.”

  With the help of my sisters, we shelled the corn. Throwing it over our mule’s back, I started for the store.

  On arriving at the millhouse, I tied my mule to the hitching post, took my corn, and set it by the door. I walked over to the store and told Grandpa I wanted to get some corn ground.

  He said, “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”

  As I was waiting, I heard a horse coming. Looking out, I saw who it was and didn’t like what I saw. It was the two youngest Pritchard boys. I had run into them on several occasions during pie suppers and dances.

  The Pritchards were a large family that lived upriver about five miles. As in most small country communities, there is one family that no one likes. The Pritchards were it. Tales were told that they were bootleggers, thieves, and just all-round “no-accounts.” The story had gone round that Old Man Pritchard had killed a man somewhere in Missouri before moving to our part of the country.

  Rubin was two years older than I, big and husky for his age. He never had much to say. He had mean-looking eyes that were set far back in his rugged face. They were smoky-hued and unblinking, as if the eyelids were paralyzed. I had heard that once he had cut a boy with a knife in a fight over at the sawmill.

  Rainie was the youngest, about my age. He had the meanest disposition of any boy I had ever known. Because of this he was disliked by young and old. Wherever Rainie went, trouble seemed to follow. He was always wanting to bet, and would bet on anything. He was nervous, and could never seem to stand still.

  Once at my grandfather’s store, I had given him a piece of candy. Snatching it out of my hand, he ate it and then sneered at me and said it wasn’t any good. During a pie supper one night, he wanted to bet a dime that he could whip me.

  My mother told me always to be kind of Rainie, that he couldn’t help being the way he was. I asked, “Why?” She said it was because his brothers were always picking on him and beating him.

  On entering the store, they stopped and glared at me. Rubin walked over to the counter. Rainie came over to me.

  Leering at me, he said, “I’d like to make a bet with you.”

  I told him I didn’t want to bet.

  He asked if I was scared.

  “No. I just don’t want to bet,” I said.

  His neck and ears looked as though they hadn’t been washed in months. His ferret-like eyes kept darting here and there. Glancing down to his hands, I saw the back of his right sleeve was stiff and starchy from the constant wiping of his nose.

  He saw I was looking him over, and asked if I liked what I saw.

  I started to say, “No,” but didn’t, turned, and walked away a few steps.

  Rubin ordered some chewing tobacco.

  “Aren’t you a little young to be chewing?” Grandpa asked.

  “Ain’t for me. It’s for my dad,” Rubin growled.

  Grandpa handed two plugs to him. He paid for it, turned around, and handed one plug to Rainie. Holding the other up in front of him, he looked it over. Looking at Grandpa, he gnawed at one corner of it.

  Grandpa mumbled something about how kids were brought up these days. He came from behind the counter, saying to me, “Let’s go grind that corn.”

  The Pritchard boys made no move to follow us out of the store.

  “Come on,” Grandpa said. “I’m going to lock up till I get this corn ground.”

  “We’ll just stay here. I want to look at some of the shirts,” said Rubin.

  “No, you won’t,” said Grandpa. “Come on, I’m going to lock up.”

  Begrudgingly, they walked out.

  I helped Grandpa start the mill and we proceeded to grind the corn. The Pritchard boys had followed us and were standing looking on.

  Rainie walked over to me. “I hear you have some good hounds,” he said.

  I told him I had the best in the country. If he didn’t believe me, he could just ask my grandfather.

  He just leered at me. “I don’t think they’re half as good as you say they are,” he said. “Bet our old blue tick hound can out-hunt both of them.”

  I laughed, “Ask Grandpa who brings in the most hides.”

  “I wouldn’t believe him. He’s crooked,” he said.

  I let him know right quick that my grandfather wasn’t crooked.

  “He’s a storekeeper, ain’t he?” he said.

  I glanced over at Grandpa. He had heard the remark made by Rainie. His friendly old face was as red as a turkey gobbler’s wattle.

  The last of my corn was just going through the grinding stones. Grandpa pushed a lever to one side, shutting off the power. He came over and said to Rainie, “What do you do? Just go around looking for trouble. What do you want, a fight?”

  Rubin sidled over. “This ain’t none of your business,” he said. “Besides, Rainie’s not looking for a fight. We just want to make a bet with him.”

  Grandpa glared at Rubin. “Any bet you would make sure would be a good one all right. What kind of a bet?”

  Rubin spat a mouthful of tobacco juice on the clean floor. He said, “Well, we’ve heard so much about them hounds of his, we just think it’s a lot of talk and lies. We’d like to make a little bet; say about two dollars.”

  I had never seen my old grandfather so mad. The red had left his face. In its place was a sickly, paste-gray color. The kind old eyes behind the glasses burned with a fire I had never seen.

  In a loud voice, he asked, “Bet on what?”

  Rubin spat again. Grandpa’s eyes followed the brown stain in its arch until it landed on the clean floor and splattered.

  With a leering grin on his ugly, dirty face, Rubin said, “Well, we got an old coon up in our part of the country that’s been there a long
time. Ain’t no dog yet ever been smart enough to tree him, and I—”

  Rainie broke into the conversation, “He ain’t just an ordinary coon. He’s an old-timer. Folks call him the ‘ghost coon.’ Believe me, he is a ghost. He just runs hounds long enough to get them all warmed up, then climbs a tree and disappears. Our old blue hound has treed him more times than—”

  Rubin told Rainie to shut up and let him do the talking. Looking over at me, he said, “What do you say? Want to bet two dollars your hounds can tree him?”

  I looked at my grandfather, but he didn’t help me.

  I told Rubin I didn’t want to bet, but I was pretty sure my dogs could tree the ghost coon.

  Rainie butted in again, “What’s the matter? You ‘yellow’?”

  I felt the hot blood rush into my face. My stomach felt like something alive was crawling in it. I doubled up my right fist and was on the point of hitting Rainie in one of his eyes when I felt my grandfather’s hand on my shoulder.

  I looked up. His eyes flashed as he looked at me. A strange little smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth. The big artery in his neck was pounding out and in. It reminded me of a young bird that had fallen out of a nest and lay dying on the ground.

  Still looking at me, he reached back and took his billfold from his pocket, saying, “Let’s call that bet.” Turning to Rubin, he said, “I’m going to let him call your bet, but now you listen. If you boys take him up there to hunt the ghost coon, and jump on him and beat him up, you’re sure going to hear from me. I don’t mean maybe. I’ll have both of you taken to Tahlequah and put in jail. You had better believe that.”

  Rubin saw he had pushed my grandfather far enough. Backing up a couple of steps, he said, “We’re not going to jump on him. All we want to do is make a bet.”

  Grandpa handed me two one-dollar bills, saying to Rubin, “You hold your money and he can hold his. If you lose, you had better pay off.” Looking back to me, he said, “Son, if you lose, pay off.”

  I nodded my head.

  I asked Rubin when he wanted me to come up for the hunt.

  He thought a minute. “You know where that old log slide comes out from the hills onto the road?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “We’ll meet you there tomorrow night about dark,” he said.

  It was fine with me, I said, but I told him not to bring his hounds because mine wouldn’t hunt with other dogs.

  He said he wouldn’t.

  I agreed to bring my ax and lantern.

  As they turned to leave, Rainie smirked. “Sucker!” he said.

  I made no reply.

  After the Pritchard boys had gone, my grandfather looked at me and said, “Son, I have never asked another man for much, but I sure want you to catch the ghost coon.”

  I told him if the ghost coon made one track in the river bottoms, my dogs would get him.

  Grandpa laughed.

  “You’d better be getting home. It’s getting late and your mother is waiting for the corn meal,” he said.

  I could hear him chuckling as he walked toward his store. I thought to myself, “There goes the best grandpa a boy ever had.”

  Lifting the sack of meal to the back of my old mule, I started for home. All the way, I kept thinking of Old Dan, Little Ann, ghost coons, and the two ugly, dirty Pritchard boys. I decided not to tell my mother and father anything about the hunt for I knew Mama wouldn’t approve of anything I had to do with the Pritchards.

  The following evening I arrived at the designated spot early. I sat down by a red oak tree to wait. I called Little Ann over to me and had a good talk with her. I told her how much I loved her, scratched her back, and looked at the pads of her feet.

  “Sweetheart,” I said, “you must do something for me tonight. I want you to tree the ghost coon for it means so much to Grandpa and me.”

  She seemed to understand and answered by washing my face and hands.

  I tried to talk to Old Dan, but I may as well have talked to a stump for all the attention he paid to me. He kept walking around sniffing here and there. He couldn’t understand why we were waiting. He was wanting to hunt.

  Rubin and Rainie showed up just at dark. Both had sneers on their faces.

  “Are you ready?” Rubin asked.

  “Yes,” I said, and asked him which way was the best to go.

  “Let’s go downriver a way and work up,” he said. “We’re sure to strike him coming upriver, and that way we’ve got the wind in our favor.”

  “Are these the hounds that we’ve been hearing so much about?” Rainie asked.

  I nodded.

  “They look too little to be any good,” he said.

  I told him dynamite came in little packages.

  He asked me if I had my two dollars.

  “Yes,” I said.

  He wanted to see my money. I showed it to him. Rubin, not to be outdone, showed me his.

  We crossed an old field and entered the river bottoms. By this time it was quite dark. I lit my lantern and asked which one wanted to carry my ax.

  “It’s yours,” Rainie said. “You carry it.”

  Not wanting to argue, I carried both the lantern and the ax.

  Rainie started telling me how stingy and crooked my grandfather was. I told him I hadn’t come to have any trouble or to fight. All I wanted to do was to hunt the ghost coon. If there was going to be any trouble, I would just call my dogs and go home.

  Rubin had a nickel’s worth of sense, but Rainie had none at all. Rubin told him if he didn’t shut up, he was going to bloody his nose. That shut Rainie up.

  Old Dan opened up first. It was a beautiful thing to hear. The deep tones of his voice rolled in the silent night.

  A bird in a canebrake on our right started chirping. A big swamp rabbit came running down the riverbank as if all hell was close to his heels. A bunch of mallards, feeding in the shallows across the river, took flight with frightened quacks. A feeling that only a hunter knows slowly crept over my body. I whooped to my dogs, urging them on.

  Little Ann came in. Her bell-like tones blended with Old Dan’s, in perfect rhythm. We stood and listened to the beautiful music, the deep-throated notes of hunting hounds on the hot-scented trail of a river coon.

  Rubin said, “If he crosses the river up at the Buck Ford, it’s the ghost coon, as that’s the way he always runs.”

  We stood and listened. Sure enough, the voices of my dogs were silent for a few minutes. Old Dan, a more powerful swimmer than Little Ann, was the first to open up after crossing over. She was close behind him.

  Rubin said, “That’s him, all right. That’s the ghost coon.”

  They crossed the river again.

  We waited.

  Rainie said, “You may as well get your money out now.”

  I told him just to wait a while, and I’d show him the ghost coon’s hide.

  This brought a loud laugh from Rainie, which sounded like someone had dropped an empty bucket on a gravel bar and then had kicked it.

  The wily old coon crossed the river several times, but couldn’t shake my dogs from his trail. He cut out from the bottoms, walked a rail fence, and jumped from it into a thick canebrake. He piled into an old slough. Where it emptied into the river, he swam to the middle. Doing opposite to what most coons do, which is swim downstream, he swam upstream. He stopped at an old drift in the middle of it.

  Little Ann found him. When she jumped him from the drift, Old Dan was far downriver searching for the trail. If he could have gotten there in time, it would have been the last of the ghost coon, but Little Ann couldn’t do much by herself in the water. He fought his way free from her, swam to our side, and ran upstream.

  I could hear Old Dan coming through the bottoms on the other side, bawling at every jump. I could feel the driving power in his voice. We heard him when he hit the water to cross over. It sounded like a cow had jumped in.

  Little Ann was warming up the ghost coon. I could tell by her voice that she was cl
ose to him.

  Reaching our side, Old Dan tore out after her. He was a mad hound. His deep voice was telling her he was coming.

  We were trotting along, following my dogs, when I heard Little Ann’s bawling stop.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I think she has treed him. Let’s give her time to circle the tree to make sure he’s there.”

  Old Dan opened up bawling treed. Rubin started on.

  “Something’s wrong,” I said. “I can’t hear Little Ann.”

  Rainie spoke up, “Maybe the ghost coon ate her up.”

  I glared at him.

  Hurrying on, we came to my dogs. Old Dan was bawling at a hole in a large sycamore that had fallen into the river.

  At that spot, the bank was a good ten feet above the water level. As the big tree had fallen, the roots had been torn and twisted from the ground. The jagged roots, acting as a drag, had stopped it from falling all the way into the stream. The trunk lay on a steep slant from the top of the bank to the water. Looking down, I could see the broken tangled mass of the top. Debris from floods had caught in the limbs, forming a drift.

  Old Dan was trying to dig and gnaw his way into the log. Pulling him from the hole, I held my lantern up and looked down into the dark hollow. I knew that somewhere down below the surface there had to be another hole in the trunk, as water had filled the hollow to the river level.

  Rubin, looking over my shoulder, said, “That coon couldn’t be in there. If he was, he’d be drowned.”

  I agreed.

  Rainie spoke up. “You ready to pay off?” he asked. “I told you them hounds couldn’t tree the ghost coon.”

  I told him the show wasn’t over.

  Little Ann had never bawled treed, and I knew she wouldn’t until she knew exactly where the coon was. Working the bank up and down, and not finding the trail, she swam across the river and worked the other side. For a good half-hour she searched that side before she came back across to where Old Dan was. She sniffed around the hollow log.

  “We might as well get away from here,” Rainie said. “They ain’t going to find the ghost coon.”

  “It sure looks that way,” Rubin said.

  I told them I wasn’t giving up until my dogs did.