Where the Red Fern Grows Read online

I came out just like I went in, feet first and belly down. My legs were spread out like a bean-shooter stalk. Arms flailing the air, I zoomed out and up. I seemed to hang suspended in air at the peak of my climb. I could see the hard-packed ground far below.

  As I started down, I shut my eyes tight and gritted my teeth. This didn’t seem to help. With a splattering sound, I landed. I felt the air whoosh out between my teeth. I tried to scream, but had no wind left to make a sound.

  After bouncing a couple of times, I finally settled down to earth. I lay spread-eagled for a few seconds, and then slowly got to my knees.

  Hearing loud laughter, I looked around. It was the little old lady with the hoe in her hand. She hollered and asked how I liked it. Without answering, I grabbed up my gunny sack and left. Far up the street, I looked back. The little old lady was sitting down, rocking with laughter.

  I couldn’t understand these town people. If they weren’t staring at a fellow, they were laughing at him.

  V

  ON ARRIVING AT THE DEPOT, MY NERVE FAILED ME. I WAS afraid to go in. I didn’t know what I was scared of, but I was scared.

  Before going around to the front, I peeked in a window. The Stationmaster was in his office looking at some papers. He was wearing a funny little cap that had no top in it. He looked friendly enough but I still couldn’t muster up enough courage to go in.

  I cocked my ear to see if I could hear puppies crying, but could hear nothing. A bird started chirping. It was a yellow canary in a cage. The stationmaster walked over and gave it some water. I thought, “Anyone that is kind to birds surely wouldn’t be mean to a boy.”

  With my courage built up I walked around to the front and eased myself past the office. He glanced at me and turned back to the papers. I walked clear around the depot and again walked slowly past the office. Glancing from the corner of my eye, I saw the Stationmaster looking at me and smiling. He opened the door and came out on the platform. I stopped and leaned against the building.

  Yawning and stretching his arms, he said, “It sure is hot today. It doesn’t look like it’s ever going to rain.”

  I looked up at the sky and said, “Yes, sir. It is hot and we sure could do with a good rain. We need one bad up where I come from.”

  He asked me where I lived.

  I told him, “Up the river a ways.”

  “You know,” he said, “I have some puppies in there for a boy that lives up on the river. His name is Billy Colman. I know his dad, but never have seen the boy. I figured he would be in after them today.”

  On hearing this remark, my heart jumped clear up in my throat. I thought surely it was going to hop right out on the depot platform. I looked up and tried to tell him who I was, but something went wrong. When the words finally came out they sounded like the squeaky old pulley on our well when Mama drew up a bucket of water.

  I could see a twinkle in the stationmaster’s eyes. He came over and laid his hand on my shoulder. In a friendly voice he said, “So you’re Billy Colman. How is your dad?”

  I told him Papa was fine and handed him the slip my grandpa had given me.

  “They sure are fine-looking pups,” he said. “You’ll have to go around to the freight door.”

  I’m sure my feet never touched the ground as I flew around the building. He unlocked the door, and I stepped in, looking for my dogs. I couldn’t see anything but boxes, barrels, old trunks, and some rolls of barbed wire.

  The kindly Stationmaster walked over to one of the boxes.

  “Do you want box and all?” he asked.

  I told him I didn’t want the box. All I wanted was the dogs.

  “How are you going to carry them?” he asked. “I think they’re a little too young to follow.”

  I held out my gunny sack.

  He looked at me and looked at the sack. Chuckling, he said, “Well, I guess dogs can be carried that way same as anything else, but we’ll have to cut a couple of holes to stick their heads through so that they won’t smother.”

  Getting a claw hammer, he started tearing off the top of the box. As nails gave way and boards splintered, I heard several puppy whimpers. I didn’t walk over. I just stood and waited.

  After what seemed like hours, the box was open. He reached in, lifted the pups out, and set them down on the floor.

  “Well, there they are,” he said. “What do you think of them?”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. All I could do was stare at them.

  They seemed to be blinded by the light and kept blinking their eyes. One sat down on his little rear and started crying. The other one was waddling around and whimpering.

  I wanted so much to step over and pick them up. Several times I tried to move my feet, but they seemed to be nailed to the floor. I knew the pups were mine, all mine, yet I couldn’t move. My heart started acting like a drunk grasshopper. I tried to swallow and couldn’t. My Adam’s apple wouldn’t work.

  One pup started my way. I held my breath. On he came until I felt a scratchy little foot on mine. The other pup followed. A warm puppy tongue caressed my sore foot.

  I heard the Stationmaster say, “They already know you.”

  I knelt down and gathered them in my arms. I buried my face between their wiggling bodies and cried. The Stationmaster, sensing something more than just two dogs and a boy, waited in silence.

  Rising with the two pups held close to my chest, I asked if I owed anything.

  He said, “There is a small feed bill but I’ll take care of it. It’s not much anyway.”

  Taking his knife he cut two slits in the sack. He put the pups in it and worked their heads through the holes. As he handed the sack to me, he said, “Well, there you are. Good-bye and good hunting!”

  Walking down the street toward town, I thought, “Now, maybe the people won’t stare at me when they see what I’ve got. After all, not every boy owns two good hounds.”

  Turning the corner onto the main street, I threw out my chest.

  I hadn’t gone far before I realized that the reception I got wasn’t what I thought it would be. People began to stop and stare, some even snickered. I couldn’t understand why they were staring. Surely it couldn’t be at the two beautiful hound pups sticking out of the gunny sack.

  Thinking that maybe I had a hole in the seat of my britches, I looked over to my reflection in a plateglass window. I craned my neck for a better view of my rear. I could see a patch there all right, and a few threadbare spots, but no whiteness was showing through. I figured that the people were just jealous because they didn’t have two good hounds.

  I saw a drunk coming. He was staggering all over the street. Just as he was passing me I heard him stop. As I looked back I saw he was staring wide-eyed at my sack. Closing his eyes, he rubbed them with his hands. Opening them again he stared. Shaking his head, he staggered on down the street.

  All around people began to roar with laughter. Someone shouted, “What’s the matter, John? You seeing things today?”

  I hurried on, wanting to get away from the stares and the snickers.

  It wouldn’t have happened again in a hundred years, but there they came. The same two old women I had met before. We stopped and had another glaring fight.

  One said, “I declare.”

  The other one snorted, “Well, I never.”

  My face burned. I couldn’t take any more. After all, a man can stand so much and no more. In a loud voice, I said, “You may have these people fooled with those expensive-looking feathers in your hats, but I know what they are. They’re goose feathers painted with iodine.”

  One started to say something, but her words were drowned out by the roaring laughter from all around. Gathering up their long skirts, they swished on down the street.

  All around me people began to shout questions and laugh. One wanted to know if I had the mother in the sack. Storekeepers stepped out and gawked. I could see the end of the street, but it looked as if it were a hundred miles away. My face was as red as a fox’s tail. I du
cked my head, tightened my grip on the sack, and walked on.

  I don’t know where they came from, but like chickens coming home to roost, they flocked around me. Most of them were about my age. Some were a little bigger, some smaller. They ganged around me, screaming and yelling. They started clapping their hands and chanting, “The dog boy has come to town. The dog boy has come to town.”

  My heart burst. Tears came rolling. The day I had waited for so long had turned black and ugly.

  The leader of the gang was about my size. He had a dirty freckled face and his two front teeth were missing. I suppose he had lost them in a back alley fight. His shock of yellow sunburnt hair bobbed up and down as he skipped and jumped to the rhythm of the “dog boy” song. He wore a pair of cowboy boots. They were two sizes too big for him, no doubt handed down by an older brother.

  He stomped on my right foot. I looked down and saw a drop of blood ooze out from under the broken nail. It hurt like the dickens but I gritted my teeth and walked on.

  Freckle-face pulled the ear of my little girl pup. I heard her painful cry. That was too much. I hadn’t worked two long hard years for my pups to have some freckle-face punk pull their ears.

  Swinging the sack from my shoulder, I walked over and set it down in a doorway. As I turned around to face the mob, I doubled up my fist, and took a Jack Dempsey stance.

  Freckle-face said, “So you want to fight.” He came in swinging.

  I reached way back in Arkansas somewhere. By the time my fist had traveled all the way down to the Cherokee Strip, there was a lot of power behind it.

  Smack on the end of Freck’s nose it exploded. With a loud grunt he sat down in the dusty street. Grabbing his nose in both hands, he started rocking and moaning. I saw the blood squeeze out between his fingers.

  Another one sailed in. He didn’t want to fight. He wanted to wrestle. He stuck a finger in my mouth. I ground down. Shaking his hand and yelling like the hoot owls were after him, he ran across the street.

  Another one bored in. I aimed for his eye, but my aim was a little low. It caught him in the Adam’s apple. A sick look came over his face. Bending over, croaking like a bullfrog that had been caught by a water moccasin, he started going around in a circle.

  But there were too many of them. By sheer weight and numbers, they pulled me down. I managed to twist over on my stomach and buried my face in my arms. I could feel them beating and kicking my body.

  All at once the beating stopped. I heard loud cries from the gang. Turning over on my back, I was just in time to see the big marshal plant a number-twelve boot in the seat of the last kid. I just knew I was next. I wondered if he’d kick me while I was down.

  I lay where I was. He started toward me. I closed my eyes. I felt a hand as big as an anvil clamp on my shoulder. I thought, “He’s going to stand me up, and then knock me down.”

  He raised me to a sitting position. His deep friendly voice said, “Are you all right, son?”

  I opened my eyes. There was a smile on his wide rugged face. In a choking voice, I said, “Yes, sir. I’m all right.”

  He helped me to my feet. His big hands started brushing the dust from my clothes.

  “Those kids are pretty tough, son,” he said, “but they’re really not bad. They’ll grow up some day.”

  “Marshal,” I said, “I wouldn’t have fought them, but they pulled my pup’s ears.”

  He looked over to my sack. One pup had worked its way almost out through the hole. The other one’s head and two little paws were sticking out. Both of them were whimpering.

  A smile spread all over the big marshal’s face. “So that’s what started the fight,” he said.

  Walking over, he knelt down and started petting the pups. “They’re fine-looking dogs,” he said. “Where did you get them?”

  I told him I had ordered them from Kentucky.

  “What did they cost you?” he asked.

  “Forty dollars,” I said.

  He asked if my father had bought them for me.

  “No,” I said. “I bought them myself.”

  He asked me where I got the money.

  “I worked and saved it,” I said.

  “It takes a long time to save forty dollars,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. “It took me two years.”

  “Two years!” he exclaimed.

  I saw an outraged look come over the marshal’s face. Reaching up, he pushed his hat back. He glanced up and down the street. I heard him mutter, “There’s not a one in that bunch with that kind of grit.”

  Picking up my sack, I said, “Thanks for helping me out. I guess I’d better be heading for home.”

  He asked where I lived.

  I said, “Up the river a way.”

  “Well, you’ve got time for a bottle of pop before you go, haven’t you?”

  I started to say “No,” but looking at his big friendly smile, I smiled back and said, “I guess I have.”

  Walking into a general store, the marshal went over to a large red box and pulled back the lid. He asked what kind I wanted. I’d never had a bottle of pop in my life, and didn’t know what to say.

  Seeing my hesitation, he said, “This strawberry looks pretty good.”

  I said that would be fine.

  The cool pop felt wonderful to my hot dry throat. My dark little world had brightened up again. I had my pups, and had found a wonderful friend. I knew that the stories I had heard about marshals weren’t true. Never again would I be scared when I saw one.

  Back out on the street, I shook hands with the marshal, saying as I did, “If you’re ever up in my part of the country come over and see me. You can find our place by asking at my grandfather’s store.”

  “Store?” he asked. “Why, the only store upriver is about thirty miles from here.”

  “Yes,” I said, “that’s my grandpa’s place.”

  He asked if I was afoot.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You won’t make it tonight,” he said. “Will you?”

  “No,” I said. “I intend to camp out somewhere.”

  I saw he was bothered.

  “I’ll be all right,” I said. “I’m not scared of the mountains.”

  He looked at me and at my pups. Taking off his hat, he scratched his head. Chuckling deep down in his barrel-like chest, he said, “Yes, I guess you will be all right. Well, good-bye and good luck! If you’re ever in town again look me up.”

  From far down the street, I looked back. The marshal was still standing where I had left him. He waved his hand. I waved back.

  On the outskirts of town, I stopped and picked up a can and my provisions.

  I hadn’t gone far before I realized that I had undertaken a tough job. The sack became heavier and heavier.

  For a while my pups cried and whimpered. They had long since pulled their heads back in the sack. I would peek in at them every once in a while. They were doing all right. Curled up into two little round balls on my bundles, they were fast asleep.

  Deep in the heart of the Sparrow Hawk Mountains, night overtook me. There, in a cave with a stream close by, I put up for the night.

  Taking my pups and bundles from the gunny sack, I used it to gather leaves to make us a bed. My pups followed me on every trip, whimpering and crying, tumbling and falling over sticks and rocks.

  After the bed was made I built a fire. In a can of water from the mountain stream, I boiled three eggs. Next, I boiled half of the remaining salt pork. Cutting the meat up in small pieces, I fed it to my pups. Each of us had a piece of candy for dessert. My pups enjoyed the candy. With their needle-sharp teeth, they gnawed and worried with it until it was melted away.

  While they were busy playing, I dragged up several large timbers and built a fire which would last for hours. In a short time the cave grew warm and comfortable from the heat. The leaves were soft, and felt good to my tired body and sore feet. As I lay stretched out, my pups crawled all over me. I played with them. They would waddle up to
the front of the cave, look at the fire, and come scampering back to roll and play in the soft leaves.

  I noticed the boy dog was much larger than the girl dog. He was a deeper red in color. His chest was broad and solid. His puppy muscles knotted and rippled under the velvety skin. He was different in every way. He would go closer to the fire. I saw right away he was bold and aggressive.

  Once he went around the fire and ventured out into the darkness. I waited to see if he would come back. He came wobbling to the mouth of the cave, but hesitated there. He made several attempts to come back, but the flames were leaping higher by the minute. The space between the fire and the wall of the cave was much hotter than when he had ventured out. Whimpering and crying, he kept trying to get around the fire. I said not a word; just watched.

  Puppy though he was, he did something which brought a smile to my face. Getting as close as he could to the side of the cave, he turned his rear to the fire. Hopping sideways, yipping at every jump, he made it through the heat and sailed into the pile of leaves. He had had enough. Curling up in a ball close to me, he went to sleep.

  The girl pup was small and timid. Her legs and body were short. Her head was small and delicate. She must have been a runt in the litter. I didn’t have to look twice to see that what she lacked in power, she made up in brains. She was a much smarter dog than the boy dog, more sure of herself, more cautious. I knew when the trail became tough, she would be the one to unravel it.

  I knew I had a wonderful combination. In my dogs, I had not only the power, but the brains along with it.

  I was a tired boy. My legs were stiff, and my feet sore and throbbing. My shoulders were red and raw from the weight of the sack. I covered my pups up in the leaves and moved my body as close to them as I could. I knew as night wore on, and the fire died down, the chill would come. Tired but happy, I fell asleep.

  Along in the silent hours of night, I was awakened. I opened my eyes, but didn’t move. I lay and listened, trying to figure out what it was that had aroused me. At first I thought one of my pups had awakened me by moving and whimpering. I discarded this thought for I could see that they were both fast asleep. I decided it was my imagination working.