Where the Red Fern Grows - Wilson Rawls [48]
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