Where the Red Fern Grows - Wilson Rawls [49]
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