Where the Red Fern Grows - Wilson Rawls [70]
The tears came rolling. I gathered my dog up in my arms and walked to our tent. Grandpa followed, proudly carrying the cup.
That evening the head judge stepped up on the table. He had a small box in his hand. He shouted, "Over here, men! I have some announcements to make."
We all gathered around.
In a loud voice, he said, "Gentlemen, the contest will start tonight. I'm sure most of you men have been in these hunts before. For those of you who haven't, I will explain the rules. Each night five sets of dogs will be taken out to hunt. A judge will go along with each pair of hounds. Every morning, the judges will turn in that night's catch. The two hounds that tree the most coons will qualify for the championship runoff. The other four sets will be eliminated from the hunt. Of course, if there is a tie, both sets will qualify. On the following nights, only those hounds tying the first night's score, or getting more, will be in the runoff.
"Now, gentlemen, this hunt must be carried out in a sportsmanlike way. If the coon is treed where he can't be caught, such as in a bluff, it will not be counted. You must catch the coon, skin it, and turn the hide over to your judge.
"You are allowed to take an ax, a lantern, and a gun with bird shot, which you can use to get a coon out of a tree.
"Twenty-five sets of hounds have been entered in the hunt. In this box, I have twenty-five cards. Everyone in the contest will now line up for the drawing. The card you draw will tell you what night your hounds are to hunt."
Walking along in the line, I noticed the beautiful red coats, the caps, and the soft leather boots worn by the other hunters. I felt out of place in my faded blue overalls, old sheepskin coat, and scuffed and worn shoes, but to the wonderful men it made no difference. They treated me like a man, and even talked to me like a man.
When it came my time to draw, my hand was shaking so hard I could hardly get it in the box. Pulling the card out, I saw I had drawn the fourth night.
After the hunters had left, we stood around our campfires sipping strong black coffee and listening to the baying of the hounds. Time after time, we heard the tree bark.
Once two hounds came close to the camp, hot on a trail. We listened to their steady bawling. All at once they stopped.
After several minutes of waiting, a hunter said, "You know what? That old coon took to the river and in some way has fooled those dogs."
Another one said, "Yes, sir, he sure has."
A friendly hunter looked at me and asked, "Do you think he could have fooled your dogs?"
Thinking his question over, I said, "You know, sometimes when I am hunting, away back in the mountains or down on the river, I sing a little song I made up myself. One of the verses goes like this:
You can swim the river, Old Mister Ringtail, And play your tricks out one by one. It won't do any good, Old Mister Ringtail, My Little Ann knows every one.
The hunters roared with laughter. Some slapped me on the back.
Tired and sleepy, but with a smile on my face, I went off to bed.
The next morning two blue tick hounds, from the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, came out in the lead with three big coons to their credit. The other four sets were eliminated.
The following morning all five sets of dogs were eliminated. None had even tied the blue ticks, although two sets had gotten two coons, and one of these had treed a third one in a bluff.
That day, while eating dinner, my grandfather asked me if my dogs had ever treed three coons in one night.
I said, "Yes, four different times, but that's all."
"Where do you think we should hunt on our night?" Papa asked.
I told him if we could get our judge to go with us in the buggy, we would be better off if we could go far downriver and get out of the range where other dogs had hunted.
He said, "That's a good idea. I'll go to see the judges about it."
While I was washing the dishes, Grandpa said,