Where the Red Fern Grows - Wilson Rawls [71]
I should've left the tent then, but I wasn't done with my dish-washing.
With a pin, Grandpa hung a small mirror on the tent wall. After much snorting, mumbling, and screwing of his face this way and that, the job was completed. Dabbing a little water on his iron-gray hair, he reached for his brush and comb.
From the corner of my eye I watched him. I had tried to clean the beautiful brush but hadn't been able to get all the short red hair from it.
With two fingers, Grandpa pulled some of the hair from the bristles. Holding it in front of him, he looked it over carefully. Then, bending over close to the mirror, peeking over his glasses, he inspected his head. Straightening up, he looked at the brush again. Turning around quickly, he looked straight at me and said, "Say, young-"
Not waiting for anything more, I scooted for the door. Crawling under the buggy, I lay down between my dogs. I knew he wouldn't be mad at me, but it would be best to stay away for a while.
The third night, the blue ticks were tied by two black and tan hounds from the bayou country of Louisiana.
All that day I was restless. I prowled through the camp. Every little while I would go and see how Old Dan and Little Ann were. Once I took two weenies from our groceries. I heated them and gave them to my dogs for a treat. Old Dan swallowed his down in one gulp, and looked at me as if to say, "Is that all?" Little Ann ate hers in a ladylike way. I could have sworn I saw a small grin on her face.
Grandpa was hopping around like a grasshopper, going here and there. Once, passing a tent, I heard his voice. I knew he was bragging about my dogs. I smiled to myself.
Another hunter stopped me and asked, "Is it true that your hounds have treed six coons in one night, three up in one tree, or is that old man just blowing off steam?"
I told him my grandfather had a little steam, but he was the best grandpa a boy ever had.
He patted me on the head, turned, and walked away laughing.
XVI
IN THE AFTERNOON OUR JUDGE CAME OVER AND INTRODUCED himself. He told us he'd be going with us that night.
About sundown we piled in our buggy and drove a few miles downriver. I noticed other hunters doing the same thing. Everyone was trying to get away from the already-hunted territory.
It was dark by the time Grandpa stopped. I untied the ropes from my dogs. Little Ann reared up on me and whined. Old Dan walked off a few yards, stretched his body, and dragged his claws through the soft bottom soil. Opening his mouth, he let out one loud bawl, and then disappeared in the thick timber. Little Ann was right on his heels.
We took off after them.
Grandpa got nervous. He said to me, "Don't you think you ought to whoop to them?"
I told him to wait a little while. There would be plenty of time for whooping.
He snorted and said he thought a hunter always whooped to his dogs.
"I do, Grandpa," I said, "but not before they strike a trail."
We walked on. Every now and then we would stop and listen. I could hear the loud snuffing of Old Dan. Once we caught a glimpse of Little Ann as she darted across an opening that was bathed in moonlight. She was as silent as a ghost and as quick as a flitting shadow.
Papa said, "It sure is a beautiful night for hunting."
The judge said, "You can't beat these Ozark Mountain nights for beauty. I don't care where you go."
Grandpa started to say something. His voice was drowned out by the bell-like cry of Little Ann.
In a whisper, I said, "Come on, Dan. Hurry and help her."
As if in answer to my words, his deep voice hammered its way up through the river bottoms. I felt the blood tingling in my veins. That wonderful feeling that only a hunter knows crept over my body.
Looking over at Grandpa, I said, "Now you can whoop."
Jerking off his hat and throwing back his head, he let out a yell. It wasn't a whoop, or a screech, it was about halfway in between. Everyone laughed.
The coon was running upriver toward our campground. We turned and followed. I could tell by the dogs' voices that they were running side by side,