Where the Red Fern Grows - Wilson Rawls [79]
Little Ann came up out of the washout. She stood and stared at me. Turning, she disappeared quickly in the thick cane. Minutes later we heard her. It was a long, mournful cry.
The only times I had ever heard my little dog bawl like that were when she was baying at a bright Ozark moon, or when someone played a French harp or a riddle close to her ear. She didn't stop until we reached her.
Grandpa lay as he had fallen, face down in the icy sleet. His right foot was wedged in the fork of a broken box elder limb. When the ankle had twisted, the searing pain must have made him unconscious.
Papa worked Grandpa's foot free and turned him over. I sat down and placed his head in my lap. While Papa and the judge massaged his arms and legs, I wiped the frozen sleet from his eyes and face.
Burying my face in the iron-gray hair, I cried and begged God not to let my grandfather die.
"I think he's gone," the judge said.
"I don't think so," Papa said. "He took a bad fall when that limb tripped him, but he hasn't been lying here long enough to be frozen. I think he's just unconscious."
Papa lifted him to a sitting position and told the judge to start slapping his face. Grandpa moaned and moved his head.
"He's coming around," Papa said.
I asked Papa if we could get him back to the gully where Old Dan was. I had noticed there was very little wind there and we could build a fire.
"That's the very place," he said. "We'll build a good fire and one of us can go for help."
Papa and the judge made a seat by catching each other's wrists. They eased Grandpa between them.
By the time we reached the washout, Grandpa was fully conscious again, and was mumbling and grumbling. He couldn't see why they had to carry him like a baby.
After easing him over the bank and down into the gully, we built a large fire. Papa took his knife and cut the boot from Grandpa's swollen foot. Grandpa grunted and groaned from the pain. I felt sorry for him but there was nothing I could do but look on.
Papa examined the foot. Shaking his head, he said, "Boy, that's a bad one. It's either broken or badly sprained. I'll go for some help."
Grandpa said, "Now wait just a minute. I'm not going to let you go out in that blizzard by yourself. What if something happens to you? No one would know."
"What time is it?" he asked.
The judge looked at his watch. "It's almost five o'clock," he said.
"It's not long till daylight," Grandpa said. "Then if you want to go, you can see where you're going. Now help me get propped up against this bank. I'll be all right. It doesn't hurt any more. It's numb now."
"He's right," the judge said.
"Think you can stand it?" Papa asked.
Grandpa roared like a bear. "Sure I can stand it. It's nothing but a sprained ankle. I'm not going to die. Build that fire up a little more."
While Papa and the judge made Grandpa comfortable, I carried wood for the fire.
"There's no use standing around gawking at me," Grandpa said. "I'm all right. Get the coon out of that tree. That's what we came for, isn't it?"
Up until then, the coon-hunting had practically been forgotten.
The tree was about thirty feet from our fire. We walked over and took a good look at it for the first time. My dogs, seeing we were finally going to pay some attention to them, started bawling and running around the tree.
Papa said, "It's not much of a tree, just an old box elder snag. There's not a limb on it."
"I can't see any coon," said the judge. "It must be hollow."
Papa beat on its side with the ax. It gave forth a loud booming sound. He said, "It's hollow all right."
He stepped back a few steps, scraped his feet on the slick ground for a good footing, and said, "Stand back, and hold those hounds. I'm going to cut it down. We need some wood for our fire anyway."
Squatting down between my dogs, I held onto their collars.
Papa notched the old snag so it would fall away from our fire. As the heavy ax chewed its way into the tree, it began to lean and crack. Papa stopped chopping. He said to the judge, "Come on and help me. I think we can push it over