Down out of the mountains they brought him, singing a hound-dog song on his heels.
The coon must have scented me, or seen my lantern. He cut to my right and ran between our house and me.
I heard screaming and yelling from my sisters. My father started whooping.
I knew my whole family was out on the porch listening to the beautiful voices of my little red hounds.
I felt as tall as the tallest sycamore on the riverbank.
I yelled as loud as I could. Again I heard the squealing of my sisters and the shouts of my father.
The deep “Ou-ou-ou’s” of Old Dan and the sharp “Aw-aw-aw-aw’s” of Little Ann bored a hole in the inky-black night.
The vibrations rolled and quivered in the icy silence.
The coon was heading for the river. I could tell my dogs were crowding him, and wondered if he’d make it to the water.
I was hoping he wouldn’t, for I didn’t want to wade the cold water unless I had to do it.
I figured the smart old coon had a reason for turning and coming back to the river and wondered what trick he had in mind.
I remembered something my grandfather had told me. He said, “Never underestimate the cunning of an old river coon.
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