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.”
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