“I don’t know,” the judge said. “Reckon it was wind or thunder?”
About that time we heard it again. The judge started laughing.
“I know now what it is,” he said. “Those hounds have run that coon right back by our camp.
The noise we heard was the other hunters whooping to them.”
Everyone laughed. A few minutes later I heard my dogs bawling treed.
On reaching the tree, Papa ran his hand back under his coat. He pulled out Grandpa’s gun.
“That’s a funny-looking gun,” the judge said. “It’s a 410-gauge pistol, isn’t it?”
“It’s the very thing for this kind of work,” Papa said.
“You couldn’t kill a coon with it if you tried, especially if you’re using bird shot. All it will do is sting his hide a little.”
At the crack of the gun, the coon gave a loud squall and jumped.
My dogs lost no time in killing him. We skinned the coon, and soon were on our way again.
The next time my dogs treed, they were across the river from us.
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