Papa said, “Yes.” “Well, the way I figure, more than one coon lives in that swamp,” I said.
“It’s a good place for them as there are lots of crawfish and minnows in those potholes.
If a hound jumps one there, he has a good chance to tree him.”
Papa asked, “Why?” “It’s a long way back to the river, and about the same distance to the mountains,” I said.
“Either way he runs, a dog can get pretty close to him, and so he would have to take to a tree.”
That evening we climbed into Grandpa’s buggy and headed for the swamp.
It was dark by the time we reached it. Grandpa handed Papa his gun, saying. “You’re getting to be a pretty good shot with this thing.”
“I hope I get to shoot it a lot tonight,” Papa said.
Under my breath, I said, “I do, too.” After untying the ropes from my dogs, I held onto their collars for a minute.
Pulling them up close, I knelt down and whispered, “This is the last night. I know you’ll do your best.”
They seemed to understand and tugged at their collars. When I turned them loose, they started for the timber.
Just as they reached the dark shadows, they stopped, turned around, and stared straight at me for an instant.
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