My dogs had treed the coon in a tall ash which stood about fifty yards from the river.
I knew the fifty yards had saved us a good hour, because he could have pulled trick after trick if he had gotten in the water.
We spied the coon in the topmost branches. At the crack of the gun, he ran far out on a limb and jumped.
He landed in an old fallen treetop. He scooted through it. Coming out on the other side, he ran for the river.
The tangled mass of limbs slowed my dogs and they all but tore the treetop apart getting out of it.
The coon was just one step ahead of them as they reached the river.
We heard them hit the water. Running over, we stood and watched the fight.
The coon was at home in the river. He crawled up on Old Dan’s head, trying to force him under.
Before he could do it, Little Ann reached up and pulled him off.
In a scared voice, Papa said, “That water looks deep to me.” “Maybe you had better call them off,” said the judge.
“That’s a big coon and he could drown one of them easily in that deep water.”
“Call them off?” I said. “Why, you couldn’t whip them off with a stick.
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