The sky had turned a dark gray. Fast-moving clouds were rolling through the heavens.
Grandpa said, “Looks like we’re going to get some wind, too.”
Scared and thinking everyone might want to stop hunting because of a few clouds, I said,
“If a storm is brewing, it’s a good night to hunt. All game stirs just before a storm.”
Thirty minutes later, Papa said, “Listen.” We stood still.
A low moaning sound could be heard in the tops of the tall sycamores.
Grandpa said, “I was afraid of that. We’re going to get some wind.”
We heard a rattling in the leaves and underbrush. It was beginning to sleet.
The air turned cold and chilly. From far downriver, we heard the deep baying of a hound on a trail.
It was Old Dan. Seconds later, the rhythmic crying of Little Ann could be heard.
Swallowing the lump that had jumped up in my throat, I whooped as loud as I could.
The ground was turning white with sleet. The storm had really set in.
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