“That’s what has me worried,” I cried. “They won’t come in. They won’t, Papa.
Little Ann might, but not Old Dan. He’d die before he’d leave a coon in a tree.”
Papa was undecided. Making up his mind, he stepped away from the tree and said to the others, “I’m going on with him.
You fellows coming, or going back?” He turned and followed me.
Grandpa and the judge fell in behind him. By this time the ground was covered with a thin white layer of sleet.
We kept slipping and falling. I could hear Grandpa mumbling and grumbling.
The wind-driven sleet stung our skin like thousands of pricking needles.
Strong gusts of wind growled and moaned through the tops of the tall timber.
Once during a momentary lull of the storm, I thought I heard the baying of a hound.
I told my father I thought I had heard Old Dan. “From which direction?” he asked.
“From that way,” I said, pointing to our left. We started on.
A few minutes later Papa stopped. He shouted to my grandfather, “Did you hear anything?”
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