Turning, she disappeared quickly in the thick cane. Minutes later we heard her. It was a long, mournful cry.
The only times I had ever heard my little dog bawl like that were when she was baying at a bright Ozark moon,
or when someone played a French harp or a fiddle close to her ear.
She didn’t stop until we reached her. Grandpa lay as he had fallen, face down in the icy sleet.
His right foot was wedged in the fork of a broken box elder limb.
When the ankle had twisted, the searing pain must have made him unconscious.
Papa worked Grandpa’s foot free and turned him over. I sat down and placed his head in my lap.
While Papa and the judge massaged his arms and legs, I wiped the frozen sleet from his eyes and face.
Burying my face in the iron-gray hair, I cried and begged God not to let my grandfather die.
“I think he’s gone,” the judge said. “I don’t think so,” Papa said.
“He took a bad fall when that limb tripped him, but he hasn’t been lying here long enough to be frozen.
I think he’s just unconscious.” Papa lifted him to a sitting position and told the judge to start slapping his face.
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