The second coon headed down the washout. Little Ann caught him.
Hearing a loud yell from Grandpa, I looked that way. Old Dan and the coon were fighting close to his feet.
He was yelling and beating at them with his hat. The judge and Papa ran to help.
The third coon started climbing up the steep bank close to me. Just before reaching the top, his claws slipped in the icy mud.
Tumbling end over end, down he came. I grabbed up a stick and threw it at him.
Growling and showing his teeth, he started for me. I threw the fight to him then and there.
Some ten yards away I looked back. He was climbing the bank. That time he made it and disappeared in the thick cane.
Hearing a squall of pain from Little Ann, I turned. The coon was really working her over.
He had climbed up on her back and was tearing and slashing. She couldn’t shake him off.
Grabbing a club from the ground, I ran to help her. Before we had killed our coon, Old Dan came tearing in.
We stood and watched the fight. When the coon was dead, Papa picked it up and we walked back to the fire.
“How many coons were in that old snag?” Papa asked. “I saw three,” I said.
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