Where the Red Fern Grows (6 page)

VII

    IT SEEMS THAT THE WORRIES AND WANTS OF A YOUNG BOY never cease. Now that I had my pups another obstacle had cropped up. This one looked absolutely impossible. I had to have a coonskin so I could train them.

    With my three little traps and a bulldogged determination, I set out to trap Mister Ringtail. For three solid weeks I practically lived on the river. I tried every trick I knew. It was no use. I just couldn't catch the wiley old coons.

    In desperation I went to my grandfather. He smiled as he listened to my tale of woe. "Well, we'll have to do something about that," he said. "To train those dogs right, you'll need that coon hide, that's for sure. Now you watch the store while I go over to my tool shed. I'll be right back."

    After what seemed like an eternity I saw him coming. He was carrying a brace and bit, that was all.

    With a mischievous little smile on his face, he said, "You wouldn't think a fellow could catch a coon with this brace and bit, would you?"

    I thought he was kidding me and it made me feel bad. "Why, Grandpa," I said, "you couldn't catch a  coon in a jillion years with that thing. You just don't have any idea how smart they are."

    "Yes, you can," he said. "You bet your boots you can. Why, when I was a boy I caught coons on top of coons with one of these things."

    I saw Grandpa was serious and I got interested.

    He laid the brace down on the counter, picked up a small paper sack, and filled it about half-full of horseshoe nails,

    "Now you do everything exactly as I tell you," he said, "and you'll catch that coon."

    "Yes, sir, Grandpa," I said, "I will. I'll do anything to catch one of them."

    "Now the first thing you'll need is some bright objects," he said. "The best thing is bright shiny tin. Cut out some little round pieces, a little smaller than this bit. Do you understand?"

    I nodded my head.

    "Now," he said, "you go down along the river where there are a lot of coon tracks. Find a good solid log close by and bore a hole down about six inches. Drop one of the bright pieces of tin down in the hole, and be sure it's laying right on the bottom."

    I was all ears. I didn't want to miss one word my grandfather said. Now and then I would glance at him to see if he was kidding me.

    In a serious voice, he went on talking. "Now pay close attention," he said, "because this is the main part of the trap."

    With eyes as big as a hoot owl's, I looked and listened.

    He took four of the horseshoe nails from the sack. With the thumb and forefinger of his left hand he made a small "o" about the size of the bit, which was an inch and half in diameter.

    "Now, we'll say this is the hole you bored in the log," he said. "About,an inch apart, drive these nails in on a slant opposite each other."

    Holding one of the nails in his right hand, he showed me the right angle.

    "The ends of the nails will enter the hole about halfway between the top and the piece of tin," he continued. "Leave an opening between the sharp points big enough for a coon to get his paw through."

    He asked me if I understood.

    Again I nodded my head and moved a little closer to him.

    "How is that going to catch a coon, Grandpa?" I asked.

    "It'll catch him all right," he said, "and it won't fail. You see a coon is a curious little animal. Anything that is bright and shiny attracts him. He will reach in and pick it up. When his paw closes on the bright object it balls up, and when he starts to pull it from the hole, the sharp ends of the nails will gouge into his paw and he*s caught."

    He looked over at me.

    "Well, what do you think of it?" he asked.

    I closed my eyes and in my mind I could see the funnel-like entrance of the hole, and the sharp slanting points of the nails. I could see the coon reaching in for the shiny piece of metal. Naturally his paw would be much larger when closed than it was when he reached in. It would be impossible for it to pass the sharp nails.

    It was all looking pretty good to me and I was on the point of saying so, when it hit me. Why, all the coon had to do was open his paw, drop the object, and he was free. It all blew up then and there. I just knew my grandfather was playing a joke on me.

    I stepped back and almost cried as I said, "Grandpa, you're kidding me. That kind of a trap couldn't catch a coon. Why all he'd have to do is open his paw, drop the piece of tin, and he could pull it from the hole."

    Grandpa started roaring with laughter. This did make me feel bad. With tears in my eyes, I started for the door.

    "Wait a minute," Grandpa said. "I'm not kidding you. Oh, I know I like to have my jokes, same as any man, but I meant every word I said."

    I turned around and looked at him. He had stopped laughing and there was a hurt expression on his face.

    "I wasn't laughing at you," he said. "I was laughing more at myself than you. I just wanted to see if you were smart enough to see that there was a way the coon could free himself."

    "A fellow wouldn't have to be very smart to see that," I said.

    Grandpa started talking seriously again. "You know," he said, "a coon has more than one peculiarity about him. When I was a boy I had a pet coon. By watching him, I saw and learned a lot of things.

    "He had a den in an old hollow tree in our front yard. I don't know the number of times I'd have to climb that tree and get my mother's scissors, buttons, needles, and thimble from his den. Why, he'd even carry out our knives, forks, and spoons. Anything that was bright and shiny, he took to his den."

    Grandpa stopped talking for a few minutes. I could see a faraway look in his eyes. Once again he was living in those long-ago days. I waited in silence for him to go on with his story.

    "One of the most peculiar things about that coon," he said, "was his front feet. Once he wrapped those little paws around something he would never let go.

    "My mother had an old churn. It was one of those kind with a small hole in the lid for the dasher. When she would get through churning, she would take the dasher out to wash it. That crazy coon would climb up on top of the churn, poke his little front paw through the hole, and get a fistful of butter. The hole was small, and when he closed his paw, he couldn't get it back out. All he had to do was open it, drop the butter, and he would be free, but do you think he would? No, sir. He would carry that churn lid all over the house, squalling and growling. Why, it took everyone in the house to free him. I'd have to wrap him up in a gunny sack or an old coat and pry his claws loose from the butter. Seeing this time after time is what gave me the idea for this trap. Once he reaches in and gets hold of that tin, he's caught, because he will never open his paw."

    With my confidence restored, it all sounded pretty good to me and I was anxious to try out this wonderful plan. I thanked him and, taking the brace and nails, I left the store.

    By the time I reached home it was too late in the day to start making my traps. That night I talked the idea over with Papa.

    "I've heard of coons being caught that way," he said, "but I never paid much attention to it. Your grandfather should know, though, for he was quite a coon hunter when he was a boy."

    "From what he told me," I said, "it never fails."

    Papa asked if I wanted him to help make my traps.

    "No," I said, "I think I can do it myself."

    I didn't sleep too well that night. I bored holes, drove nails, and fought coons practically all night.

    Early the next morning I went to the trash pile. As I stirred around in the rusty old cans, I thought of another time I had searched for a can. Finally I found the one I wanted. It was bright and shiny.

    Everything was going along just fine until Mama caught me cutting out the circles of tin with her scissors. I always swore she could find the biggest switches of any woman in the Ozarks. That time she overdid it. I was almost to the river before the stinging stopped.

    It wasn't hard to find places for my traps. All along the river large sycamore logs lay partly submerged in the clear blue water. On one where I could see the muddy little tracks of the ringtails, I bored a hole, dropped in a piece of tin, and drove my nails.

    On down the river I went, making my traps. I stopped when I ran out of nails. Altogether I had fourteen traps.

   That night Papa asked me how I was making out.

    "Oh, all right," I said. "I've got fourteen of them made."

    He laughed and said, "Well, you can't ever tell. You may catch one."

    The next morning I was up with the chickens. I took my pups with me as I just knew I'd have a big ringtail trapped and I wanted them to see it. I was a disappointed boy when I peeked out of a canebrake at my last trap and didn't see a coo*n. All the way home I tried to figure out what I had done wrong.

    I went to Papa. He put his thinking cap on and thought the situation over. "Maybe you left too much scent around when you made those traps," he said. "If you did, it'll take a while for it to go away. Now I wouldn't get too impatient. I'm pretty sure you'll catch one sooner or later."

    Papa's words perked me up just like air does a deflated inner tube. He was right. I had simply left too much scent around my traps. All I had to do was wait until it disappeared and I'd have my coon hide.

    Morning after morning it was the same old disappointment; no coon. When a week had gone by and still no results from my traps, I gave up. What little patience I had was completely gone. I was firmly convinced that coons didn't walk on sycamore logs any more, and bright shiny objects had about as much effect on them as a coon hound would.

    One morning I didn't get up to run my trap line. I stayed in bed. What was the use? It was just a waste of time.

    When the family sat down to breakfast, I heard my oldest sister say, "Mama, isn't Billy going to get up for breakfast?"

    "Why, is he in his room?" Mama asked. "I didn't know. I thought he was down looking at his traps."

    I heard Papa say, "I'll go wake him up."

    He came to the door and said, "You'd better get up, Billy. Breakfast is ready."

    "I don't want any breakfast," I said. "I'm not hungry."

    Papa took one look at me and saw I had a bad case of the ringtail blues. He came over and sat down on the bed.

    "What's the matter?" he asked. "You having coon trouble?"

    "Grandpa lied to me, Papa," I said. "I should've known better. Who ever heard of anyone catching a coon with a brace and bit and a few horseshoe nails."

    "I wouldn't say that," Papa said. "I don't think your grandpa deliberately lied to you. Besides, I've heard of coons being caught that way."

    "Well, I don't think I've done anything wrong," I said. "I've done everything exactly as he said, and I haven't caught one yet."

    "I still think it's that scent," Papa said. "You know, someone told me, or I read it somewhere, that it takes about a week for scent to die away. How long has it been since you made those traps?"

    "It's been over a week," I said.

    "Well, the way I figure, it's about time for you to catch one. Yes, sir, I wouldn't be surprised if you came in with one any day now."

    After Papa had left the room I lay thinking of what he had said. "Any day now." I got up and hurried into my clothes.

    As soon as I was finished with breakfast, I called my pups and lit out for the river.

    The first trap was empty. So was the second one. That old feeling of doubt came over me again. I thought, "It's no use. I'll never catch one and I so need the skin to train my pups."

    On the way to my third trap I had to walk through a thick stand of wild cane. It was tough going and my pups started whimpering. I stopped and picked them up.

    "We'll be out of this in a few minutes," I said, "and then you'll be all right."

    I came plowing out of the matted mass and was right on the trap before I realized it. I was met by a loud squall. I was so surprised I dropped the pups. There he was, my first coon.

    He was humped up on the sycamore log, growling and showing his teeth. He kept jerking his front paw, which was jammed deep in the hole I had bored. He was trapped by his own curiosity.

    I couldn't move and I felt like my wind had been cut off. I kept hearing a noise but couldn't make out what it was. The movement of the boy pup shook me from my trance. The unidentified sound was his bawling. He was trying to climb up on the log and get to the coon.

    I yelled at him and darted in to get hold of his collar. On seeing my movement, the coon let out another squall. It scared me half to death. I froze in my tracks and started yelling again at my pup.

    The girl pup worked around behind the coon and climbed up on the log. I screamed at her. She paid no attention to me.

    Digging his sharp little claws in the bark, the boy pup made it to the top. He didn't hesitate. Straight down that sycamore log he charged. With teeth bared, the coon waited. When my pup was about two feet from him, he made a lunge. The coon just seemed to pull my pup up under his stomach and went to work with tooth and claw.