Read Online Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls - Free Book Online Page B

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