We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
54
more we strain our ears to catch even the faintest sound of the running dogs. We hear only the faintest "owe-o-ee." Lee interprets: "They're takin 'em across Chicken Hawk Bluff." This bluff is on Wolf Creek, about two miles farther on.
We lapse into dead quiet again.
"Betcha two bits Old Rock's let him git away," an unfortunate hunter suggests. This is stoutly denied by all three Smiths.
The air grows chill. Sapling sticks have been whittled into slender toothpicks. No one seems to notice that the outhnes of distant farm buildings are now discernible.
"Owe-o-EEE!" The chase has turned at last. "Bringin 'em back!" Lee says proudly.
The chase whips by in full fury; the fox, a red streak, pursued by that pack of panting dogs. They circle, cross meadows, melt again into the tall timber. Men turn up their collars and button their coats; pipes are filled by chilled fingers. Frost settles on the leaves. I begin to wish I had brought along the gallon coffee pot. I wonder if I dare slip away to the persimmon thicket in the hollow — and then — the chase comes back!
But the tired fox runs by — winded now.
Abruptly, the baying of the dogs ceases.
A hush falls over the crowd. The dogs surround their quarry. The "Openin' " chase is ended. We hurry to the dogs. Before us lies the red fox — stiff. His slender front feet for
October, 1943
ward; his hind feet folded under him. His big, bushy tail plumes up over his back; his pointed ears stand straight. A valiant warrior to the last. "He looks for all the world as if he were mounted," I murmur a bit sadly.
"A running fox always dies in that position," Lee tells me, as he picks up the fox and eyes him with deep satisfaction.
"He's a fine fox," Lee says. "He runned a good race. But then, so did the dogs."
Lee opens the truck door. Old Rock, the patriarch, jumps in first, takes up his individual position. Seventeen tired hounds file in behind him quietly. Believe it or not, each dog has his own separate spot in that dog wagon. He finds it and keeps it.
Men and dogs, their night's work over, now depart in various direC' tions.
Tomorrow, all Bam Hollow will know that the "Openin' " chase was a "good 'un." Lee Smith himself has said so: "It shore was. It shore was," he sighs contentedly as we ride homeward.
But tomorrow is now today. The first pink streaks of dawn appear.
And at Lost Ranch, seventeen cows will be waiting to be milked!
Wc never used to be able to find Grandma's glasses, but now she leaves them right where she empties them.