He was out on the ice pack. I couldn’t see him for the fog.
I called to him and he answered with a low whine. Again I called his name.
This time he came to me. He wasn’t the same dog. His tail was between his legs and his head was bowed down.
He stopped about seven feet from me. Sitting down on the ice, he raised his head and howled the most mournful cry I had ever heard.
Turning around, he trotted back out on the ice and disappeared in the fog.
I knew something had happened to Little Ann. I called her name.
She answered with a pleading cry. Although I couldn’t see her, I guessed what had happened.
The coon had led them to the river. Running out on the ice, he had leaped across the trough.
My dogs, hot on the trail, had followed. Old Dan, a more powerful dog than Little Ann, had made his leap.
Little Ann had not made it. Her small feet had probably slipped on the slick ice and she had fallen into the icy waters.
Old Dan, seeing the fate of his little friend, had quit the chase and come back to help her.
The smart old coon had pulled his trick, and a deadly one it was.
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