Reaching our side, Old Dan tore out after her. He was a mad hound. His deep voice was telling her he was coming.
We were trotting along, following my dogs, when I heard Little Ann’s bawling stop.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I think she has treed him. Let’s give her time to circle the tree to make sure he’s there.”
Old Dan opened up bawling treed. Rubin started on. “Something’s wrong,” I said. “I can’t hear Little Ann.”
Rainie spoke up, “Maybe the ghost coon ate her up.” I glared at him.
Hurrying on, we came to my dogs. Old Dan was bawling at a hole in a large sycamore that had fallen into the river.
At that spot, the bank was a good ten feet above the water level.
As the big tree had fallen, the roots had been torn and twisted from the ground.
The jagged roots, acting as a drag, had stopped it from falling all the way into the stream.
The trunk lay on a steep slant from the top of the bank to the water.
Looking down, I could see the broken tangled mass of the top. Debris from floods had caught in the limbs, forming a drift.
Old Dan was trying to dig and gnaw his way into the log.
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