Rowdy knew I was bluffing. He knew I would never
hit him with a stick. He just whined a few times, sat
down in the mud, and looked at me.
In every way he could, Rowdy seemed to be saying,
"If you want to go monkey hunting, that's all right
with me. I'll even go along with you, but I'm not go-
ing hunting for those monkeys by myself."
We worked our way through the bottoms for a good
quarter of a mile. I kept calling and calling, and got
no answer. Finally, I gave up. Wet, cold, and very
discouraged, I sat down on an old sycamore log and
buried my face in my arms.
Almost in tears, I started talking to myself. "All the
monkeys are gone," I said. "I'll never see them again.
I'll never have a pony or a gun, not ever.
Rowdy could tell that I was unhappy and this made
him unhappy, too. He came to me and tried his best
to cheer me up. He tried to push his nose up under
my arms so he could lick my face. Then he started lick-
ing my hands.
I put my arms around my old hound and said, "It's
not your fault the monkeys are gone. It's not my fault
either. I guess we weren't supposed to catch them."
Feeling lower than I had ever felt, I got to my feet
and started for home.
I hadn't taken ten steps when I thought I heard
something. I stopped and listened. I didn't hear a
thing. I looked at Rowdy.
Usually, if anything made a racket, Rowdy would
hear it and he'd let me know. His ears would stand
straight up and he'd point his nose in the direction
of the sound.
In a low voice, I said, "Rowdy, I thought I heard
something. Did you hear anything?"
If Rowdy had heard anything, he sure wasn't letting
me know it. He was just sitting there on the cold
ground, looking at me, and wagging his muddy tail.
With his friendly old eyes, he was trying to tell me,
"No, I didn't hear anything. I wasn't listening for any-
thing. Let's get out of these cold, wet bottoms and
go home where it's warm and dry."
I decided I had just imagined hearing something,
and once again I started for home. I hadn't taken three
steps when I heard the noise again. That time there
was no doubt I had heard something. It was a low,
whimpering cry and sounded like a small animal
suffering.Rowdy had heard the noise, too. His ears were
sticking straight up and lie was looking toward my
right. I could see his nose twitching as he sniffed for
the scent.
"What was that, Rowdy? I whispered. "It sure
didn't sound like a monkey. It sounded more like a
little animal that's been hurt. Let's see if we can find
it, and maybe we can help it."
With Rowdy in the lead, we started working our
way toward the sound. We had gone about two hun-
dred yards when I stopped again to listen. For several
seconds, I didn't hear a thing. Then I heard the low,
pitiful cry.
"Rowdy," I said in a whisper, "whatever that is, it
must be suffering. I bet that storm blew down a den
tree that had some baby coons in it and one of them
got hurt."
Again Rowdy and I started boring our way through
the underbrush in the direction of the cry. We had
worked our way to the bank of a deep washout when
I stopped and listened.
I heard the cry again and I could tell that it was
coming from down in the washout. Catching hold of
a tall cane growing on the bank, I bent it down and
used it like a rope to let myself down to the bottom.
I could see a lot farther in the washout. No under-
brush or trees grew there, just bunches of grass, cat-
tails, and ferns.
I stood still for a moment. When I didn't hear any-
thing, I whooped. I was answered by that low cry.
By the sound of it, I could tell that I was close to
whatever was making it.
I walked up the washout about a hundred yards and
stopped to listen. When I heard the cry that time, I
almost jumped out of my britches. It was coming
from right behind me.
I turned around. At first, I couldn't see anything.
Then I saw a small pocket under the bank. Rushing
water had made the hole a long time ago.
I mumbling to myself, I said, "Whatever it is that's
crying must be under that bank. That's the only place
it could be."
I eased over to the side of the washout, dropped to
my hands and knees, and looked under the bank into
the pocket. I almost screamed. I was looking right in
Jimbo's face. I just knew he would come boiling out
from under that bank and jump right in my face,
but he didn't.
Jimbo didn't move or make a sound. He just looked
at me and batted his eyes as if he were very sleepy.
He was sitting there with his back against the wet,
cold bank. All the little monkeys were there, too. They
were huddled up against his body as close as they
could get-trying to keep warm. He had his long arms
wrapped around his little friends as if he were pro-
tecting them.
Right away, I saw that the monkeys were in terrible
shape. They were sopping wet and their small bodies
were quivering from the cold.
"Holy smokes, Jimbo!" I said. "What are you doing
in there? The storm's over. You've got to get out of
that cold place and start moving around. If you don't,
you're not going to make it. Come on, let me help
you.
Jimbo didn't move. All he did was open his big
mouth and utter that low, pitiful cry.
I felt sorry for the monkeys and wanted to help
them, but I didn't know what to do. I was afraid
they would jump on me.
One little monkey looked as if he were already on
his way to monkey heaven. He was off a little to one
side, stretched out on the cold ground. At first, I
thought he was dead. Then I saw his tiny mouth open
as if he were gasping for breath.
I couldn't stand it. I almost cried.
Before I realized what I was doing, I reached in,
caught hold of the little monkey's hind legs, and
pulled him out from under the bank. Taking my
handkerchief, I started drying him off. I laid him
down on his back and started rubbing and working
his legs.
đang được dịch, vui lòng đợi..
