young boy to completely forget things like that.
Breakfast over, and our gear stowed back in the buggy, we left Bluebird Creek.
On that day Grandpa drove a little faster than he had on the previous one. I was glad of this, for I was anxious to reach the campground.
About noon he stopped the team. I heard him ask Papa, 'Is this Black Fox Hollow?'
'No,' Papa said. 'This is Waterfall. Black Fox is the next one over. Why?'
'Well,' Grandpa said, 'there's supposed to be a white flag in the mouth of Black Fox. That's where we leave the road. The camp is in the river bottoms.'
By this time I was so excited, I stood up in the buggy box so I could get a better view.
'Maybe you ought to step them up a little, Grandpa,' I said. 'It's getting pretty late.'
Papa joined in with his loud laughter. 'You just take it easy,' he said. 'We'll get there in plenty of time. Besides, these mares can't fly.'
I saw the flag first. 'There it is, Grandpa,' I shouted.
'Where?' he asked.
'Over there. See, tied on that grapevine.'
As we left the main road, I heard Papa say, 'Boy, look at all those tracks. Sure has been a lot of traveling on this road.'
'That smoke over there must be coming from the camps,' Grandpa said.
When we came in sight of the camp, I couldn't believe what I saw. I stared in amazement. I had never seen so many people at one gathering. Tents were spread out over an acre and a half of ground; all colors, shapes, and sizes. There were odd-looking cars, buggies, wagons, and saddle horses.
I heard Grandpa say almost in a whisper, 'I knew there would be a lot of people here but I never expected so many.'
I saw the astonished look on my father's face.
Off to one side of the camp, under a large black gum tree, we set up our tent. I tied my dogs to the buggy, and fixed a nice bed for them under it. After everything was taken care of, I asked if I could look around the camp.
'Sure,' Grandpa said. 'Go any place you want to go, only don't get in anyone's way.'
I started walking through the large camp. Everyone was friendly. Once I heard a voice say, 'That's the boy who owns the two little red hounds. I've heard they're pretty good.'
If my head had gotten any bigger, I know it would have burst.
I walked on, as straight as a canebrake cane.
I looked at the hounds. They were tied in pairs here and there. I had seen many coon hounds but none that could equal these. There were redbones, blue ticks, walkers, and blood hounds. I marveled at their beauty. All were spotlessly clean with slick and glossy coats. I saw the beautiful leather leashes and brass-studded collars.
I thought of my dogs. They were tied with small cotton ropes, and had collars made from old checkline leather.
As I passed from one set of dogs to another, I couldn't help but wonder if I had a chance to win. I knew that in the veins of these hounds flowed the purest of breeded blood. No finer coon hounds could be found anywhere. They came from the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, the bayou country of Louisiana, the Red River bottoms of Texas, and the flinty hills of the Ozarks.
Walking back through the camp, I could feel the cold fingers of doubt squeezing my heart. One look at my dogs drove all doubt away. In the eyes of Little Ann it seemed I could read this message: 'Don't worry. Just wait. We'll show them.'
That night, Grandpa said, 'Tomorrow they'll have a contest for the best-looking hound. Which one are you going to enter?'
