"Hyar! Hyar! Hyar!" Dad waded into the pack of fighting dogs.
He knocked them right and left--he kicked one lanky hound so hard it turned three somersaults and landed in the garden on its back. The dog let out a long yelp and returned to the fight.
Most people who kept hunting dogs tied them up along the creek bank. Each one had its own shelter, usually a rusty barrel, with the end cut out. Our dogs ran loose. They slept together in the truck shed, except when one was in season. Then we'd put her up in the loft of the corncrib. You could always tell when we did. The others barked all blamed night long.
A dogfight was something that took place every day. This one only lasted a few minutes. There wasn't much blood on the ground. None were hurt bad. Dad had won, as usual. Each of the twenty dogs took off in a different direction. All except Ol' Lead. He came up from the branch, showed his fangs, and growled. Dad hit him between the eyes with a tobacco stick. The hound turned and took off down the road with his tail all the way between his legs, yelping with every jump.
"Ol' Lead's one of the best huntin dogs I ever seen, but he don't have quittin sense." Dad dropped the tobacco stick back on the pile.
The fight ended. Every dog but Ol' Lead came to Dad to get some petting.