Nevertheless, for all her caution, the pipings ceased in that section
of the pool when she was within two or three feet of the waterside;
and, in the little space of sudden silence, she knew that every small
piper was staring at her with fixed, protruding eyes. On she went,
straight out to the end of a half-submerged log, and there crouched
flat, moveless as the log itself. She knew that if she only kept still
long enough, she would come to be regarded by the pool-dwellers as
nothing more than a portion of the log. Meanwhile the high chorus from
the adjoining pools swelled ever louder and shriller, as the small
musicians voiced the joy of spring.
For perhaps ten minutes the space about the waiting raccoon on the log
appeared lifeless. Then one little black spot, which had seemed like a
lump of mud against a dead grass-stalk, moved; then another, and
another, and another--all over the pool. Pale throats began to throb
rhythmically; and the pipings once more pulsed forth buoyant and
strong. The frogs had utterly forgotten the intruder, and their
bulging eyes were no longer fixed on the log. Nevertheless, as it
chanced, there was not a single piper within reach of the watcher's
paw.
The raccoon's eyes gleamed with intenser fire, but she never stirred.
She knew that the price of a meal, to most of the wood-folk, was
patience as untiring as a stone. Only her full, dark eyes, set in
their bar of black, moved watchfully, searching the pallid spaces all
about the log.
A moment more and her patience was rewarded. A big frog from the
neighbour pool, unaware that there had been any intrusion here, came
swimming up, on some errand of private urgency, and made directly for
the log. The next instant, before he had any inkling of the imminence
of doom, the raccoon's forepaw shot out like a flash. It was a
wide-spread, flexible paw, like a little, black, lean hand, strong and
delicate, the fingers tipped with formidable claws. It caught the
swimming frog under the belly, swept him from the water, and threw him
far up on to the shore. With a pounce, the raccoon was upon him; and
a snap of her strong teeth ended his struggles.
The raccoon was very hungry, but, unlike others of the hunting tribes,
she did not fall instantly to her meal. The mauled victim was covered
with bits of dried stubble and leaf and earth, which clung to its
sticky skin and were most distasteful to her fastidious appetite.
Picking it up in her jaws, she carried it back to the pool. There,
holding it in her claws, she proceeded to wash it thoroughly, sousing
it up and down till there was not a vestige of soilure to be found
upon it. When quite satisfied that no washing could make it cleaner,
she fell to and made her meal with relish.
But what was one frog to a raccoon with a family, a mother whose
breast must supply five hungry little mouths? She ran over to the
brook, and followed down its bank to a spot where it widened out and a
strong eddy made up against the hither shore, washing a slope of
gravel. Here, in the shallows, she heard a feeble flopping, and knew
that a sick or disabled fish was making its last fight with fate. It
was a large chub, which had evidently been hooked by some heedless
trout-fisher farther up-stream, torn from the hook in anger because it
was not a trout, and thrown back into the water, to survive or die as
the water-fates should will. It turned on one side, revealing its
white belly and torn gills; then, feeling itself washed ashore by the
eddy, it gave one more feeble flop in the effort to regain the safe
deeps. At this moment the raccoon, pouncing with a light splash into
the shallows, seized it, and with a nip through the backbone ended its
misery.
Having eaten the fish, and daintily cleaned her fur, the raccoon
ascended the bank, with the purpose of returning to her lair in the
old sycamore. She stopped abruptly, however, as a new sound, very
different from that of the frog chorus, fell upon her heedful ear. It
was an excited, yelping whine; and presently she caught sight of a
long-legged, plumy-tailed dog, rushing wildly hither and thither, nose
to earth, quartering the ground for fresh trails.
The raccoon knew the dog, from a distance, for the young, unbroken,
brown Irish setter which had lately come to the neighbour farm. His
qualities and capabilities, however, were, as yet, unknown to her.
Though she knew herself more than a match for the average dog, and
particularly for the small black and white mongrel which, up to a
month ago, had been the only dog on the farm, she did not know just
how dangerous the Irish setter might be. Therefore, though the light
of battle flamed into her eyes, she considered her responsibilities,
and looked around for a tree.
There was no tree near, so she turned, crouched close to the ground,
and attempted to steal off unperceived. But as she turned the dog
caught sight of her. At the same instant he also caught her scent. It
was a new scent to him, a most interesting scent; and he rushed upon
her, with streaming tail and a peal of joyously savage yelpings. The
raccoon backed up against a granite rock, and stood at bay, her long,
white teeth bared, her eyes fierce, fearless, and watchful.
The Irish setter was a wild, undisciplined pup, harebrained and
headlong after the manner of his breed. Of raccoons and their
capabilities he had had no experience. This small, crouching animal,
under the rock in the moonlight, seemed to promise an easy victory. He
sprang upon her, open-mouthed, and snapped confidently at her neck.
All his big jaws got were a few hairs; for on the instant the raccoon
had dodged. Her keen claws raked the side of his face, and her fine,
punishing fangs tore a gash in his neck, dangerously near his throat.
With a yelp of pain and terror he tore himself free of those deadly
teeth and bounded out of reach. And the raccoon, silently triumphant,
backed up again into her posture of defence against the rock.
But the Irish setter, in that half-minute, had learned a great deal
about raccoons. He now refused to come within four or five feet of his
small antagonist. He leaped up and down, snapping and barking, but had
no more stomach for the actual encounter. His noisy threatenings,
however, which did violence to the silver magic of the night, soon
brought no answer; and the black and white mongrel, barking in great
excitement, rushed up to take a hand in the affray.
At the sight of the quietly desperate raccoon he stopped short. But
his hesitation was from discretion, not from cowardice. He knew that
the raccoon could master him. He took some sort of swift counsel,
therefore, with the blustering setter; and then, having apparently
received assurance of support, sprang boldly on the enemy.
There was a sharp tussle, a confusion of snapping, snarling, clawing,
growling, and squealing; while the Irish setter, having reconsidered
his promise to take a hand, contented himself with barking brave
encouragement from a safe distance. At last the black and white
mongrel, finding that he was getting badly worsted and receiving no
support, tried to draw away; and the raccoon, fearing to be dragged
from her post of vantage against the rock, at once let him go. Both
combatants were breathless and bleeding, and they eyed each other with
the watchfulness born of respect.
The little mongrel now seemed to hold a second and more elaborate
conference with the Irish setter. Possibly he conveyed his opinion of
the latter's character, for the proud-plumed tail drooped
disconsolately, and the loud-mouthed threatenings ceased. Just what
new courage the sagacious mongrel might have succeeded in infusing
into the volatile heart of his ally, just what plan of concerted
action might have been evolved, to the ruin of the heroic little
fighter under the rock, will never be known; for at this moment a
second and larger raccoon came running swiftly and silently up the
bank.
It was the mother 'coon's mate, who had heard the noise of combat
where he was foraging by himself, far down the brook. At sight of this
most timely reinforcement, the beleaguered raccoon made a sortie.
Recognizing the weak point in the assailing forces, she darted
straight upon the hesitating setter, and snapped at his leg.
This was quite too much for his jarred nerves, and with a howl, as if
he already felt those white teeth crunching to the bone, the setter
turned and fled. The black and white mongrel, highly disgusted, but
realizing the hopelessness of the situation, turned and fled after him
in silence. Then the triumphant raccoons touched noses in brief
congratulation, and presently moved off to their hunting as if nothing
had happened. The wild kindred, as a rule, maintain a poise which the
most extravagant adventures this side of death seldom deeply disturb.
II.
Up to this time, through the hungry weeks of late winter and the first
thaws, the raccoons in the old sycamore had resisted the temptation of
the farmer's hen-roosts. They knew that the wilderness hunting, though
the most difficult, was safe, while any serious depredations at the
farm would be sure to bring retaliation from that most crafty and
dangerous creature, man. Now, however, after the fight with the dogs,
a mixture of audacity with the desire for revenge got the better of
them; and that same night, very late, when the moon was casting long,
sharp shadows from the very rim of the horizon, they hurried through
the belt of forest, which separated their sycamore from the cleared
fields, and stole into the rear of the barn-yard.
The farm was an outpost, so to speak, of the settlements, on the
debatable ground between the forces of the forest and the forces of
civilization, and therefore much exposed to attack. As the raccoons
crept along behind the wood-shed they smelt traces of a sickly pungent
odour, and knew that other marauders had been on the ground not very
long before. This made them bolder in their enterprise, for they knew
that such depredations as they might commit would be laid to the
account of the skunks, and therefore not likely to draw down vengeance
upon the den in the sycamore. They killed a sitting hen upon her nest,
feasted luxuriously upon her eggs and as much of herself as they could
hold, and went away highly elated. For three successive nights they
repeated their raid upon the fowl-house, each night smelling the
pungent, choking scent more strongly, but never catching a glimpse of
the rival marauder. On the fourth night, as they crossed the hillocky
stump-lot behind the barns, the scent became overpowering, and they
found the body of the skunk, where fate had overtaken him, lying
beside the path. They stopped, considered, and turned back to their
wildwood foraging; and through all that spring they went no more to
the farmyard, lest they should call down a similar doom upon
themselves.
As spring ripened and turned to summer over the land, food grew
abundant in the neighbourhood of the sycamore, and there was no
temptation to trespass on man's preserves. There were grouse nests to
rifle, there were squirrels, hare, wood-mice, chipmunks, to exercise
all the craft and skill of the raccoons. Also there were the
occasional unwary trout, chub, or suckers, to be scooped up upon the
borders of the brook. And once, more in hate than in hunger, the old
mother raccoon had the fierce joy of eradicating a nest of weasels,
which she found in a pile of rocks. She had a savage antipathy to the
weasel tribe, whose blood-lust menaces all the lesser wood-folk, and
whose teeth delight to kill, after hunger is sated, for the mere
relish of a taste of quivering brain or a spurt of warm blood. The
raccoon carried more scars from the victory over the weasels than she
had to remind her of the scuffle with the dogs. But she had the nerve
that takes punishment without complaint, and the scars troubled her
little.
When the five young raccoons came down from the sycamore and began to
depend upon their own foraging, it soon became necessary to extend the
range, as game grew shyer and more scarce. Even chub and suckers
learn something in course of time; and as for wood-mice and chipmunks,
under such incentive as an active family of raccoons can give them
they attain to a truly heartless cunning in the art of making their
enemies go hungry. Hanging together with an intense clannishness, the
raccoon family would make expeditions of such length as to keep often
for two or three days at a time away from the home in the sycamore.
At last, one night in late summer, when the stars seemed to hang low
among the warm and thick-leaved trees, and warm scents steamed up
wherever the dew was disturbed by furry feet, the raccoons wandered
over to the edge of the corn-field. It chanced that the corn was just
plumping to tender and juicy fulness. The old raccoons showed the
youngsters what richness of sweetness lay hidden within the green
wrappings of the ears; and forth-with the whole clan fell to feasting
recklessly.
In regard to the ducks and chickens of the farm, the raccoons were
shrewd enough to know that any extensive depredations upon them would
call down the swift vengeance of the farmer-folk; but they could not
realize that they were in mischief when they helped themselves to
these juicy, growing things. The corn, though manifestly in some way
involved with the works of man, seemed nevertheless to them a portion
of nature's liberality. They ran riot, therefore, through the tall,
well-ordered ranks of green, without malice or misgiving; and in their
gaiety they were extravagant. They would snatch a mouthful out of one
sweet ear, then out of another, spoiling ten for one that they
consumed.
Night after night they came to the corn-field, and waxed fat on their
plunder, till at last, when they had done the damage of a herd of
oxen, one silvery night they were discovered. The young farmer, with
his hired boy and the harebrained, Irish setter, chanced to come by
through the woods, and to notice that the corn was moving although
there was no wind. The raccoons were promptly hunted out; and one of
the young ones, before they could gain the shadowy refuge of the
trees, was killed with sticks,--the setter contributing much noise,
but keeping at a very safe distance. When the affray was over, and the
young farmer, going through the field, found out what damage had been
done, he was eloquent with picturesque backwoods blasphemies, and
vowed the extermination of the whole 'coon clan. With the aid of the
setter, who now, for the first time, was able to prove the worth of
his breeding, he tracked the escaping marauders through the woods,
and at last, after a long hunt, located their lair in the old
sycamore-tree on the hill. At this his wrath gave way to the hunter's
elation. His eyes sparkled.
[Illustration: "THEY RAN RIOT ... THROUGH THE TALL, WELL-ORDERED RANKS
OF GREEN."]
"To-morrow night," said he, to the hired boy, "we'll have a reg'lar
old-fashioned 'coon hunt!"
Then, whistling off the setter, who was barking, jumping, and whining
ecstatically at the foot of the sycamore-tree, he turned and strode
away through the moon-shadows of the forest, with the dog and the
hired boy at his heels. The diminished raccoon family, with beating
hearts and trembling nerves, snuggled down together into the depths of
the sycamore, and dreamed not of the doom preparing for them.
III.
On the following night, soon after moonrise, they came. Stealthily,
though there was little need of stealth, they crept, Indian file,
around the branchy edges of the fields, through the wet,
sweet-smelling thickets. The hunter's fever was upon them, fierce and
furtive. They came to the corn-field--to find that the raccoons had
paid their visit, made their meal, and got away at the first faint
signal of the approach of danger. With an outburst of excited
yelpings, the dogs took up the hot trail, and the hunters made
straight through the woods for the sycamore-tree.
It was a party of five. With the young farmer, the hired boy, the
harebrained Irish setter, and the wise little black and white mongrel,
came also the young schoolmaster of the settlement, who boarded at the
farm. A year out of college, and more engrossed in the study of the
wild creatures than ever he had been in his books, he had joined the
hunt less from sympathy than from curiosity. He had outgrown his
boyhood's zeal for killing things, and he had a distinct partiality
for raccoons; but he had never taken part in a 'coon hunt, and it was
his way to go thoroughly into whatever he undertook. He carried a
little .22 Winchester repeater, which he had brought with him from
college, and had employed, hitherto, on nothing more sentient than
empty bottles or old tomato-cans.
Now it chanced that not all the raccoon family had made their escape
to the deep hole in the sycamore. The old male, who was rather
solitary and moody in his habits at this season, had followed the
flight of the clan for only a short distance; and suddenly, to their
doubtful joy and complete surprise, the two dogs, who were far ahead
of the hunters, overtook him. After a moment's wise hesitation, the
black and white mongrel joined battle, while the setter contributed a
great deal of noisy encouragement. By the time the hunters came up the
mongrel had drawn off, bleeding and badly worsted; and the angry
raccoon, backed up against a tree, glared at the newcomers with fierce
eyes and wide-open mouth, as if minded to rush upon them.
The odds, however, were much too great for even so dauntless a soul as
his; and when the enemy were within some ten or twelve paces, he
turned and ran up the tree. In the first fork he crouched, almost
hidden, and peered down with one watchful eye.
The young farmer was armed with an old, muzzle-loading,
single-barrelled duck-gun. He raised it to his shoulder and took aim
at the one bright eye gleaming from behind the branch. Then he lowered
it, and turned to his boarder with a mixture of politeness and rustic
mockery.
"Your first shot!" said he. "I'll shoot the critter, after you've
tried that there pea-shooter on him!"
"He's licked the dogs in fair fight," said the schoolmaster. "Let's
let him off!"
The farmer swore in unaffected amazement. "Why, that's the ---- ----
that does more damage than all the rest put together!" he exclaimed.
"You'll see me fix _him_. But you take first shot, Mister Chase. I
want to see the pea-shooter work!"
The young schoolmaster saw his prestige threatened,--and with no
profit whatever to the doomed raccoon. Prestige is nowhere held at
higher premium than in the backwoods. It is the magic wand of power.
The young man fired, a quick, but careful shot; and on the snappy,
insignificant report, the raccoon fell dead from the tree.
"You _kin_ shoot some!" remarked the farmer, picking up the victim,
and noting the bullet-hole in its forehead. And the hired boy spread
his mouth in a huge, broken-toothed grin of admiration.
The old sycamore stood out lonely in the flood of the moonlight. Not a
raccoon was in sight; but the round, black doorway to their den was
visible against the gray bark, beside the crotch of the one great
limb. The frantic yelpings of the dogs around the foot of the tree
were proof enough that the family were at home. The hunters, after the
ancient custom of men that hunt 'coons, had brought an axe with them;
but the hired boy, who carried it, looked with dismay at the huge
girth of the sycamore.
"Won't git that chopped down in a week!" said he, with pardonable
depreciation of his powers.
"Go fetch another axe!" commanded the farmer, seating himself on a
stump, and getting out his pipe.
"It would be a pity to cut down that tree, the biggest sycamore in the
country, just to get at a 'coon's nest!" said the young schoolmaster,
willing to spare both the tree and its inhabitants.
The farmer let his match go out while he eyed the great trunk.
"Never mind the axe," said he, calling back the hired boy. "Fetch me
the new bindin' rope out of the spare manger; an' a bunch of rags, an'
some salmon-twine. An' stir yerself!"
Relieved of his anxiety as to the chopping, the boy sped willingly on
his errand. And the young schoolmaster realized, with a little twinge
of regret, that the raccoon family was doomed.
When the boy came back, the farmer took the bunch of rags, smeared
them liberally with wet gunpowder, and tied them into a loose, fluffy
ball, on the end of a length of salmon-twine. Then, having thrown the
rope over the limb of the sycamore, he held both ends, and sent the
hired boy up into the tree, where he sat astride, grinning and
expectant, and peered into the well-worn hole.
"Now," said the farmer, tossing the ball of rags up to him, "light
this 'ere spittin' devil, an' lower it into the hole, an' we'll see
what's what!"
As he spoke, he turned, and gave the schoolmaster a slow wink, which
quickened the latter's expectations. The next moment the boy had set a
match to the rags, and they were ablaze with wild sputterings and jets
of red flame. Eagerly, but carefully, he lowered the fiery ball into
the hole, paying out the string till it was evident that the tree was
hollow almost down to the butt.
Suddenly there was a wild commotion of squeals, grunts, and
scratchings in the depths of the invaded hole. The sounds rose swiftly
up the inside of the trunk. Then there was an eruption at the mouth of
the hole. A confusion of furry forms shot forth, with such violence
that the startled boy almost lost his balance. As it was, he backed
away precipitately along the branch, amid derisive encouragement from
his friends below.
Having eluded, for the moment, the flaming invader of their home, the
raccoons paused on the limb to survey the situation.
"Fling 'em down to us," jeered the farmer, hugely amused at the boy's
dismay.
The latter grinned nervously, and started forward as if to obey. But
at this moment the raccoons made their decision. The dogs and men
below looked more formidable than the hesitating boy astride of their
branch. In a resolute line, their fierce old mother leading, they made
for him.
The boy backed away with awkward alacrity, but still keeping his hold
on the salmon-twine. Consequently, by the time he had nearly reached
the end of the limb, the still sputtering fire-ball emerged from the
hole in the crotch. At the sound of it behind them the young raccoons
turned in terror, and straightway dropped from the tree; but the old
mother, undaunted, darted savagely upon her foe. The boy gave a cry of
fear. The next instant there was a spiteful crack from the
schoolmaster's little rifle. The old raccoon stopped, shrank, and
rolled lifeless from the limb.
Meanwhile, the youngsters were in a _melee_ with the two dogs. Though
little more than three-fourths grown, they had courage; and so brave a
front did they oppose to their enemies that for a few moments the dogs
were cautious in attack. Then the black and white mongrel sprang in;
and the big setter, realizing that these were no such antagonists as
their parents had been, followed, and was astonished to learn that he
could stand a bite from those sharp teeth and resist the impulse to
howl and run away. In less time than it takes to describe, one of the
raccoons was shaken to death in the setter's great jaws, and then the
other three scattered in flight.
One was overtaken in two seconds by the black and white mongrel, and
bitten through the back. The second ran past the farmer, and was
killed by a quick blow with his gun-barrel. The third, full of courage
and resource, flew straight at the setter's throat, and so alarmed him
that he jumped away. Then, seeing no tree within reach, and probably
realizing that there was no escape by any ordinary course, he fled
straight to the farmer.
The farmer, however, mistook this action for the ferocity of despair.
He struck out with his gun-barrel, missed his aim, swore
apprehensively, and caught the little animal a kick, which landed it
within a couple of yards of the spot where stood the young
schoolmaster, watching the scene with mingled interest and pity. His
sympathies now went out warmly to this brave and sole survivor of the
little people of the sycamore. His quick intuitions had understood the
appeal which had been so cruelly repulsed.