Mellie Garson, still immobilized by the mule kick, was aware of the
stain that afflicted his immortal soul. But he was not completely
repentant. Nothing could be worse than another day on the pickle keg.
Listlessly Mellie caught up a handful of pebbles and shied them one by
one at a knothole in the woodshed wall. He shook his head and uttered a
despairing moan. Tossing pebbles at the knothole was the only game he'd
invented to beguile the passing hours, and at first it had been
interesting because he made a bull's-eye only about one time in twenty.
Now it seemed that every pebble he tossed sailed through the knothole as
naturally as a trout swims up riffles.
Mellie contemplated scooping up more pebbles for more sharpshooting, but
where was the fun when he just couldn't miss? Glumly he reviewed the sin
for which he must one day answer.
He should not, he told himself, ever have sent Melinda to take Glory on
the coon hunt. But how was he to know they'd get Old Joe up in his magic
sycamore? Could he possibly have had forewarning of the fact that
Melinda would not only question the witchery of Old Joe and his magic
tree, but infect the minds of her male companions with her own
skepticism? Could anyone guess that the hallowed traditions of the
Creeping Hills coon hunters would topple simply because a girl took part
in a coon hunt?
Mellie shook his head sadly. Melinda, not exactly a woman, was not
exactly a girl either. She was, Mellie told himself, old enough to cast
the monkey wrench that usually lands in the gears whenever women intrude
on affairs that by every law of God and nature belong exclusively to
men.
The wreckage had been fearful indeed; Mun Mundee laid up with a broken
leg; Raw Stanfield and Butt Johnson afraid to show their faces on the
lower reaches of Willow Brook; Harky Mundee mad as a trapped mink; and
Melinda explaining blithely that hunting raccoons was indeed good sport.
Mellie buried his face in his hands and shook with anguish. He was not,
he told himself honestly, as ashamed as he should be because he had
thrown such a destructive bomb among the Creeping Hills coon hunters.
But that a Garson, even a female Garson, should refer to the art of coon
hunting as mere "good sport" shook the very foundations of everything in
which Mellie had faith.
Glory, who had been dozing in the sun, rose and prowled restlessly over
to snuffle at the woodpile. Mellie regarded her with an experienced eye.
Melinda might lack a true appreciation of coon hunting, but she'd
certainly given him a thorough rundown on Glory. A slow starter and slow
hunter, Melinda had said, and she tongued on the trail. But she was
steady as a church and true as a homing pigeon. She was every bit as
good as Queenie, and with a little experience she'd be better. A year
from now, any coon Glory got on would be treed or run to earth.
Mellie had a sudden, uncomfortable feeling that he himself could not
have found out so much about Glory in just one hunt. Or if he had, he'd
be inclined to doubt until Glory proved herself. But he'd accepted
Melinda's evaluation without the slightest question, and now as he
looked at Glory he knew a rising uneasiness.
A good thing was never to be taken for granted, and there was much that
could happen to any hunting hound; Mellie had only to remember Precious
Sue. Though he fervently hoped she wouldn't, Glory might go the same
way, and where would he find another coon hound of equal quality? There
was only one source.
However, there was a great deal involved. It was blasphemy even to think
in terms of ordinary coon dogs when Glory was simultaneously in mind.
There were only two hounds on Willow Brook worthy of her, Thunder and
Duckfoot. Things being as they were, even if all else were equal, it was
unlikely that Butt Johnson would bring either his hound or himself
within nine miles of the Garsons, or anything that belonged to the
Garsons.
About to catch up another handful of pebbles, Mellie grimaced and
refrained. He did not know how many pebbles he'd flicked from the
upended pickle keg through the knothole and into the woodshed, but
offhand he guessed there were at least four bushels, and he didn't even
want to think about another one. Nor had he much of anything else to
occupy his thoughts. His daughters, with a minimum of fuss and a maximum
of efficiency, had all the farm tasks well in hand.
Mellie resumed his study of Glory, who had lain down in the sun but was
not sleeping, and wondered if he should keep her tied up. She might go
wandering, and there was no assurance that she'd be as lucky as Precious
Sue. As everyone knew, the woods were just filled with all sorts of
witches, and many of them were all bad.
Glumly Mellie pondered the probability that she'd break loose and go
wandering even if he tied her (would anything ever go right for him?)
when Glory sat up, tilted her head, and voiced a warning wail. A moment
later, Harky Mundee appeared.
Mellie sat still, doing his best to conceal his amazement, for he'd have
been no more completely astounded if Old Joe himself had appeared with
the ghost of Precious Sue in hot pursuit. Obviously Harky was not
seeking a fight, for he carried no fighting tools. But he certainly was
not coming in peace; after Mellie's foul trick, the Mundees would never
make peace with the Garsons. On the point of demanding that Harky state
his business and be on his way, Harky forestalled him with:
"I come to ask can Melinda fetch Glory on another coon hunt tonight?"
For a moment Mellie felt as though he'd again been mule-kicked, this
time squarely between the eyes. He blinked and recovered.
"I thought," he heard himself saying, "that you come to ask kin Melinda
fetch Glory on another coon hunt tonight?"
"I did," Harky asserted.
A sudden suspicion pricked Mellie's mind. Boys were boys and girls were
girls, and all things considered it was a very pleasing arrangement, and
there was no harm whatever in a bit of smooching. But how come Harky
Mundee, otherwise so very sensible, thought he could successfully blend
that with a coon hunt? Or did he?
"You got notions 'bout that girl child of mine?" he demanded.
"You bet!" Harky assured him.
"Well, I don't know as I have any real objections. Melinda's a mite
young, but you're a mite young yourself to be huntin' a wife."
"Wife!" Harky gasped. "You think I been moonstruck?"
"You talk like you been," Mellie growled. "A man has to be 'fore he'll
let himself in for all what can happen when he _asks_ a woman to go coon
huntin'. Who ya aim to take along outside o' Melinda an' Glory?"
"Me an' Duckfoot," Harky stated.
"But you ain't got no ideas 'bout Melinda?" Mellie pursued.
"You're darn' whistlin' right I got ideas!" Harky said. "I've had 'em
ever since the night everything got smashed to bits!"
"I know," Mellie said gloomily.
"I can't even take no pleasure on account Pa can't make me fetch the
corn in and husk it," Harky continued.
"I know," said Mellie, and he shrugged helplessly. "Many's the time I
been tempted to leave mine out, but with fourteen wimmen folk, a body's
got less chanst than you stand with your Pa."
"Could be you're right," Harky said reflectively. "I guess there's times
when a man like you just can't help himself, and that's why you sent
Melinda on the coon hunt."
"I could of helped myself," Mellie corrected. "I could of told Melinda
to stay home an' she'd of stayed. But I didn't an' she didn't."
"Why'd you send her?" Harky asked.
"Pure hellishness," said Mellie. "I was mule-kicked an' couldn't go coon
huntin' so I figgered I'd ruin it for everybody else."
"You sure enough did," Harky told him. "Pa's got a busted leg, Raw and
Butt are staying near enough the woods so they can duck into 'em, and us
coon hunters are just going to sink right where we are without we do
something."
"What ya aim to do, Harky?"
"I got to take Melinda out and I'll bring her back. We have to run Old
Joe up his big sycamore and I got to show Melinda that there ain't any
den there for him to hide in."
"It's a right big order," Mellie said.
"But the only chance any of us got," Harky pointed out. "That Miss
Cathby, she come into the hills and tried to teach that Old Joe ain't
nothing but a big old coon. The rest, she says, is a lot of
foolishness, too. If we don't put a finish to that sort of thing once
and for all, even us men will be sitting around gathering our lore out
of books 'stead of coon hunts."
Mellie shuddered at a prospect so horrible. There was a brief silence,
and Harky asked, "Can Melinda fetch Glory tonight?"
Mellie said seriously, "Maybe you ain't been moonstruck in one way, but
you sure have been in another. You ever try tellin' a woman what to do?"
"No," Harky conceded, "but I'd like to."
"Me too," Mellie said sadly, "but I know better. Melinda kin go if she
wants to, an' I kind of think she will on account she likes coon
huntin'. But--"
"But what?" Harky asked.
"But nothin'," Mellie said.
About to fill Harky's understanding ear with his recent mental turmoil,
and how that was responsible for his decision to keep Glory tied, Mellie
wisely said nothing. Somehow or other he'd got just what he wanted
anyhow, and Glory would be running with Duckfoot. Only fools meddled
with affairs that were already perfect.
"Good enough," said Harky. "I'll wait 'til Melinda comes."
In due course, another day at Miss Cathby's school behind them, Melinda
and Mary danced into the yard. Mary, who not only thought Harky a
roughneck but said so loudly, frequently, and publicly, stuck her tongue
out at him and ran into the house. Melinda, met and accompanied by an
ecstatic Glory, came to where her father and Harky waited.
"You must have your corn in, Harold," she said sweetly.
"How come you ask that?" Harky demanded.
"If you didn't, you'd never be wasting daylight hours just talking."
"Corn ain't in and it ain't gonna be," Harky stated. "It ain't none of
your mix if 'tis or not. What I come to ask is, will you bring Glory and
come hunting tonight?"
"Can I, Pa?" Melinda breathed.
"If you've a mind to," Mellie said.
"Oh, Pa!"
She kissed him, assured Harky that she would be there with Glory at
nightfall, and ran into the house. Mellie turned glowing eyes on Harky.
"You do git yourself a wife come two-three years, don't cuss your girl
children. Didja see her kiss me?"
"Fagh!" said Harky.
* * * * *
Duckfoot, sitting on the Mundee porch, was hopefully sniffing the pork
chops Harky was frying inside. Knowing that in the fullness of time he
would be gnawing the bones, Duckfoot licked his pendulous jowls in happy
anticipation and blew through his nose.
If he thought of himself at all, which he seldom did, it was never to
wonder what he was or why he had been created. He was a hound, he had
been created to hunt coons, and that's all Duckfoot had to know.
He could not possibly understand that he was a canine genius, and he
wouldn't have cared if he had. The blood of Precious Sue mingled with
that of Rafe Bradley's huge hound in Duckfoot, and he had inherited the
best of both plus something more. He was born with a sense of smell and
an ability to stick to a trail that is rare in even the best of
experienced hounds.
The extra something consisted of a talent to out-think and outguess the
quarry he was running. He'd been a mere pup the night Old Joe came
raiding, but he'd experienced little difficulty in tracking Old Joe to
his magic sycamore and he'd learned since.
The second time they ran Old Joe, Duckfoot had paced the renowned
Thunder and arrived at the sycamore with his far more experienced
hunting companion. He'd known perfectly well that Old Joe was in the
den, for he could smell him there.
With a coon up, and for as long as the coon remained up, Duckfoot was
satisfied to run true to form and bay the tree. Sooner or later his
master would hear him tonguing and arrive to take charge. But Duckfoot
had no intention of letting any coon, treed or not, get the upper hand
and he called on his inborn hunting sense to make sure they never did.
Even Thunder considered his whole duty discharged if he either caught
his coon on the ground or treed him and bayed the tree. Duckfoot went
beyond that to a complete grasp of any given situation. He had known
even as he supported Thunder's voice with his own that Old Joe might try
to escape and that the one logical escape route was farther up the
sycamore and into the tunnel.
The instant Old Joe left his den, Duckfoot raced for the ledge. Only the
cramped tunnel prevented his overtaking Old Joe, and there'd been a
long, hard chase after the big coon emerged into the swamp. Old Joe had
finally escaped by entering a beaver pond, diving, evicting the rightful
tenants from their domed house, and waiting it out.
It was a maneuver that Duckfoot had yet to learn; all he was sure of was
that beaver appeared but the coon disappeared. Duckfoot, however, had
learned exactly what to do should Old Joe again enter his den in the
sycamore and be forced out of it. Rather than go to the tunnel's
entrance, he'd go to its mouth and wait for his quarry to come out.
Thus Old Joe entered a wrong phase of his own special moon. If he treed
in the sycamore and stayed there, his den would surely be discovered. If
he left, Duckfoot would catch him at the swamp.
Two seconds before his supper was ready, Duckfoot winded Old Joe.
The old raider was down in the corn, making ready to rip a shock apart
and help himself to the ears, when Duckfoot rushed. With a coon
scented, he forgot even the prospect of pork chop bones.
The trail led to Willow Brook. Ranging upstream, Duckfoot found where
the big coon had emerged on the far bank and tried to lose his scent in
a slough. Duckfoot solved that one. Running like a greyhound when he was
on scent and working methodically when he was not, he went on.
Presently, far behind, he heard Glory begin to tongue. Duckfoot set
himself to working out another twist in Old Joe's trail.
Beyond any doubt, it would lead to the magic sycamore.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]