Old Joe scrambled up his magic sycamore and tumbled into his den. Five
and a half minutes later Duckfoot arrived to waken the night with his
roaring. Old Joe crouched nervously in the leaf-filled den, knowing that
at last he had been careless. There were various reasons for his lapse
in good judgment, of which the night itself was most important. It was
mild autumn, just such a night as sometimes lingered through
mid-December and sometimes changed in a few hours to cold winter that
brought snow and left Willow Brook ice-locked for another season.
When he started out Old Joe had an uneasy feeling that this was to be,
and that tonight would be his last to prowl the Creeping Hills until the
February thaw. Uncertainty as to just how far he might venture from a
safe den contributed to his carelessness, and he raided Mun Mundee's
because his was the only corn left standing in the shock.
So doing he had scarcely a thought for Duckfoot. He chittered anxiously
as he lay in the den and listened to the big hound roar.
The magic sycamore was a witch tree no longer; its spell had been broken
the last time Old Joe treed in it and Mun tried to climb. The big coon
did not know that Mun had fallen and broken a leg in falling; he'd have
felt more cheerful if he had been aware of an occurrence so delightful.
He was certain that he could now be chased out of this den and equally
sure that Duckfoot knew his avenue of escape.
But even though Old Joe felt his mistake, he did not feel that it was
necessarily a fatal one.
He decided to remain where he was and await developments. If the hunters
flushed him from his den, he'd try to escape through his tunnel. Should
Duckfoot be waiting there, Old Joe's only choice would be to try
fighting off the hound until he was in the tunnel. Then he could run
away.
Anything else that might arise, he'd deal with when the time came.
Glory arrived to add her shrill voice to Duckfoot's bass roars, and then
Harky and Melinda came. Old Joe climbed the mouth of his den and poised
there; if it was necessary to run up the sycamore and drop into his
tunnel, every split second would be precious.
He saw the glow of the lantern. He heard the measured blows of an axe
followed by the sound of a smaller tree toppling. The big coon waited
until it was trimmed and propped against the sycamore, then he could
wait no longer.
He left his den fast, scampered up the sycamore, and climbed out on the
limb that overhung the tunnel's entrance. Old Joe continued to move
fast. Though he was ready to fight if Duckfoot were waiting for him--and
the big coon fully expected that he was--the coons that lived longest
were those that ran away when they could avoid fights. It would be
distinctly to his advantage if he reached the tunnel ahead of Duckfoot.
Meeting no hound when he dropped into the tunnel, Old Joe sighed
thankfully and scooted onwards. Again he chose the branch that led into
the swamp, for there were various courses open now. If Duckfoot was
waiting for him when he emerged into the swamp, he could always go back
and through the tunnel's other branch.
Duckfoot was not waiting. A little relieved because there was no pursuit
and a little worried for the same reason, Old Joe cut a winding trail
into the swamp and circled back toward Willow Brook.
He plunged in, and climbed out when he came to another swamp. It was the
one he'd sought in February, when he voluntarily left his magic sycamore
and stopped to steal a chicken from Mun Mundee on the way. Old Joe went
unerringly to the same huge hollow oak.
There was still no hound on his trail and now he thought there'd be
none. The finger of providence had crooked at the right moment, and Old
Joe would run another autumn.
As he entered the hollow oak, he turned his sensitive nose away from the
freezing wind that swept down. His premonition had been correct; winter
would soon rule the Creeping Hills.
High in the great oak, Old Joe's sleeping mate awakened to growl. She
surged forward and nipped his nose. Old Joe backed hastily away and
chittered pleadingly. The next time he advanced, she let him come.
This winter they'd share the same den tree.
* * * * *
Harky Mundee, who knew that a hound should not be heavily fed just
before a hunt, still thought it unwise and unfair if they were allowed
to run on a completely empty stomach. He chose a pork chop bone and some
scraps of meat for Duckfoot's supper and took them out on the porch.
Nobody had to tell him what had happened.
Duckfoot, who was always fed as soon as Mun and Harky finished eating,
appreciated his suppers. Nothing except the scent of a coon could force
him to be absent when his meal was ready, and the only place he might
have scented a coon was down in the shocked corn.
Harky took Duckfoot's supper back into the house. Mun looked up
inquiringly.
"He's off on a coon," Harky explained. "One must of come raiding in our
corn and he winded it."
"He must of," Mun agreed. "Could it be by any chanst Old Joe, Harky?"
Mun pleaded.