"I figger--Yeah," said Mun.
Harky favored his traitorous father with a bitter glance. He put on his
coat, and with the flashlight secure in a pocket he took the .22 and the
coon-hunting axe in one hand and the lantern in the other.
"Duckfoot's gone," he said accusingly. "A coon come raiding our corn and
he run off on it."
"It isn't my fault," Melinda pointed out. "Let's go find him."
"Where's Glory?"
"Outside, of course. Harold, if we take Glory down to your shocked corn,
she'll pick up the same scent Duckfoot's already on. That way we'll find
him easily, don't you think?"
Harky expressed what he thought in a ferocious scowl, his feelings in no
way improved because Melinda had suggested the very thing he intended
to do anyhow.
"C'mon," he said.
"Let me carry something."
"I got it, soon's I light the lantern."
Glory rose to meet them when they went out on the porch. Harky paused
just long enough to listen, and went on. Now he was fairly certain that
Duckfoot was again on Old Joe, for an ordinary coon would have been up,
within hearing, before this. Without a backward glance, Harky moved
toward the shocked corn.
Glory trotted away and began to tongue as she found scent. She ran
directly to Willow Brook, was silent as she cast for the trail, and
resumed tonguing when she found it. Harky determined her direction.
"They're on Old Joe again," Melinda pronounced. "We'll save time by
going directly to his big sycamore."
Disdaining to answer, for he had been on the point of dazzling Melinda
with this very suggestion, Harky started to run. He no longer deluded
himself that he was the rushing wind, or even a racing deer, for the
last time he'd entertained such notions Melinda had accused him of
running slowly. But he knew a direct route to Old Joe's witch tree and a
blackberry thicket on the way.
He crashed through it, holding the .22 and the axe across his chest and
a little in front to divert the whipping canes, and he grunted with
satisfaction when he heard Melinda gasp. Harky steered a course to
Willow Brook.
There was a log there, a fallen pine that spanned a shallow pool, and it
made an adequate bridge except during flood time. Harky held the lantern
high, jumped on the log, and at once began a wild effort to keep his
footing.
The night had turned colder. Running, he hadn't noticed the lower
temperature or thought the log would be ice coated. His luck held. Harky
danced to the far bank, jumped off the log, and continued running.
Duckfoot was tonguing at Old Joe's magic sycamore. Presently Glory
joined him. Harky wondered. Duckfoot, who had been roaring constantly
and furiously, suddenly began to yap like a puppy, and Glory trilled her
tree bark. It seemed that even hounds were bewitched when girls horned
in on coon hunts, but they had Old Joe up once again.
Reaching the sycamore, Harky discovered the two hounds alternately
barking up the tree and cavorting around each other, with far more
emphasis on the latter. A sudden suspicion entered Harky's mind. It was
a good thing Duckfoot had run ahead of Glory or neither would have
reached Old Joe's witch tree.
Harky felled a smaller tree. The lesser branches he sliced off at the
trunk, the larger ones he stubbed to serve as hand- and foot-holds. With
some effort, he leaned his ladder tree against the sycamore and turned
to Melinda. The time for explaining was here.
"Can you shinny up behind me?" he demanded.
"Y--, yes, Harold."
There was something in her voice that had not been there before, a
quaver that did not belong. Harky held the lantern high and turned
toward her. Melinda's hat was missing, her dark hair plastered wetly
against her head. Her clothes were soaking wet, her lips were blue with
cold and her teeth chattered. Scratches left by the blackberry canes
streaked her young cheeks.
"What in tunket happened to you?" Harky demanded.
"I fell in when we crossed the log," Melinda apologized. "I'm sorry."
"You can't climb when you're shiverin' that way," Harky said crossly.
"You might fall and I don't want to carry you out of here. I'll warm
you."
He unbuttoned her wet jacket, slipped it off her trembling shoulders,
and at the same time opened his own coat. He drew her very near and
buttoned his coat around the pair of them. A sudden electric shock
coursed through him and all at once he was very pleasantly warm.
Harky put both arms around her and looked down at her upturned face. A
stray star beam lighted it gently. Presently Melinda said,
"I'm warm now, Harold."
"Not warm enough," said Harky, who was astounded to discover that there
was something more pleasant than looking for coons' dens. "I'll warm you
some more. And call me Harky, huh?"
"Aren't we going to climb to Old Joe's den?" she asked shyly.
"Best not tonight," said Harky, who wouldn't have considered abandoning
what he was doing for a dozen Old Joes. "We have to get you warm. Will
you come coon hunting with me again, Melinda?"
"I'm afraid not, Harky," she said in a troubled voice.
"Why?"
"I simply cannot go anywhere too often with any boy who lets his
father's corn stand in the shock when it should be brought in and
husked."
"I'll bring it in," Harky promised recklessly. "I won't do a lick of
hunting until it's all in and husked! How about a kiss, Melinda?"
"Oh, Harky!"
"Please!"
"M-mmm!"
It occurred to Harky, but only very vaguely, that Miss Cathby's foothold
in the Creeping Hills was too solid ever to dislodge. But let what may
happen. In years to come, Old Joe would still prowl on Willow Brook,
hounds of Precious Sue's lineage would trail him, and Mundees would
follow the hounds. Nothing could stop any part of it.
Harky had a feeling.