“Is dem putty fas’ houn’s, Marse Lawrence?” asked Uncle Simon Bolick, as
Mr. L. A. Williamson, of Graham, Alamance county, came up with his pack
of noted fox dogs.
“Yes, Uncle Simon, they are the best in the country,” was the answer.
“Yes, sir; I spec’ dey is now, since ole marster’s stock ’s all died
out. But when Marse Billy wuz livin’ he had de steppin’ dogs. Dey wuz de
swiftes’ in de lan’. Yo’ daddy’ll tell you dat. Dey don’t have houn’s lak
his’n now. Ef I coul’ git some uv de ole Bolick breed I sho’ would git on
ole Beck an’ go wid you arter Big Sandy, dat sly ole red dat uses in de
Big Crick woods. But de las’ uv de stock’s gone. When Marse Tim lef’ here
he sont Buck an’ Bell, de onlies’ ones livin’, to ole man Bob Bolick, his
no ’count uncle, up in de Souf Mountins. Ole Bob he never know’d how
to care for nothin’, much less er fine houn’. All my fo’ks is lef’ dis
section. De war broke dem up an’ mos’ uv dem’s in de fur Wes’, unless
dey’s all daid. But ef I had one uv dem old Bolick houn’s I woul’ show
you how to ketch ole Sandy. Dat’s de gospel truf!”
The old darkey was in earnest. His memory carried him back and he lived
in days gone by, and scoffed at the things of the present. Life was not
as sweet to him as it had been when he served his owner, Colonel William
Bolick, the famous old farmer-sport of Piedmont, North Carolina, for then
every day was a holiday. He hunted and traveled with his master, who kept
fine wines, blooded horses and fast dogs. Truly, those were glorious
days for Simon, and he has never become reconciled to the prosaic life
of freedom. The Bolicks were prominent in North Carolina, and came from
a good old English family. Robert, however, never did well and, to get
rid of him, his father purchased a fertile mountain valley farm and sent
him there to live. That suited him, for he had no pride and but little
ambition.
Colonel William Bolick did well until the civil war. Like many men of his
class and day, however, he could not change with the times. The freeing
of the negroes destroyed him financially, and he was never able to rally
his fortunes. He died soon, leaving an encumbered estate and a family of
boys; the former was sold and the boys went West.
Old Simon, the aristocratic ex-slave, took up the burden of life, and
went from place to place doing odd jobs here and there until two years
ago, when he moved to Graham to live with a daughter who had saved money
and bought a home. There he made the acquaintance of Mr. Williamson, and
never tired of telling him about the Bolick hounds.
A fortunate thing happened for Simon last fall. He was wrong in his
conjecture about the passing of the Bolick stock. It had not all
perished. The breed had been kept pure and improved by the sons of Bob
Bolick. Some profitable crosses had been made, and the Bolick hounds of
South Mountain were even better than the ones formerly owned by Colonel
William Bolick. They had not been hunted after foxes, but had run deer,
bear, coons and wild cats.
Zeb Bolick, the most promising son of Bob, heard of the old family negro
at Graham. He found out that the Bolick hound was the hobby of Uncle
Simon, and determined to box up one of the best young ones in his pack
and send her to the old darkey. Therefore, on a fine day in October, he
shipped Dinah, a well-built bitch, to Graham, at the same time sending
the following letter to Simon:
“Simon, I have just sent you a hound of the old Bolick stock. I heard
that you wanted one. She is untrained for foxes, but will run anything
that leaves a scent. Accept her as a gift for the sake of by-gone days.
I never saw you, but if you were raised by Uncle William, you are all
right. I have named the black and tan lady Dinah. She looks just like old
Bell, her great-great-grandmother, except that she is larger. She has
raced all the flesh off of her bones, but that is a small matter.”
Simon Bolick was the happiest negro in the county. He rejoiced for two
reasons; the promise of the dog made him happy, and the receipt of the
letter, the first one of his life, pleased him. He told the town of his
good fortune, going from store to store showing his letter. It was like a
dream to him, and he could not realize that the dog was actually on the
way. He ran around until he was almost prostrate.
For some cause Dinah was two days late in showing up, and it began to
look as if somebody had been joking the old man.
Simon had described her as a beautiful, gentle animal, full of life
and well-bred looking, but his imagination had been too active. Hence,
when Dinah arrived, the old darkey was sorely disappointed, for she was
skinny, raw-boned and dirty, her ribs prominent and her back too sharp.
The boys laughed and jeered as Simon led her along the street. She seemed
half-starved and tried to put her nose into everything. If she found a
morsel to eat she gulped it down so greedily that the spectators roared
with delight. But when safely within his own yard, the old negro made
a thorough examination of his dog, and, after looking her over from
nose-tip to tail, he spoke to himself as follows: “Dat ain’t no bad dog
ef I’m a jedge. She’s got de same marks dat de ol’ houn’s had. I laks
dem thin years, dat hump-back an’ dat long, keen tail. All she needs is
somefin’ to eat an’ er little res’. Me an’ ole Suckie ’ll fetch her out.
By de time de race arter Big Sandy comes off I’ll have her des right,
an’ ef I ain’t mightily mistaken she’s gwine to sho’ dem yudder dogs de
bottom uv her feets es she flies. Des es soon es she gits rested, I’s
gwine to slip her off down to de crick an’ hear dat mouf. Ef it soun’s
lak ole Bell, den I’ll bet on her sho’ nuff.”
The tongue proved right. It was loud, clear and horn-like and could be
distinguished in any pack. Simon was happy. His cup of joy was brimful
when Mr. Williamson sent him word that he could join him for a chase the
first good opportunity for a night hunt. The old darkey could hardly
wait--he was so anxious for the hunt.
When the eventful hour came, Simon, mounted on his trusty mule, Beck,
with his master’s old horn on his back, and Dinah trotting behind, with
head and tail down, overtook the other hunters just out of Graham, on
the Haw River road. The night was fine, and the ground in first-class
condition. The atmosphere was fresh and sweet, after a light shower, and
the weeds and grass sufficiently damp to hold a scent. As Simon rode up,
Mr. Williamson remarked: “Well, old fellow, if Dinah has the proper stuff
in her, and we hit old Sandy, she will have an opportunity to do her best
to-night, for the weather is ideal.”
“Yes, sir; dat’s so; Mr. Fox’ll smell mighty good arter de little
sprinkle. I ain’t sayin’ much erbout my dog yit, ’cause she ain’t never
run but one or two foxes in her life, but I feels lak she wuz des gwine
to fall in wid de res’ an’ do her part.”
Some of the mischievous chaps in the party twitted the old negro about
his hound, calling her “skinflint,” “meat-catcher,” “rabbit-chaser,” and
the like, but he laughed and advised them to wait and see.
The hunters had not gone far when Trump, a young dog, routed a rabbit,
and drove him flying across the road. Five or six puppies joined in
and hurried old mollie-cotton-tail to the thicket of a near-by stream.
Soon a turn was made and all came back. The dogs were close behind Brer
Rabbit, and a new mouth carried the lead. Uncle Simon, with much joy in
his heart, cried out: “Listen at dat horn-mouf! Dat’s Dinah, an’ she’s in
front!”
Mr. Williamson was charmed with the deep bark of Skinny Dinah. It was
wrong to encourage the rabbit hunters, but the boys could not refrain
from galloping ahead to see the race. Dinah was literally splitting the
wind. She did not tarry or linger, but picked up the scent here and
there and hastened on. Simon blew his horn and all of the culprits,
except Dinah, came in; and her tongue ceased. It was surmised that she
had caught the rabbit and was eating a second supper. Soon she overtook
her proud owner, her mouth blood-stained and her sides sticking out. The
laugh was on the darkey.
Far to the right came the melodious note of Trouble, the faithful old
strike dog. He had ranged toward Bull Nose Creek and struck a hot scent.
Mark, Mr. Williamson’s colored valet, declared, “Dat’s where dey strikes
ole Sandy, an’ Trouble knowed where to hit him!”
The hunters struck a gallop and the dogs were “harkened” in--Jerry,
Jude, Kate, Sing, Music, Flora, Black Bill, Red Ball, Trumpet and Flirt.
Strive, a big, deep-mouthed, bob-tailed hound, opened some distance in
front of the rest. He was a fast trailer, making time and ground by
sighting logs and wet places ahead and hitting here and there. He had
good dog sense and knew the ways of Reynard, and, under his leadership,
the pack soon had a running trail.
Mark dismounted and examined the track. “It sho’ is ole Sandy, Mr.
Lawrence,” said he. “If you don’t believe it, come here an’ look.” And so
it turned out.
The dogs moved across Cedar Hill toward Holt’s Bay and Drowning Creek.
The young hounds, all but Dinah, were chiming in at the rear. Dinah
seemed interested, but lazy. However, she kept nibbling at the track. As
the hounds went in on the north side of Holt’s Bay, old Sandy slipped out
on the other side. Red Ball, the famous leader of the pack, got a live
scent of the cunning fox as he set out, and rushed through the thicket,
bawling as he went, and picked up the hot track. There was consternation
among the dogs for a moment, but in a jiffy every last mouth, even that
of Dinah, was giving tongue behind Red Ball.
As was the custom of Sandy, he took a short round to try the quality of
the pack. He raced three miles and back over level country, entered the
bay where he went out, dodged through and started for the swamps of Big
Creek, five miles away, to the north. The hounds were in hot pursuit, Red
Ball in the lead, closely followed by Trumpet, Sing and Flirt.
About every fourth leap Ball would cry, “Yock! Yocky-yocky yock!” It was
sweet music to the ear. He did not bark often, but his voice was strong
and piercing. Dinah brought up the rear, but was now thoroughly aroused,
though the rabbit had made her heavy and slow. Simon was delighted to see
her sticking to it so well and showing such interest.
The hunters rode to the top of the hill, dismounted and waited patiently
for the fox and the dogs to return. It might be an hour, or it might be
four, but Sandy always came back to Drowning Creek, and the faster the
race the quicker the return.
Mr. Williamson and his companions did not have to loiter long that
night, for within three-quarters of an hour after the hounds went out of
hearing, Mark, with his keen ear, heard the tongue of Red Ball. It was
coming back, “Yock! Yocky-yocky yock!”
The men hurried to a road crossing to see the pack as it passed. Dogs
had changed places. Some of the short-winded runners had dropped out and
others fallen back. But Simon’s Dinah had performed the most wonderful
feat; instead of bringing up the tail-end, she was pushing Ball. Her
tongue was mingling with his, and the old negro could not constrain
himself. He just had to yell, and yell he did, at the top of his voice.
“As sho’ es de Lawd,” he shouted, “she’s one uv de ole stock!”
But it was no time to shout. The dogs were flying on, and any inopportune
whoop might bother them, so Simon was rebuked by the captain of the party.
Sandy covered his three-mile circuit again, and returned to Holt’s Bay.
By that time he saw that his life was in danger, for the hounds were
racing him faster than he ever had to go before. If the gait continued
death would be staring him in the face, so he determined to put forth his
best efforts in a run to Buck Hill and back, a total of sixteen miles,
but by foiling several miles he would have ample time to dodge in Holt’s
Bay. The dogs were close after him when he left for Buck Hill, with Red
Ball and Dinah cheek by jowl. Ball was running wild, while Dinah seemed
to be getting better. To the west the flying pack went, the tongues of
Ball and Dinah blended in one sound. Simon was so elated that he could
not be still, moving about like a crazy man.
When the music ceased, Mr. Williamson turned to Uncle Simon and said,
“Old man, I’ll give you fifty dollars for her.”
“Marse Lawrence, I needs de money, but I wouldn’t swap dat dog fer yo’
cotton mill; no sar, dat I wouldn’t.”
After that there was no sound for more than two hours, though the hunters
listened with strained ears. Mark was the first to hear the returning
music. He cried: “Hush! There they come! Dinah’s in the lead!”
“Yoo-it yoo-it yoo-it! yoo-it!” came the sound rending the air. Ball had
fallen back ten feet or more. Again the hunters hastened to a place where
they could view the dogs. That time they saw the fox, Big Sandy. He was
but thirty yards ahead, with tail dragging the ground and tongue hanging
out.
His last race was run. The fatal day had come. But he had pluck to
struggle on. Dinah and her mates came on, tired but strong. Sandy was
pulling for Holt’s Bay, where he could turn and double about, and worry
the dogs. But the sight of the men and the horses seemed to urge Dinah
on. They gave her courage and she gained on the fox. As she crossed a
hillock in the edge of the woods and turned down the opposite side, she
caught a glimpse of Big Sandy. Her heart beat with joy and she went
forward with renewed vigor. The other dogs and the hunters were close
in her wake. They had noted the change in her tongue and knew full well
what it meant. It was a sight race from there to the thicket, and Dinah
had the advantage. Big Sandy dodged and twisted, but his last moment had
arrived. Dinah pounced on his back just as he entered the edge of the
bay, and it was all over.
Dinah had proved her mettle, and Big Sandy was dead. Uncle Simon was so
happy that he could not speak. He fell upon his dog and embraced her,
while the boys patted him on the back and rejoiced with him. Dinah rolled
and groaned in the broom sage, the idol of the hour.