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Duck-Footed Hound

<h2>AUTUMN NIGHT</h2> 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. <hr style="width: 45%;" /> 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. Harky said sadly, "I can't tell, Pa." "Ain't you got a feelin'?" Mun persisted. "I ain't had any kind of feeling I can count on since the night Melinda horned in on our coon hunt." Mun sighed unhappily. "Goshamighty. Wish I'd of turn't her back that night." "Wish you had," Harky agreed. "We wouldn't be in this fix now." "If it's jest a common coon, Duckfoot'll soon have it up," Mun said. "You can git him an' still have the night to prowl for Old Joe." Harky said, "I'll go out for a listen." Harky went out on the porch and strained to hear in the deepening night. His hopes rose. Duckfoot, a silent trailer, would come silently on any ordinary coon that might be raiding the shocked corn and he'd almost surely tree it within hearing of the house. He would not get Old Joe up so easily. Harky rejoined Mun. "I can't hear anything." Mun said, "It could be Old Joe, then." "It could be," Harky agreed. "Gol ding it! Are women late for everything? Even coon hunts?" "Most times," said Mun, "'cept when they're early." Harky laid out Mun's coon-hunting axe, filled the lantern, stuck the flashlight in his pocket, and put the .22 in easy reach. He stifled an urge to go out on the porch for another listen. This night the whole future of coon hunting in the Creeping Hills was at stake, but such confidence as Harky had possessed was fast waning. Taking a girl on a coon hunt had brought about this whole mess. Where was his assurance that taking the same girl on a second hunt would not result in an even more hopeless tangle? What had seemed sheer inspiration, and a positive way to retrieve shattered legend by proving to Melinda that she was wrong and the coon hunters right, no longer seemed such a good idea. When Melinda did not come, Harky began to hope she wouldn't. Just as there seemed reason to think this hope might be realized, Melinda arrived. She was dressed in the same costume she'd worn for the previous hunt, except that she wore two shirts instead of just one. Both together, however, did nothing to conceal the fact that no masculine coon hunter was bundled beneath them; Harky thought sourly that even if Melinda wore her father's bearskin coat she'd still look like a girl. "Where you been?" he demanded. "Why I came at nightfall, Harold," she answered. "I'm not late." "Y'are too!" Said Melinda, "You're so unreasonable, Harold. Isn't he, Mr. Mundee?" "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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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