Masked Prowler: The Story of a Raccoon

by Jean Craighead George

  At the starting line he became calm. Fanny caught the scent almost immediately and Joe could hardly hold her back. The starter looked down the line of dogs.

  “Pull back Number 17,” he ordered Joe who held Fanny around the chest and pulled her behind the mark.

  “All right, go!” the starter called. Joe released the eager dog and slipped back into the grass. There he sat in a patch of ragweed as he watched Fanny leap ahead of the pack and disappear across the hill. Weeping Will, a Red Bone hound was closing in on her as they climbed out of the dip and sped up the next hill. Joe closed his eyes. He did not leap onto the rear of the truck this time. He was glad to know that it would all be over by the time he got back to the woods. He was almost happy he was not there to see the finish. The excitement was more tiring than hauling manure out of the barn.

  Joe rode back to the farm without speaking. He watched the truck turn in the lane and crawl past the barn and the grainery. He wiped the sweat from his hands on the knees of his pants as the truck went into second gear to make the grade by the night pasture. He began to search for Walt or Gib at the top of the hill, and still could not pick them out when the truck stopped at the edge of the woods. Then an official’s voice called from the stand:

  “First tree and first line—Number 17—Fanny!”

  Joe heard the words and spun to his feet. He bounced to the ground, took his bearings for a moment and hurried up the hill to meet his friends and Fanny under the oak where Mr. Black was tied. His voice trailed off into a high falsetto as he laughed out the words:

  “Funniest thing I ever heard of!”

  “They’ll both be in the semi-finals, now.” Walt said as he tied Fanny beside his own dog.

  “Now to see what the Lukes’ dog does. He’s in this next race.”

  Gib went to the auction stand and collected his entry fee. He returned with three hot dogs and the three men sat down beside their hounds to eat. Fanny had stopped panting and she looked graceful and contented as she stretched to her full length in the warm September sun.

  Smoky Woods took first tree. He, too, would be in the semi-finals. Sim and Potter Luke passed close to the threesome as they took their dog to its resting place. They looked to see if Gib, Joe, or Walt were worried but the men were lying on their backs, their knees crossed in figure fours, their hats pulled over their eyes to keep out the sun.

  After three more heats of senior dogs, the green dog races began. These races were for younger dogs.

  From their hill in the sun Gib, Walt and Joe watched two truck loads of green dogs go down the lane. While they relaxed they discussed Jersey cows, heifers and a few plans for the winter months.

  Sim and Potter, watching them just out of ear range, thought the mumbling voices could mean only one thing—they were plotting some trick to win the race.

  When the semi-finals were announced, the raccoon was lowered from its tree and hoisted up another some distance from the first. A new drag was laid, and the startling line was moved to the west of the section. While these changes were being made, Gib, Walt and Joe were down by the auction truck studying the schedule for the semi-finals. There were to be three races. Again their dogs were in separate races. Fanny was listed for the first, Mr. Black for the second, and Smoky Woods for the third.

  “Well, we don’t have to race each other yet,” said Gib.

  “Number 17—Fanny!” called the auctioneer. The crowd drew around the truck and bidders looked at the dog. This time she sold for more, the men who had been watching the race remembered that Fanny had won first line and first tree in her heat.

  Joe hopped into the truck with Fanny once more. The auctioneering went on until nine dogs were sold and nine handlers and hounds were packed into the rear of the truck. This trip they turned right at the end of the lane. They drove out Berry Road and the dogs were started to the west of Gib’s farm. Again Joe had to hold Fanny to the line.

  “All right, go!” shouted the starter.

  “Beat ‘em, Fanny, beat ’em!” Joe cried. He rolled back into the weeds as Fanny burst from his arms like a rocket.

  Half way across the open field, two of the dogs turned on a third and the snarling howl of a fight filled the air for a few seconds. But that was all. It was over as quickly as it had begun. The three dogs had lost ground, however, and sprinted wildly to pick up the trail and catch up with the pack. The last Joe saw of Fanny was a view of her flopping ears as she leapt the tall grasses. A flock of pheasants flew up before her. She was racing side by side with Weeping Will.

  Again there was the long ride back to the farm, and the anxious moments as they drove to the woods. Again Joe looked for Gib. This time he saw him coming down the hill leading Fanny. Walt was striding along beside him and their faces told old Joe that Fanny had done it again. He jumped from the truck and ran to meet them.

  “What did she do?”

  “First tree, this time!” Gib said. “Weeping Will beat her across the line, but Fanny barked the tree first, and that puts her right smack in the finals.”

  “Now, for Mr. Black,” Walt said, “I hope he does as well.”

  Mr. Black did. He won first line. The three friends took their good fortune in their stride and watched to see what Smoky Woods would do in his race. He won second tree in his semi-finals, and was also slated for the finals.

  “Final race!” shouted the auctioneer, “All dogs in the finals come to the stand!”

  The nine remaining dogs were carefully examined by the people. Their merits were discussed and each became somewhat of a hero. Fanny was auctioned, selling for four dollars for first tree, four dollars for first line and three dollars for second. Mr. Black and Smoky Woods brought just about as much. The Luke brothers were now watching Gib and Walt and Joe with nervous glances. They wanted to win the purse and any threat to their prize was making them uneasy and angry.

  The coon tree was moved again. This time the men roped off the trees back of the sugar house and selected the big five bucket maple for the final post. It stood out grandly on the hill. As the noise of the crowd came near, Procyon shifted in his den fifteen feet away. He lifted his ears, decided he was still safe and tried to go back to sleep. However the constant thunder of the hounds and the people in the woods all day had made him nervous and he moved around from time to time. He did not sleep, but lay half awake, his eyes partly closed, staring at the walls of his den.

  The dogs were auctioned off and the truck filled rapidly. Joe and Walt both climbed aboard with their hounds. Settled on a bale of straw Joe leaned over to Walt.

  “One or the other oughta win,” he whispered. Then he chuckled, “Can you beat it, Fanny and Mr. Black in the finals?”

  As they left the farm, the boys with the drag came across the west end of the woods. They had made a trail this time that circled through the edge of the marshland to a moist forest. From here it led up through a dense stand of young second growth and down between the giant trees of Gib’s forest. Hurriedly they rubbed the scent on the old maple for the truck was already at the end of the lane turning west toward the starting line.

  At the starting point Fanny and Mr. Black whined and danced with excitement. Joe had a good grip on Fanny but Walt struggled with Mr. Black trying to keep him back of the line.

  “Okay, let ’em go!” the starter shouted. He dropped his hat on the ground and the dogs sprang away. Fanny heard a shout of encouragement from Joe as she picked up the scent of the drag and raced across the mowed hay field. The pack moved swiftly across the field. A group of vesper sparrows flushed before them, their chipped alarm lost in the having roar of the hounds.

  Walt looked for Joe. He was bouncing up and down like a ball, his cheek of chewing tobacco moving in counter rhythm, down and up.

  “I’m gonna enter you in the next race,” Walt said as he took his friend’s shoulder and held him down.

  Mr. Black passed Fanny at the beginning of the marsh. The trail was strong and clear and he had no trouble following it through
the long grasses and sedges. As he broke through the swamp, birds darted along their sheltered avenues to greater safety. Deeper in the marsh a rail ran away from the noise. He hid in a patch of cattails and galingale. A rabbit burst from a spiraea thicket to the left of the dogs, terrified by the howls and bellows.

  Mr. Black ran close to the trail, crashing through the boneset and wild carrots. Smoky Woods closed in on him. Fanny to one side was now running third. Diamond Jim passed Fanny in a patch of low sedges where he could fully use his speed to overtake the dogs with the better noses. Fanny ran on steadily, the other dogs trailed behind her in a fairly close group. She leaned as she left the marsh and banked to climb the hill where the basswoods grew and where the coon family had often come to hunt and den.

  Smoky Woods led the hounds at the top of the hill. He was only a stride ahead of Mr. Black, his flying feet tearing at the soft turf under the trees. Mr. Black took a good nip at his rear foot and Smoky turned upon him with vengeance only to be met by Mr. Black’s bared fangs. He sped past Smoky Woods without slackening his pace. Smoky Woods had run these races often, he knew better than to lose time in fighting. He regained his stride, and followed Mr. Black, howling as they strained to keep ahead of Diamond Jim.

  A few yards behind, Fanny was racing side by side with Weeping Will. The two of them were slowly gaining on the leaders. Smoky Woods was the first to turn with the trail at the top of the hill and dart off along the edge of the brushy woods. He was hard pressed by Diamond Jim who was gaining in the clean woods. Fanny had pulled up alongside Mr. Black.

  The cardinals and the towhees of this brushland flitted nervously before the sound of the race. They winged up into the higher limbs where they scolded the hounds as they passed in a brigade beneath them.

  This second growth was a problem for the dogs. Here Diamond Jim and Smoky Woods were slowed. Fanny and Mr. Black had the advantage. They had frequently hunted these very woods and knew how to speed through the dense stand of young oaks, hickorys, and maples. A black-billed cuckoo heard the voices of the dogs behind her. She left her perch on a slender twig and flew to the far end of the woods.

  Now the pack was near the fence that marked Gib’s property line. Down near the sugar house a voice rang out:

  “Here they come!” The people stopped talking, only the bellows of the dogs tied to their trees in the woods east of the sugar house told of the coming excitement.

  Fanny saw the fence that meant home. With a riving leap she sprang into the air. She cleared the familiar obstacle and sped on. Smoky Woods and Diamond Jim were slowed down. They wormed their bodies through the woven wire of the fence. Smoky Woods was now fourth in the race. Fanny and Mr. Black were leading.

  The pack came down the trail in full view of the crowd. In the open woods Diamond Jim made up for his lost yardage. He reached his full racing speed and as he closed on the finish line he gained on Mr. Black and Fanny and crossed first. There was not a murmur from the waiting crowd. The judges watched closely to see which dog crossed second. It was Mr. Black followed by Fanny and Smoky Woods. Only a few yards separated these leading dogs.

  Just beyond the flags Fanny gained on Mr. Black and Diamond Jim. She rushed to the tree ahead of them. With a mellow cry she climbed up the bole six feet, followed by the next three dogs in the race and then the entire pack of nine.

  A gasp went through the crowd. It was the wrong tree!

  Shortly beyond the finish line Fanny had picked up, not the scent of the drag, but the scent of Procyon, the raccoon. With an inspired spurt of energy she had dashed past the leaders and rushed the tree in which Procyon was denning. Her enthusiastic bark and the scent of the live trail had brought the other dogs off the drag to the same tree.

  Here they all howled while the crowd stood stunned. The dog must bark the correct tree in order to win the purse for “tree.”

  Gib looked at his dog, the pack and then scanned the tree they were barking. He grinned. Any good coon hunter or even a woodsman would have known better than to lead the drag to a tree so close to the hollow maple. It was without a doubt a den tree.

  Some of the dogs now sensed the fact that there was more demanded of them. Weeping Will circled the pack and then stopped to look at his master. But his master was bound by the rules of the game not to speak or even gesture. Dogs and masters generally knew each other so well that even the twist of a thumb would signal the hounds what to do. With sides heaving and tongue dripping from the side of his mouth, Weeping Will continued to watch his master.

  Gib was still amused by the situation and laughed from time to time as Fanny renewed her attack on the wild raccoon. He turned around to catch the judge’s eye and see if he knew the joke, too, when his glance fell on Sim Luke. The tension in Sim’s face made deep drawn lines around his nose and lips. His entire attention was focused on Smoky Woods. He edged carefully toward the rope and puckered his lips as if to whistle to his hound. He thought better of it, however, glancing at the people nearby to see if they were watching him. Time was running out, the dogs were allowed five minutes to find the marked tree and bark it. Four had already lapsed. If they did not find it in one minute the hundred dollars for the first tree, and the fifty for second would go into the club’s jackpot.

  Fanny did a normal thing. She was a hunting dog, well trained for game. She circled to see if her quarry had left the tree she had barked. She trotted toward the big five-bucket maple.

  As she did so, a low hiss sounded from the edge of the crowd and Smoky Woods turned from Procyon’s tree and ran after Fanny. The two of them smelt the drag simultaneously. Smoky Woods leaped past Gib’s dog and jumped the tree. But he did not bark. Fanny looked up into the limbs of the old giant, smelt the base and emitted a modest “woof.”

  That was it, Fanny had won first tree!

  Inspired by Fanny, Smoky Woods also let out a yelp. Now Mr. Black picked up the scent of the drag and half flying, raced up the trunk of the tree, barking furiously at the raccoon tied in its cage high above him.

  The race was over. Diamond Jim had won first line, Fanny first tree and Smoky Woods second tree. Mr. Black had won second line.

  However, the judges did not make an announcement. A shout went up from the crowd around Sim Luke.

  “He called on his dog! Smoky Woods is disqualified.”

  “Right, he whistled his dog!”

  At this moment the truck with the dog starters arrived at the woods. Joe and Walt came weaving in a trot for Gib.

  “What did they do, what did they do?” called Joe.

  “Well, Fanny took first tree,” Gib said. The argument to the left of them was at such a pitch now that Gib had to shout.

  “They might disqualify Smoky Woods, and if they do, second tree goes to Blackie. He’s sure of second line.”

  The judges were clustered together between Procyon’s tree and the five bucket maple. Joe looked at them and then sauntered over toward the heated argument. The man who had bought Mr. Black was shaking his fist at Sim Luke.

  “You called your dog, Sim. He’s out.”

  “I didn’t call him. I didn’t call him!” Sim shouted back, his face distorted with rage. Joe pushed his cap back on his head and laughed.

  The argument almost came to blows when the judge stepped between the men.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Luke,” he said. “We feel that you did call your dog. Second tree goes to Mr. Black.” He turned his back on the man and faced the crowd.

  “First line—number 8, Diamond Jim! Second line—number 7, Mr. Black! First tree—number 17, Fanny! Second tree—number 7, Mr. Black! Number 21, Smoky Woods, is disqualified!”

  A cheer went up. Sim Luke pulled his dog away from the crowd. He kicked sulkily at the leaves of the woodland floor and mumbling he went for his car.

  “Smoky Woods is a better hunter than any of them,” he growled. “Suppose I did give him a little hiss. The other dogs heard it, too. They all had an even chance.”

  Gib, Walt and Joe caught up with the
unhappy man. They looked at him without malice as Mr. Black and Fanny pulled them toward the lane. Sim looked up, caught their eye and shouted.

  “You’re glad, aren’t you? You’re glad they disqualified my dog. You’re laughing.”

  “Not a bit,” said Joe rubbing his hat around on his head. Sim walked in front of them and stopped. The men looked at each other. Sim spoke.

  “What kind of a coon dog is that?” he shouted and pointed at Fanny.

  “Good nuf,” answered Joe.

  “She is, is she? Well, I’ll tell you right now my dog has treed more coons around here than all these dogs put together!” He gestured broadly to include all of Gib’s woods and all of the adjacent country. Joe looked around at all that he had included while Gib said:

  “Maybe so, Sim.”

  “You doubt it, don’t you? Well, I’ll go out with you any night, any night and Smoky Woods will tree two coons to Fanny’s one. Not only that I’ll knock ’em down with my four-ten before you can raise your shotgun.”

  Gib and Joe both stared at Sim and tensed. Gib moved one step forward.

  “Do you shoot a four-ten?” he asked. The good fellowship had left his voice. He was firm as a plow. Sim sensed the change and looked quickly from one to the other. But he was too angry to be cautious.

  “Sure, I shoot a four-ten. With a long cartridge I can bring down anything. Why?”

  “Because,” said Gib, “I don’t know of anyone else around here who shoots a long four-ten.” He reached slowly into his hip pocket. Joe had stopped chewing his tobacco and he watched Sim’s eyes as Gib drew out his hand.

  “And because,” Gib went on, “there’s been some poaching on my land. I heard some shooting out of season and I found this at the base of a tree.” He thrust the shell under Sim’s nose. The man drew back.

  “I don’t know anything about it,” he stammered. “You don’t have anything on me.”

  “Mr. Luke, I don’t mind hunting. I hunt myself. But I don’t want any more hunting out of season on my land. Do you understand?”