Masked Prowler: The Story of a Raccoon

by Jean Craighead George

  Procyon sat back on his haunches, took the crayfish to his mouth and bit it swiftly with his canines. With his molars he ground the sweet white meat from the hard outer shell and ate it quickly.

  Potter and Sim Luke closed the door behind them and went across the yard toward Smoky Woods. The dog heard them coming and rushed toward them, stopping just before he reached the end of his chain. Tail wagging he lowered his head while Sim unsnapped his lead. With a bound the dog dashed into the night stopping at the end of the lane to wait for the brothers. He heard them coming toward him, grinding the stones under their heavy boots. They crossed the road and climbed the fence. Smoky ran up to them, smelt their guns and jumped through the fence. He knew what they wanted of him and bolted forward.

  Sim was over the fence, and Potter was handing him their guns when the headlights of an automobile suddenly appeared over the hill, illuminated them an instant and passed on.

  Smoky Woods trotted around the thorn-apple bushes that had taken over the untilled fields. He smelt nothing but the weedy lands. He was going slowly and the men could keep close behind until he slipped under the next fence and was swallowed in the darkness.

  He came up to the second growth of hickory and oak trees just beyond Gib’s magnificent woods. A twig snapped. He pulled his tail between his legs and ran a few yards before looking back. There was only the black night behind him. He swung to his left and crossed the abandoned field that lay just beyond the decrepit sugar house. In the field he snapped at a mouse as it scooted like a shadow before him. Then he swerved at right angles from its trail for he had intercepted the scent of a skunk. As certainly as if he were following a thread, the hound went banging after the animal. It denned under the old sugar house. He skidded up to the structure and barked into the dark hole that led off under the beams of the floor. He dug into the den with his forepaws, but the skunk was beyond his reach.

  Sim and Potter Luke came upon him here and sniffed the air.

  “Heah! Come on! No skunks, Smoke, no skunks!” They circled the house looking at the skeleton of their old trapping camp. Sometime last winter it had given up under the weight of a heavy snow and collapsed slowly to the floor.

  “Well, the old place used to be a pretty good skinning hangout,” Sim said.

  “Until Gib and Joe got suspicious—good thing we cleared out of it.”

  Smoky Woods, called away from his quarry, followed them around the sugar house. His loose joints gave his gangly legs the appearance of operating separately from his body. His shoulders alternated up and down like pistons. He crossed the hill to Gib’s woods where he bumped his way through the boards of the gate.

  He came to the base of the red oak, tasted the leaves with his nose, looked into the high branches and trotted on. He turned and came back. Here was the trail of Procyon, the raccoon. He yelped and banged down Procyon’s trail. In the wooded ravine he rushed a giant maple tree with a bark. He circled it several times sniffing up into the dark, his tongue hanging from his mouth. He did not bark the tree again however. His circles had told him Procyon had not stayed in this tree. Off he veered, down the ravine, over a fallen tree where he lost the scent and frantically raced from one end of the tree to the other. Then he lifted his head. Along an arched limb lay the spoor. He followed the limb to the ground, picked up the trail and traced it along the old rail fence between the forest and the second growth. In the wet mild of the woodland swamp the scent was stronger. It led him knee deep through the muck, around the clumps of wild iris just appearing out of the black soil and down a wet drain to the creek.

  Smoky Woods rushed down into the bed of the stream with a loud cry, his howl increased in tempo with the strength of the scent.

  Procyon picked up a fresh water mussel he had pulled from the water some hours before, and pried his fingers between its now parted shells. He heard Smoky Wood’s cry at the bend in the stream and dropped his food. With easy movements he crossed the stream and waited at the foot of a small maple, his hands grasping the trunk as he listened.

  When the hound came closer, he climbed leisurely into the branches and looked down to see Smoky Woods slip over the roots of an elm and wade into the water. The hound rushed from one bank to the other following the raccoon up the stream. The scent was strong and he did not miss the trail. In a matter of seconds he jumped the tree where Procyon sat and howled in glory. The raccoon was here; he had not come down for the air above him was heavy with his presence.

  In the hushed barnyard the air was so still that Gib could hear the trucks almost a mile away on Ford Road shift into second gear for the hill. He listened, then he turned swiftly and hurried to the house. His mother and Joe were reading the papers in the kitchen, commenting from time to time on the news. They both looked up, startled by Gib’s swift pace as he passed them and went into the dining room. He picked up the telephone and gave the operator a number. Even in the kitchen they could hear the telephone ringing in some unknown house, then it clicked and Gib spoke.

  “Hello. Is this the game warden? This is Gilbert Strang. You know, I’ve spoken to you about some poachers in my woods. Well, tonight when I drove home along Berry Road I happened to notice the Luke brothers going over the fence with a couple of guns. Just a few minutes ago while I was locking the milk house, I heard a dog in my woods. Sounded like he was treeing—I’m not sure but adding it all up it looks like we could catch ’em red handed.”

  “I’ll be over in fifteen minutes,” the warden said.

  “I’m headin’ back to the woods. Get Joe at the house and he’ll bring you down.”

  Joe was already standing when Gib came into the kitchen.

  “Will you wait for him?” Gib asked. Sure.

  “Now, Gilbert,” said little Mrs. Strang, “you’d better wait too.

  “It may be too late by then. No, I’m going ahead to see if my hunch is right.”

  He snatched up an old coat and went out the door. By the time he reached the end of the barnyard he knew there were men with the dog. Faintly, like the boom of the big owl, he could hear their voices. He continued down the lane to the woods, then walked more cautiously over the debris of the forest floor. Gib knew every tree in his woods by heart. He took the cow trail. Here there were less sticks to snap and it led in the right direction.

  The moon had risen to the east and the cow trail along the edge of the stream showed darker than the rest of the floor. Stepping silently he walked almost up to the men before he stopped, slipped behind a giant elm and waited.

  Sim Luke was shaking the Procyon tree with all the might of his brute body. Apparently they did not want to risk the sound of a shot unless absolutely necessary. The raccoon hung on long beyond what seemed to Gib to be his point of endurance. Smoky Woods was howling at him continually.

  Gib clutched the elm as the raccoon, almost as big as the dog itself, shifted his perch easily in the shaking tree.

  “It’s no use, Sim.” Potter said. “We’ll hafta shoot him out.”

  “Can’t,” replied Sim. “Not here. Right in Gib’s woods. He’d hear us.”

  “He can hear the hound,” retorted Potter.

  “He won’t pay no attention to that. There’s always a dog loose. You wait here. I’ll go to his sugar house and see if I can break in. He might have a saw or an axe handy and we’ll get that coon outa there.”

  Sim walked right by Gib, headed for the sugar house. In the dark he didn’t see the farmer. Gib grinned to himself. The Luke brothers were going to have more than they bargained for this night. He would not stop them yet. Shortly Potter was back.

  “I got an axe,” he said to his brother. “Put that light on the tree and I’ll chop him down.”

  Procyon headed down the sapling as he felt it start to fall. The young tree swung slowly catching its branches in the other trees. When he neared the ground the enraged Procyon made a riving leap at the hound, closing in on him. The impact of his charge bowled the startled dog off his feet with a yelp of pain and terror. Pro
cyon clung to the dog when he hit and rolled with him. With his teeth clamped on the side of the dog’s neck Procyon raked him with his powerful hind claws. By the time the dog was able to free himself his neck and belly were laid open.

  Procyon turned swiftly and was on his feet hissing like a boiler, as the hound gamely came at him despite his wounds.

  Smoky Woods made a snarling slash at his head but jumped back as Procyon clawed his snout. He bit again quickly at the raccoon’s shoulder and clamped down on thick fur. Madly shaking his head, he hung onto the raccoon until he lost his grip. Procyon dug into the ground and came forward in a snarling gallop. The dog backed up, the men shouted, and again the dog and raccoon closed. They were close to the bank of the stream. Again the force of the big, squat raccoon’s charge bowled the dog over.

  Potter tried to keep them away from the water, but he was too late. The growling, rolling ball of dog and raccoon went over the embankment. They separated in the water. Potter ran forward and clicked the safety off his gun, but Luke held his arm.

  “This axe, this axe,” he said, “I’ll get him with that. Less noise.” He swung but was too nervous to be accurate and as his weapon chopped water, he cried as the claws of the raccoon raked his arm.

  “He’s terrible, he’s terrible. He’ll kill Smoky in that water. Shoot or do something. Quick!” But before he had finished speaking it was already too late to shoot for Procyon was on Smoky’s back and any shot at him would get the dog, too.

  Aghast, the men watched from the bank of the stream, as the raccoon, bleeding but indefatigable, bit first at one cheek and then the other, clasping the neck of the dog with the power of a vice. Snarling and writhing, Smoky could do nothing but thrash from side to side trying to dislodge the raccoon. He tried to pull toward shore but blindly hit a pocket of deep water and went under.

  “He’s gonna drown him!” Sim shouted as his dog floundered in the deeper water. “Gimme a pole, I’ll pry him off and you shoot.”

  Potter picked up a long, dead branch and handed it to his brother. Sim stabbed at the masked face. Now Procyon was enraged, his eyes flashed in the beam of the light and he bit the end of the branch. Two pieces broke off and floated away. But Sim was desperate, he jabbed again and again until in fuming wrath, the raccoon let go his hold on the dog with his forepaws and snorting and snarling grabbed the branch. However, he still had his clutching hind feet around the hound’s neck while the dog came up choking for air. Sim pulled up on the limb trying to lift the raccoon off his dog.

  Procyon released the dog and suddenly turned on the man.

  With unbelievable speed he ran right up the limb and sank his teeth in Sim’s hand. Sim jerked away and ran in mad fear of this fighting demon.

  “They’re separated, I’m gonna shoot!” cried Potter breathlessly.

  “Oh, no you’re not,” said a voice and Gib stepped from behind the shadowy elm.

  The two men swung suddenly to face the farmer.

  “Gib Strang,” Sim cried.

  “Oh, no you ain’t stoppin’ me,” snarled Potter. “My poor dog is bein’ killed.”

  “Kill the raccoon, Potter,” ordered Sim who raised his gun toward Gib. Gib stared unbelievingly, then asked calmly.

  “Are you threatening me, Sim?” A stick snapped at the edge of the second growth.

  “No,” the man answered in panic, “but I’m telling you, I like that dog.” He lowered the gun to Gib’s knees as the sound of the animal fight behind him started again. Gib remained silent, listening beyond the noise of the fracas, trying to hear that snapping stick again but the wood was silent.

  Joe and the game warden drove without lights to the end of the lane and ran full speed along the cow trail.

  “They’re at the stream,” Joe breathed over his shoulder.

  At the ravine the game warden slipped and fell. Joe ran on for he had heard Gib say: “Are you threatening me, Sim?”

  He sprinted like a deer and then shouted like a sergeant:

  “Stop or I’ll shoot! This is the game warden, I’ve got you covered, Potter and Sim!”

  The two men stared from Gib into the black woods, turned to run, then slowly lifted their hands, as the warden caught up with Joe, passed him and flashed a light in their eyes.

  “All right,” he said, “give me those guns. You’ve done enough tonight to go up for a year.” He nudged the butt of his pistol cozily into their ribs as Joe took away their guns.

  Meanwhile Smoky Woods had pulled himself to one side of the stream and dropped on the beach. Procyon had floated buoyantly to the opposite shore and was crouched against some tree roots watching men and dog with hisses and snarls. He was completely exhausted, breathing heavingly, sweating through his tongue, hoping to be given enough time to regain some measure of strength. Every muscle in his body quivered.

  The bleeding dog whimpered and cried, and looked at the men beseechingly. Gib heard him and walked over to him.

  “I’ll take him home with me, warden, while the brothers are gone. He’s a good dog.” He helped Smoky Woods to his feet, supporting his chest as he limped along.

  “How about the raccoon, Gib?” the warden asked. “He might live if you take care of him.”

  “Sure,” said Gib. “If he lived through all that he ought to keep on living.”

  Joe waded through the stream and leaned down to pick up the exhausted raccoon whose eyes were closing. Suddenly there was a snorting snarl, and Procyon rose to all four feet, snapped at Joe, turned and swaggered into the dark. The men watched him with their flashlight until he vanished in the night.

  “Nothing the matter with him!” they heard Joe exclaim in his high laughing falsetto.

  They turned and led the Luke brothers toward the warden’s car.

  Procyon returned to his den in the red oak and slept exhausted until dawn. He cleaned and licked his wounds and slowly regained his strength, bearing out Joe’s prediction. And it was many years before an aged raccoon failed to awaken from his winter sleep. But even then he lived on in Gib’s story of the raccoon that laid up two poachers and a dog.

  “Did I ever tell you about that big raccoon—” he would begin.

  A Biography of Jean Craighead George

  Born in Washington, DC, on July 2, 1919, Jean Craighead George loved nature from an early age. Her parents, aunts, and uncles, all naturalists, encouraged her interest in the world around her, and she has drawn from that passion in her more than one hundred books for children and young adults.

  In the 1940s, after graduating from Pennsylvania State University with degrees in science and literature, George joined the White House Press Corps. She married John Lothar George in 1944 and moved to Michigan, where John was attending graduate school. Her husband shared her love of nature, and they lived for a time in a tent in the forest. They began to write novels together, with Jean providing illustrations. Their first novel, Vulpes, the Red Fox, was published in 1948.

  Following the birth of their first child, the Georges relocated to New York, living first in Poughkeepsie, then in Chappaqua. The family welcomed wild animals into their backyard, to stay for as long as they wished, but the creatures always remained free to return to the wild. Many of these temporary pets became characters in the stories George wrote with her husband.

  After winning the Aurianne Award, the American Library Association’s prize for outstanding nature writing, for Dipper of Copper Creek (1956), George began to write on her own, at first continuing to illustrate the books herself. She won a Newbery Honor for her third novel, My Side of the Mountain (1959), which tells the story of Sam Gribley, a young boy who runs away from home in New York City to live in the Catskill Mountains in Delaware County, New York. The book was adapted into a film by the same name in 1969.

  In 1963, divorced from her husband, George and her three children, Twig, Craig, and Luke, began to travel around the country, visiting parks and preserves to learn about the plants and animals that thrived there. These experiences were the
inspiration for many of George’s novels, including what is perhaps her best-known work, Julie of the Wolves (1972).

  In the summer of 1970, George and her youngest son, Luke, visited the Naval Arctic Research Laboratory near Barrow, Alaska, one of the northernmost cities in the world. In preparation for a Reader’s Digest article, George studied the wolves living on the tundra nearby, learning about the animals’ social structures and intricate methods of communicating through sound, sight, posture, and scent. One day, George saw a very young girl crossing the tundra alone. The image remained with her as she began to write Julie of the Wolves, the story of an Inuit girl who escapes her abusive husband and survives in the wild by joining a wolf pack.