The Duck-footed Hound

by Jim Kjelgaard

  THE SUMMER OF OLD JOE

  Downstream from the Mundee farm, approximately three miles away as thewater flows, Willow Brook formed two channels. The main stream, a seriesof conventional pools and ripples, went sedately about the business ofevery creek and pursued its way to a river that in turn emptied into thesea. The secondary channel, as though weary of doing the same thing inthe same way all the time, stole off to go exploring by itself.

  In high water this channel dutifully accepted its share of the springfreshet. But even then it never became too big for its banks; there wasplenty of room for surplus water in a swamp through which it dawdled.

  In low water, the entrance to the channel was a bare seepage thatstruggled painfully around rocks and was so unimpressive that few humanresidents of the Creeping Hills ever bothered to go farther. Only Munand Harky Mundee and Mellie Garson knew that some of the best fishing inWillow Brook was down this channel.

  Old Joe knew it, and on this September night he was heading toward oneof his favorite pools.

  Though the days remained pleasantly warm, the heat of summer was pastand the nights were cool without being cold. A light frost drapedshriveled grasses, and a first-quarter moon that shone palely upon themmade it appear as though someone had been very careless with a largequantity of silver flakes. It was exactly the sort of night Old Joefavored above all others.

  He was very well satisfied with himself and his accomplishments as hepursued a leisurely way from a cave in a ledge of rocks where he'd lainup all day. In the summer now ending he'd added new luster to hisalready shining name and enjoyed himself thoroughly while doing it.Living, seldom a vexing matter for a hunter of his talents, had beenridiculously simple.

  Weatherwise, with exactly the right balance of rain and sun, and noprolonged spells of excessive heat, conditions could not have been moreideal. Besides plenty of wild fruit in the woods, gardens bore a bumpercrop and Old Joe helped himself whenever he felt like it, which was atleast every other night. In addition, Pine Heglin had decided that itwould be a wonderful idea if he raised some guinea fowl, and Old Joe hadindeed found it wonderful.

  In the first place, Pine Heglin had ideas, which is laudable enough ifthey are good ideas. Most of Pine's were not, but he never convincedhimself of that. Pine had an idea that a mongrel was far more effectiveon coons than any hound can ever be, and his current pride and joy was abig dog of many breeds that Pine considered a canine genius. Actually,the dog hadn't sense enough to get up if he were sitting on a sand burr.

  In the second place, most of the thirty guinea fowl that Pine acquiredran true to type and headed for the woods the instant they werereleased. Though they set up a hideous squawking whenever Old Joeraided their roost, the noise never disconcerted him in the smallestdegree. Pine's dog, who couldn't have found a skunk in a packing box,was even less bothersome, and Pine was too stubborn to call in someneighbor who had a good hound.

  Old Joe, who'd run ahead of all but two of the coon hounds along WillowBrook, and who feared none of them, happily raided every garden exceptMun Mundee's and Mellie Garson's. He kept away from them because therewas a new hound--Duckfoot at Mun's and Morning Glory atMellie's--roaming each farm. Old Joe wasn't especially afraid of themeither. But he had not had an opportunity to find out what they coulddo, and he hadn't lived to his present size and age by taking foolishchances.

  He hadn't the least doubt that in the course of time both Duckfoot andMorning Glory would be on his trail. Old Joe intended to pick the timeand place. Future actions in regard to both hounds would be based uponwhat he found out then.

  In spite of the rich living the farms provided whenever he saw fit totake it, Old Joe was far too much the gourmet to spurn the delicacies ofthe woods and waters. The only reason he did not raid farms every nightwas that sometimes he felt like eating fresh-water mussels, sometimes hecraved fish, sometimes he preferred frogs, and sometimes he yearned forcrawfish. Tonight he was in a mood for crawfish.

  Coming in sight of Willow Brook's adventurous channel, the big coonhalted and stood perfectly still. His was the rapt air of a poetic soulso overcome by the wonders of the night that he must savor them, andperhaps that did account in part for Old Joe's attitude. More important,he'd long ago learned never to cross his bridges until he'd found whatwas on them, and Old Joe wanted to determine what else might be prowlingthe channel before he became too interested in hunting crawfish. Findingnothing to warrant concern, he moved nearer the water's edge.

  He knew every inch of this channel. The trickle that fed it in low waterremained a trickle for a bit more than a hundred yards. Then there werethree deep pools separated by gentle ripples. The channel snaked throughthe forest, pursued a devious route, dozed through a swamp, and rejoinedWillow Brook proper three-quarters of a mile from where the pairseparated.

  The pools and ripples were the proper places to catch fish, the swampyielded frogs and mussels, and the pool beside which Old Joe halted wasthe best in the entire channel for crawfish. Old Joe advanced to theedge of the pool, but he did not at once start fishing.

  The ambitious first-quarter moon slanted a beam downward in such afashion that it glanced in a dazzling manner from something directly infront of Old Joe's nose. Spellbound, he stared for a full two minutes.

  He yearned to reach out and grasp whatever this might be, and it washalf a mussel shell that had been shucked here by a muskrat and fallenwhite side up. But though he might safely have retrieved this treasure,Old Joe sighed, circled two yards around it, and waded into the pool.Trappers who know all about a coon's inclination to put a paw onanything shiny often bait their traps with nothing else.

  Once in the pool, Old Joe went about his fishing with a businesslikeprecision born of vast experience. Crawfish, whose only means of offenseare the pincerlike claws attached to their front end, back away fromdanger, and this bit of natural history was basic to Old Joe's huntinglore. He slid one front paw beneath each side of a small stone and wasready. There were crawfish under every stone in this pool. Whichever pawOld Joe wriggled, a crawfish would be sure to back into the other.

  Before he had a chance to stir either paw, he withdrew both and sat upsputtering. Another coon was coming. As though it were not outrageousenough for a coon or anything else to trespass on a pool that Old Joehad marked for his private fishing, the stranger paid not the slightestattention to his warning growl.

  Obviously the intruder needed a lesson in manners and Old Joe would bedelighted to teach it. When the strange coon came near enough, hediscovered the reason for its lack of courtesy. It was a mere baby, alittle spring-born male, and it hadn't learned manners. But it would.Old Joe launched his charge.

  The trespasser stopped, squalled in terror, and with Old Joe in hotpursuit, turned to race full speed back in the direction from which hehad come. Seventy-five yards from where he started, Old Joe rounded atussock and stopped so suddenly that his chin almost scraped a furrowin the sand.

  Just in front of him, her bristled fur making her appear twice her usualsize, was the same mate whose den tree he'd sought out when he left thegreat sycamore in February. Old Joe was instantly transformed from anavenger bent on punishment to a husband bent on appeasement. Experiencehad taught him how to cope with every situation except that which mustarise when he chased his own son, whom he did not recognize, and cameface to face with his mate, whom he definitely did.

  Old Joe had time for one amiable chitter. Then, in the same motion, shewas upon and all over him. Her teeth slashed places that Old Joe hadn'tpreviously known were vulnerable while her four paws, that seemedsuddenly to have become forty, raked. For a moment he cowered. Then,since she was obviously in no mood to listen even if he had known how toexplain that it was all a mistake, he turned in inglorious flight.

  She chased him a hundred yards and turned back. Old Joe kept running. Hereached the other channel, swam Willow Brook, climbed the opposite bank,and finally slowed to a fast walk. He hadn't seen his mate since they'dleft her den tree to go their separate
ways, and he hadn't had a singlethought for either his wife or his two sons and three daughters.

  He had one now, a very profound one. They could have the pool wherecrawfish abounded and, for that matter, both channels of Willow Brook atleast for this night. Having met his match, Old Joe hadn't the leastdesire to meet her again.

  He put another half mile between them before he considered himselfreasonably safe. With the feeling that he was finally secure, came arealization that his dignity had been sadly ruffled. He was also hungry,but broken pride could be mended and hunger satisfied with one of PineHeglin's few remaining guinea hens.

  No longer threatened, Old Joe became his usual arrogant self. DespitePine's exalted opinion of his big dog, Old Joe knew the creature for theidiot it was. The guinea hens, though wild, were stupid enough to seekthe same roost every night, and they roosted in a grove of small pines.Old Joe, who'd taken his last guinea hen six nights ago, went straightto the grove.

  He had no way of knowing that sometimes the gods smile on those whorefuse to court favor.

  Five days ago, just after Old Joe's last visit, Pine Heglin's cherishedmongrel had gone strolling past a limpid pond on Pine's farm. He'dlooked into the water, seen his own reflection, decided that he wasbeing challenged by a big and rather ugly dog, and promptly jumped in togive battle. The reflection disappeared as soon as he was in the water,but reflections were too complex for one of his mental capacity. All heknew was that he had seen another dog. He was sure that it must belurking in the pond, and though he never got many ideas, he stuck bythose he did get. Presently, still looking determinedly for the otherdog, he sank and did not come up.

  Though Pine could have borrowed any hound that any of his neighborsowned, he remained loyal to his conviction that mongrels are superior.He dickered with Sad Hawkins, an itinerant peddler who'd sell or swapanything at any time, and in exchange for six chickens and a shoat Pinegot another mongrel.

  It was a smaller dog than his former prize, but so tightly packed andheavily muscled that it weighed nearly as much. With a generous portionof pit bull among his assorted ancestors, the dog feared nothing. Hediffered from Pine's former mongrel insofar as he had some sense.

  Knowing as well as Old Joe where his guinea hens roosted, and aware ofthe fact that they were being raided, Pine left this dog in the grovewith them. Thus came Old Joe's second shock of the night.

  The dog, who wouldn't waste time barking or growling if he could fight,achieved complete surprise and attacked before Old Joe even knew he wasabout. Since he couldn't run, he had to fight.

  The weight was nearly even, with the dog having perhaps a five-poundadvantage. In addition, before he came into the possession of SadHawkins, he'd made the rounds of behind-the-barn dog-fights and he hadnever lost one. He could win over most coons.

  The dog was a slugger. But Old Joe was a scientific boxer who knewbetter than to stand toe-to-toe and trade punches. He yielded to thedog's rushes even while he inflicted as much punishment of his own aspossible. However, the battle might have been in doubt had it not beenfor one unforseen circumstance.

  Hard-pressed by a determined and fearless enemy, Old Joe reached deepinto his bag of tricks. He knew the terrain, and some fifteen feet awaywas a steep little knoll. It was elemental battle tactics that whatevermight be in possession of any height had an advantage over whatevermight attack it. At the first breathing spell, Old Joe scurried to theknoll, climbed it, and waited.

  He was more than mildly astonished when the dog did not rushimmediately. But the dog hadn't had a keen sense of smell to begin with.The numerous fights in which he'd engaged wherein his hold on avanquished enemy was broken with a liberal application of ammonia, hadruined the little he did have. The dog was now unable to smell a dishof limburger cheese on the upwind side if it was more than three feetaway, and he could not renew the battle simply because he couldn't findhis enemy.

  Never one to question good fortune, Old Joe turned and ran as soon as hecould safely do so. First he put distance between himself and PineHeglin's remaining guinea hens, that were standing on the roostscreeching at the tops of their voices. Next he made a resolution toleave Pine's remaining guinea hens alone, at least for as long as thisdog was guarding them.

  Hard on the heels of that came anger. One needn't apologize for runningaway from one's angry mate. To be vanquished by a dog, and not even acoon hound, was an entirely different matter. Old Joe needed revenge,and just as this necessity mounted to its apex, he happened to bepassing the Mundee farm.

  Ordinarily he'd never have done such a thing. He knew nothing aboutDuckfoot, and a cornfield, with the nearest safe tree a long run away,was a poor place to start testing any unknown hound. Old Joe was tooangry to rationalize, and too hungry to go farther. He turned aside,ripped a shock of corn apart, and was in the act of selecting a choiceear when Duckfoot came running.

  In other circumstances, Old Joe would have stopped to think. Duckfoot,who would have the physical proportions of his father, had almostattained them. But he was still very much the puppy and he could havebeen defeated in battle.

  Old Joe had had enough fighting for one night. He reached Willow Brookthree jumps ahead of Duckfoot, jumped in, ran the riffles and swam thepools for a quarter of a mile, emerged in a little runlet, ran up it,and climbed an oak whose upper branches were laced with wild grapevines.The vines offered a safe aerial passage to any of three adjoining trees.Finding him now was a test for any good hound.

  A half hour later, Old Joe was aroused by Duckfoot's thunderous treebark. The big coon crossed the grapevine to a black cherry, climbed downit, jumped to the top of an immense boulder, ran a hundred yards to aswamp, crossed it, and came to rest in a ledge of rocks. This timeDuckfoot needed only nineteen minutes.

  Old Joe sighed and went on. The night was nearly spent, he neededsafety, and the only safe place was his big sycamore. After the mostdisgusting night of his life, he reached and climbed it. He hoped thatif he managed to get this far, Duckfoot would drown in the slough. Butin an hour and sixteen minutes Duckfoot was announcing to the world atlarge that Old Joe had gone up in his favorite sycamore.

  Old Joe sighed again. Then he curled up, but even as he dozed off, hewas aware of one thing.

  Duckfoot was a hound to reckon with.