HARKY'S PLOT
Mellie Garson, still immobilized by the mule kick, was aware of thestain that afflicted his immortal soul. But he was not completelyrepentant. Nothing could be worse than another day on the pickle keg.
Listlessly Mellie caught up a handful of pebbles and shied them one byone at a knothole in the woodshed wall. He shook his head and uttered adespairing moan. Tossing pebbles at the knothole was the only game he'dinvented to beguile the passing hours, and at first it had beeninteresting because he made a bull's-eye only about one time in twenty.Now it seemed that every pebble he tossed sailed through the knothole asnaturally as a trout swims up riffles.
Mellie contemplated scooping up more pebbles for more sharpshooting, butwhere was the fun when he just couldn't miss? Glumly he reviewed the sinfor which he must one day answer.
He should not, he told himself, ever have sent Melinda to take Glory onthe coon hunt. But how was he to know they'd get Old Joe up in his magicsycamore? Could he possibly have had forewarning of the fact thatMelinda would not only question the witchery of Old Joe and his magictree, but infect the minds of her male companions with her ownskepticism? Could anyone guess that the hallowed traditions of theCreeping Hills coon hunters would topple simply because a girl took partin a coon hunt?
Mellie shook his head sadly. Melinda, not exactly a woman, was notexactly a girl either. She was, Mellie told himself, old enough to castthe monkey wrench that usually lands in the gears whenever women intrudeon affairs that by every law of God and nature belong exclusively tomen.
The wreckage had been fearful indeed; Mun Mundee laid up with a brokenleg; Raw Stanfield and Butt Johnson afraid to show their faces on thelower reaches of Willow Brook; Harky Mundee mad as a trapped mink; andMelinda explaining blithely that hunting raccoons was indeed good sport.
Mellie buried his face in his hands and shook with anguish. He was not,he told himself honestly, as ashamed as he should be because he hadthrown such a destructive bomb among the Creeping Hills coon hunters.But that a Garson, even a female Garson, should refer to the art of coonhunting as mere "good sport" shook the very foundations of everything inwhich Mellie had faith.
Glory, who had been dozing in the sun, rose and prowled restlessly overto snuffle at the woodpile. Mellie regarded her with an experienced eye.
Melinda might lack a true appreciation of coon hunting, but she'dcertainly given him a thorough rundown on Glory. A slow starter and slowhunter, Melinda had said, and she tongued on the trail. But she wassteady as a church and true as a homing pigeon. She was every bit asgood as Queenie, and with a little experience she'd be better. A yearfrom now, any coon Glory got on would be treed or run to earth.
Mellie had a sudden, uncomfortable feeling that he himself could nothave found out so much about Glory in just one hunt. Or if he had, he'dbe inclined to doubt until Glory proved herself. But he'd acceptedMelinda's evaluation without the slightest question, and now as helooked at Glory he knew a rising uneasiness.
A good thing was never to be taken for granted, and there was much thatcould happen to any hunting hound; Mellie had only to remember PreciousSue. Though he fervently hoped she wouldn't, Glory might go the sameway, and where would he find another coon hound of equal quality? Therewas only one source.
However, there was a great deal involved. It was blasphemy even to thinkin terms of ordinary coon dogs when Glory was simultaneously in mind.There were only two hounds on Willow Brook worthy of her, Thunder andDuckfoot. Things being as they were, even if all else were equal, it wasunlikely that Butt Johnson would bring either his hound or himselfwithin nine miles of the Garsons, or anything that belonged to theGarsons.
About to catch up another handful of pebbles, Mellie grimaced andrefrained. He did not know how many pebbles he'd flicked from theupended pickle keg through the knothole and into the woodshed, butoffhand he guessed there were at least four bushels, and he didn't evenwant to think about another one. Nor had he much of anything else tooccupy his thoughts. His daughters, with a minimum of fuss and a maximumof efficiency, had all the farm tasks well in hand.
Mellie resumed his study of Glory, who had lain down in the sun but wasnot sleeping, and wondered if he should keep her tied up. She might gowandering, and there was no assurance that she'd be as lucky as PreciousSue. As everyone knew, the woods were just filled with all sorts ofwitches, and many of them were all bad.
Glumly Mellie pondered the probability that she'd break loose and gowandering even if he tied her (would anything ever go right for him?)when Glory sat up, tilted her head, and voiced a warning wail. A momentlater, Harky Mundee appeared.
Mellie sat still, doing his best to conceal his amazement, for he'd havebeen no more completely astounded if Old Joe himself had appeared withthe ghost of Precious Sue in hot pursuit. Obviously Harky was notseeking a fight, for he carried no fighting tools. But he certainly wasnot coming in peace; after Mellie's foul trick, the Mundees would nevermake peace with the Garsons. On the point of demanding that Harky statehis business and be on his way, Harky forestalled him with:
"I come to ask can Melinda fetch Glory on another coon hunt tonight?"
For a moment Mellie felt as though he'd again been mule-kicked, thistime squarely between the eyes. He blinked and recovered.
"I thought," he heard himself saying, "that you come to ask kin Melindafetch Glory on another coon hunt tonight?"
"I did," Harky asserted.
A sudden suspicion pricked Mellie's mind. Boys were boys and girls weregirls, and all things considered it was a very pleasing arrangement, andthere was no harm whatever in a bit of smooching. But how come HarkyMundee, otherwise so very sensible, thought he could successfully blendthat with a coon hunt? Or did he?
"You got notions 'bout that girl child of mine?" he demanded.
"You bet!" Harky assured him.
"Well, I don't know as I have any real objections. Melinda's a miteyoung, but you're a mite young yourself to be huntin' a wife."
"Wife!" Harky gasped. "You think I been moonstruck?"
"You talk like you been," Mellie growled. "A man has to be 'fore he'lllet himself in for all what can happen when he _asks_ a woman to go coonhuntin'. Who ya aim to take along outside o' Melinda an' Glory?"
"Me an' Duckfoot," Harky stated.
"But you ain't got no ideas 'bout Melinda?" Mellie pursued.
"You're darn' whistlin' right I got ideas!" Harky said. "I've had 'emever since the night everything got smashed to bits!"
"I know," Mellie said gloomily.
"I can't even take no pleasure on account Pa can't make me fetch thecorn in and husk it," Harky continued.
"I know," said Mellie, and he shrugged helplessly. "Many's the time Ibeen tempted to leave mine out, but with fourteen wimmen folk, a body'sgot less chanst than you stand with your Pa."
"Could be you're right," Harky said reflectively. "I guess there's timeswhen a man like you just can't help himself, and that's why you sentMelinda on the coon hunt."
"I could of helped myself," Mellie corrected. "I could of told Melindato stay home an' she'd of stayed. But I didn't an' she didn't."
"Why'd you send her?" Harky asked.
"Pure hellishness," said Mellie. "I was mule-kicked an' couldn't go coonhuntin' so I figgered I'd ruin it for everybody else."
"You sure enough did," Harky told him. "Pa's got a busted leg, Raw andButt are staying near enough the woods so they can duck into 'em, and uscoon hunters are just going to sink right where we are without we dosomething."
"What ya aim to do, Harky?"
"I got to take Melinda out and I'll bring her back. We have to run OldJoe up his big sycamore and I got to show Melinda that there ain't anyden there for him to hide in."
"It's a right big order," Mellie said.
"But the only chance any of us got," Harky pointed out. "That MissCathby, she come into the hills and tried to teach that Old Joe ain'tnothing but a big old coon. The rest, she says, is a lot offoolishness, too. If we don't put a finis
h to that sort of thing onceand for all, even us men will be sitting around gathering our lore outof books 'stead of coon hunts."
Mellie shuddered at a prospect so horrible. There was a brief silence,and Harky asked, "Can Melinda fetch Glory tonight?"
Mellie said seriously, "Maybe you ain't been moonstruck in one way, butyou sure have been in another. You ever try tellin' a woman what to do?"
"No," Harky conceded, "but I'd like to."
"Me too," Mellie said sadly, "but I know better. Melinda kin go if shewants to, an' I kind of think she will on account she likes coonhuntin'. But--"
"But what?" Harky asked.
"But nothin'," Mellie said.
About to fill Harky's understanding ear with his recent mental turmoil,and how that was responsible for his decision to keep Glory tied, Melliewisely said nothing. Somehow or other he'd got just what he wantedanyhow, and Glory would be running with Duckfoot. Only fools meddledwith affairs that were already perfect.
"Good enough," said Harky. "I'll wait 'til Melinda comes."
In due course, another day at Miss Cathby's school behind them, Melindaand Mary danced into the yard. Mary, who not only thought Harky aroughneck but said so loudly, frequently, and publicly, stuck her tongueout at him and ran into the house. Melinda, met and accompanied by anecstatic Glory, came to where her father and Harky waited.
"You must have your corn in, Harold," she said sweetly.
"How come you ask that?" Harky demanded.
"If you didn't, you'd never be wasting daylight hours just talking."
"Corn ain't in and it ain't gonna be," Harky stated. "It ain't none ofyour mix if 'tis or not. What I come to ask is, will you bring Glory andcome hunting tonight?"
"Can I, Pa?" Melinda breathed.
"If you've a mind to," Mellie said.
"Oh, Pa!"
She kissed him, assured Harky that she would be there with Glory atnightfall, and ran into the house. Mellie turned glowing eyes on Harky.
"You do git yourself a wife come two-three years, don't cuss your girlchildren. Didja see her kiss me?"
"Fagh!" said Harky.
* * * * *
Duckfoot, sitting on the Mundee porch, was hopefully sniffing the porkchops Harky was frying inside. Knowing that in the fullness of time hewould be gnawing the bones, Duckfoot licked his pendulous jowls in happyanticipation and blew through his nose.
If he thought of himself at all, which he seldom did, it was never towonder what he was or why he had been created. He was a hound, he hadbeen created to hunt coons, and that's all Duckfoot had to know.
He could not possibly understand that he was a canine genius, and hewouldn't have cared if he had. The blood of Precious Sue mingled withthat of Rafe Bradley's huge hound in Duckfoot, and he had inherited thebest of both plus something more. He was born with a sense of smell andan ability to stick to a trail that is rare in even the best ofexperienced hounds.
The extra something consisted of a talent to out-think and outguess thequarry he was running. He'd been a mere pup the night Old Joe cameraiding, but he'd experienced little difficulty in tracking Old Joe tohis magic sycamore and he'd learned since.
The second time they ran Old Joe, Duckfoot had paced the renownedThunder and arrived at the sycamore with his far more experiencedhunting companion. He'd known perfectly well that Old Joe was in theden, for he could smell him there.
With a coon up, and for as long as the coon remained up, Duckfoot wassatisfied to run true to form and bay the tree. Sooner or later hismaster would hear him tonguing and arrive to take charge. But Duckfoothad no intention of letting any coon, treed or not, get the upper handand he called on his inborn hunting sense to make sure they never did.
Even Thunder considered his whole duty discharged if he either caughthis coon on the ground or treed him and bayed the tree. Duckfoot wentbeyond that to a complete grasp of any given situation. He had knowneven as he supported Thunder's voice with his own that Old Joe might tryto escape and that the one logical escape route was farther up thesycamore and into the tunnel.
The instant Old Joe left his den, Duckfoot raced for the ledge. Only thecramped tunnel prevented his overtaking Old Joe, and there'd been along, hard chase after the big coon emerged into the swamp. Old Joe hadfinally escaped by entering a beaver pond, diving, evicting the rightfultenants from their domed house, and waiting it out.
It was a maneuver that Duckfoot had yet to learn; all he was sure of wasthat beaver appeared but the coon disappeared. Duckfoot, however, hadlearned exactly what to do should Old Joe again enter his den in thesycamore and be forced out of it. Rather than go to the tunnel'sentrance, he'd go to its mouth and wait for his quarry to come out.
Thus Old Joe entered a wrong phase of his own special moon. If he treedin the sycamore and stayed there, his den would surely be discovered. Ifhe left, Duckfoot would catch him at the swamp.
Two seconds before his supper was ready, Duckfoot winded Old Joe.
The old raider was down in the corn, making ready to rip a shock apartand help himself to the ears, when Duckfoot rushed. With a coonscented, he forgot even the prospect of pork chop bones.
The trail led to Willow Brook. Ranging upstream, Duckfoot found wherethe big coon had emerged on the far bank and tried to lose his scent ina slough. Duckfoot solved that one. Running like a greyhound when he wason scent and working methodically when he was not, he went on.
Presently, far behind, he heard Glory begin to tongue. Duckfoot sethimself to working out another twist in Old Joe's trail.
Beyond any doubt, it would lead to the magic sycamore.
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