He seemed to know just where he was going, the dark night was no hindrance and as he came abreast the sugar house he began to gallop. Over the washed roots of the sugar maples he ran, over the white rocks of the gully, up through the woods to the base of the old red oak tree where he had been born.
At the bottom of the tree, he looked up the clean straight trunk of his old home. He sank his claws into the bark and walked up, up toward the white mist of the Milky Way and the star bent bow of Sagittarius, the archer. He climbed the familiar fifty feet that took him up over the glistening span of the sapling maples and beeches to the gray scar of the oak. Procyon clung here a moment and glanced around the forest. Above him was the dark doorway of the old den. He felt the shaggy entrance, and sniffed the deep hollow. It smelt only of wood and the stale odor of owl. Procyon crawled down into his home den, circled in the dry wood dust and curled up to sleep.
CHPTER SEVEN
THE SUN had taken the last touch of green from the corn tassels. They bobbed in the wind, the color of sand. It was September and Gib was waiting for the full moon. The corn would be ready for the silo at full moon, he said. That was still several weeks away and he and Joe were filling in the time with work on the new horse barn. It was heavy work digging trenches and lifting rocks. They welcomed Walt’s visit to the farm as a break in the day’s struggle against the earth and the stones.
After a few words of greeting, Walt said:
“Gib, the County Coon Hunter’s Association wants to use your woods for the coon dog trials next weekend. Would that be all right with you?”
Gib kicked a stone loose with the toe of his boot and looked up slowly.
“Guess so,” he replied. “If they don’t get it all cluttered up with paper.”
“Why don’t you enter Fanny?” Walt asked after a pause. “The Luke brothers are entering Smoky Woods and I’m thinking about getting Mr. Black into shape.”
“Fanny wouldn’t do nothing in a race like that,” Gib said. He looked at his lean Blue Tick hound who had begun to dance on the end of her chain at the mention of her name.
“She’s got a good nose, and can leap fences like a deer. You know sometimes it’s just a trick like that, that can change the whole color of these coon dog races. If I were you I’d sure put her in, Gib. Alight as well be Fanny that wins as some other dog.”
Joe was smiling now, studying the angular beauty of the hound.
“And she’s pretty fast, too,” he mused. “Just might be she could do something at that. She knows these woods and fields like a fox. How about it, Gib?”
“Oh,” he hesitated, “I’ve got too much to do to take out time to get her in trim.”
“Well, you know best,” added Walt. “But it sure would be a big day if one of our dogs brought in the purse—two hundred dollars, you know.”
Walt started toward his car and Gib followed him.
“Tell the Association they can use the woods, if they clean up the papers and pop bottles afterwards. I’ll think about Fanny.” A light sparked in the corners of Gib’s eyes. He was smiling.
Joe was at Fanny’s kennel when Walt drove out the lane and away. He bent down and took one paw in his big rugged fist.
“You wouldn’t take much training, would you, old girl?” he said, “Did you know the folks have been talking about a hot water heater for a long time and that you just might be the answer?”
Procyon awoke that evening with a start. The air creeping around him was brisk and his appetite had sharpened with the weather. Nevertheless awakening was a ritual and Procyon would not be hurried. He turned his head and peered nonchalantly into the soft shadows of the woods, his coon eyes making trees, limbs and leaves out of the black pockets of night. He was in the nutcracker this night, in the young stand of elms, oaks and beech. To the east he could hear the murmur of Rook’s Creek. It brought to his senses the taste of suckers and crayfish. Procyon dug his claws into the yielding bark of the elm and walked down to the earth, head first. And, as usual, by the time he reached the ground a drop of water hung on his nose. He was hungry, very hungry and as he hurried toward the creek his searching hands reached out from time to time to snatch up a beechnut or a chilled, immobile snail. The same quantity of food that would have satisfied him two weeks ago was no longer sufficient, for his body was demanding not only enough food to sustain him, but more. Winter was coming and he needed twice as many nuts, fish and corn in order to build up his layer of fat that would protect and nourish him through the cold months.
Procyon hurried to the stream. Red and gold leaves floated past him on the black water, and the soft outline of his body varied sharply from the polished surface of the stream. He was fifteen pounds in weight now and as solid as the packed bank behind him. His round haunches swished from side to side as he walked, toes turned inward. His ringed tail was as rich in color as the orange clay from the subsoil of the forest. The clown of the treetops, the curious prober of the woodland trails felt his way down the stream taking food from the pockets beneath the water. In the forest litter around him the male crickets sang and the male katydids chirped monotonously overhead. It was a noisy night. The insects seemed to be hurrying to spend their full life span before the frost descended upon them. The raccoon had to listen intently to hear the sounds of other woodland life above the filed chants of the insects.
Procyon stopped. He had scented the trail of another raccoon. He pressed back his ears and tasted again this fresh scent. He pawed the trail, flipped backwards, then bounced forward to meet this kinsman. The scent led to the water’s edge where doubtless the earlier raccoon had also taken food. Procyon bounded along the wet rim of the stream and, as his nose searched for further scents, his paws automatically turned over the pebbles and dug among the soggy leaves.
His vacillating interest shifted to his hunting. The other raccoon was forgotten.
His reflection, soft and fluffy, broke off in little chips and danced toward the shore as he moved down the stream stirring the water gently before him. A twig snapped far to the west. Without thought he peered toward it, still hunting with his paws beneath the flowing water. He lifted a crayfish to his mouth, his ears and eyes still turned to the west. He ate it, then broke into a gallop, for now twigs cracked repeatedly. A man was coming down through the nutcracker. Procyon rounded several bends in the stream before he stopped to hunt again.
Like the snap of a whip, the voice of Fanny sounded sharp and excited over the drone of the insects. Joe’s voice answered her report. Alan and dog were not two hundred yards away.
The long-legged coon hound sped along the edge of the stream. She braked and stopped where the scents of the two raccoons crossed, then picked up Procyon’s trail, the fresher of the two.
It took the hunted raccoon only a flash of a second to realize what these sounds meant. He broke into a swift gallop, shot up the bank and leapt onto the bole of the nearest tree—a slender maple. Without pause he swept up into the limbs. When he looked down, he saw Fanny at the base of his tree. She howled up his scented skyway trail.
The following week Joe and Fanny became part of the evening pattern. Sometimes it was Procyon that was treed; sometimes the baying dog and the shouting man were in another part of the forest and it was some other raccoon that took to the limbs.
Saturday before the trials, Procyon did not leave his tree until late. That afternoon a trailer had pulled into the woods. Men had stalked the woodland paths and their noisy voices kept Procyon in his tree. It was almost midnight before he descended, hungry, yet cautious. He had not gone many yards before he came upon an ear of corn that had been dragged back into the forest that morning by a fox squirrel. He devoured it with powerful crunches. Farther on he crossed the tracks of a man. He stood up, lifting his ears above the rustling leaves. There were no live sounds other than the insects, the distant scratchings of a mouse, and the swirling of a muskrat somewhere up the stream. Procyon went back to all fours and lumbered toward the woodland meadow. He meant to
circle this opening and climb the hill to the cornfield. Suddenly there sounded a hissing and three loud cracks.
Procyon was three feet up a young elm before he looked back. The chases of the past few weeks had taught him to take care. Now he turned and peered toward the trouble. Two large round eyes were looking at him. Once again he had come upon young Bubo. The owl was still surviving on frogs and an occasional mouse. The raccoon came back down to the ground and continued his way. Young Bubo hobbled away, flapping and thumping his good wing against the earth as he retreated deep into the woods. The men who had come to the forest that day had frightened him, and he had left his stump along the old sugar road to find better shelter beyond the stream. He ate little that night, and the hunger streaks in his feathers indicated that he had eaten poorly for months.
Procyon stayed close to the edge of the cornfield, eating all he could without going too far from the trees. Just before daybreak he came to an over-mature sugar maple. It had seen better days, and the raccoon climbed to a scar in its bole and crawled into its woody heart. This tree stood not far from the sugar house. Nearby it grew one of the most famous maples in Gib’s woods. It was a giant tree thirty-nine inches through well above the butt swell. A giant tree that could hold and fill daily five maple buckets during the spring run. It was a March landmark—the great hundred foot high tree with its roots stretched out across the earth and its cluster of buckets clanging in the wind.
Sunday morning the woods bustled with preparations for the hunt. A tree was chosen at the east end of the woods for the first three heats. A rope was stretched behind it to keep off the crowd. Fifty feet in front of the tree, two flags were set about thirty feet apart. From the tree a coon drag led between the flags and back a mile through the woods and farms. This drag was laid just before the heat or race by pulling a wad of old rags soaked in raccoon grease and tied securely in chicken wire. The dogs would be trucked to the start of this dragged trail and would race along it through the flags to the tree. The first dog to cross between the flags won “line”; the first dog to bark at the scented tree won “tree.” Those were the two awards, line and tree. A live raccoon in a cage was hoisted into the marked tree. It was an adult male that was kept for these races to lend reality to the chase. He glowered out of his cage, his eyes shifting from black to silver as the light struck them.
The crowd gathered, trucks arrived and along the edge of the woods, the howling hounds pulled at their leashes. Many of the dogs were tied to trees and bushes, others were resting quietly in elaborate dog trailers hitched behind cars.
Gib and Joe and Mrs. Strang remained at the house during the preparations. They were reading the Sunday papers when Walt came up to the back door. He knocked and walked in.
“Well, Gilbert,” he called, “I’m going to enter Mr. Black. What about Fanny?”
Walt needed no answer. He could tell by the twinkle in Gib’s eyes and the shadow of a grin that passed over his lips that Fanny was ready for the chase.
“Good,” he cried. “We’ll take over, I just know we will!”
“Fanny is good,” Joe boasted, “plenty good enough for these make-believe hunts.”
Walt laughed aloud.
“I would be just awfully pleased to see Fanny or Mr. Black come in ahead of that pack.” The three men changed the subject and talked farming until it was time to pay the five dollar entry fee and officially put Mr. Black and Fanny in the race.
None of them was a regular trial fan, and each suspected that many of the entries were not good hunters, but merely followed the pack, heading for the sounds of the excited crowd of people. They were taking the chance that the innate talents of their all around hounds might overcome the training and experience of the coon trial dogs. They realized that in this game they were amateurs and that their dogs were amateurs running in a professional race. As interlopers they felt like young boys sliding under the tent flaps to see the circus. With sober faces but grinning spirits they entered Fanny and Mr. Black.
They were two of the seventy-three dogs entered in the races, one of which was Smoky Woods, the coon hound that belonged to the Luke brothers. Potter and Sim Luke were kneeling beside him near the fence when Gib, Walt and Joe arrived. They nudged each other and pointed as the three men led Fanny and Mr. Black toward the crowd. Sim arose and came toward the new arrivals. He slipped up to Gib and touched him on the arm.
“Say, Gib, what are you going to do with Fanny?”
“Put her in the races,” he answered simply. Sim glanced at the frisky Blue Tick hound and went back to his brother. Gib could see their lips move as they whispered to each other.
The trailer that had come in last night was now a hot dog and hamburger bar. It was owned by the Kelts who moved with the hunts each week from one area to the next. They had folded up their bed, swept out the kitchen and opened a big window to the public.
“Hot dogs! Hamburgers! Soda pop!” Frank Kelt called out across the din of barking dogs and shouting people.
Promptly at one o’clock the first heat began. Mr. Black was listed in the first race, Fanny in the second and Smoky Woods in the third. There were to be eight heats in all, then the semi-finals and the finals. Each dog was put up for auction. He went to the highest bidder. The bidder did not get the dog but got a prize if the dog won its race. A dog named Red Lady was the first to be auctioned off.
“How much do I hear for first tree?” the auctioneer called out.
“One dollar!” a man shouted from the crowd.
“One dollar, do I hear two?”
“A dollar and a half!” sounded a woman’s voice from the other side of the crowd.
“A dollar and a half, do I hear two? A dollar and a half, a dollar and a half—sold to the lady for a dollar and a half.”
Five more hounds were auctioned off, then came Mr. Black. Walt took him to the truck where the auctioneer and the officials were gathered. He lifted the dog to the platform of the truck. The crowd pushed closer to see the sturdy animal that Walt had brought to the trials. While he was being auctioned off, Walt put a big number “7” on his flanks with yellow water paint.
“Number 7—Mr. Black. How much do I hear for first line?”
Joe and Gib were standing to the rear of the group. They were not going to take part in the bidding. They just wanted to see what their dog could do in the race. They waited quietly.
Sim Luke bought Mr. Black. He wedged through the crowd to the stand. He gave the treasurer two dollars for Mr. Black to win first tree. Diamond Jim, a greyhound and a favorite for the day for line was sold for three dollars.
One more dog and the auctioning was over and the race was ready to begin. The dogs and their owners were loaded in a truck.
Joe and Gib watched anxiously as Walt and Mr. Black bounced down the lane in the back of the truck. The truck turned left on Cherry Hill Road and drove a mile and a half to the starting line. The line was at the far corner of the section about a mile run in a winding route for the dogs.
The boys who dragged the scent came up to the finish line just as Gib and Joe arrived at the ropes to wait for the dogs. Hurriedly the boys rubbed the drag, scented with coon grease on the maple selected as “tree.” The crowd thickened behind the rope. There were four judges in the field, two at the flags and two at the tree.
From far across the woodland came the howl of the racing pack. Joe’s knuckles tightened on the rope and he looked at Gib.
“Sure hope Mr. Black is in there!”
“Here they come!” one of the line judges called and motioned for the crowd to be quiet. At his sign everyone ceased talking, and stood tense, waiting. Gib and Joe squinted through the trees. Over the top of the far hill, the pack could be seen sprinting eagerly along the trail. One dog was far out in front.
‘That’s Diamond Jim,” a man beside Gib shouted and slapped a friend across the shoulders.
Up the valley they came, their legs a blur beneath them, their heads held high on the scent. Yelps and bellows r
ang through the hushed forest.
One dog did hold the lead by almost twenty yards. Its streaking form looked just like every other dog entered in the race. It sped past the finish line, raced straight to the tree and barked! The other dogs piled behind clawing, howling and jumping at the tree.
“Who was it, Gib?” Joe called, but Gib was beyond the rope running to the tree to catch Mr. Black. He swung him aside by the collar just as another dog lunged at him to fight. Joe watched Gib snap on the leash and come toward him. Gib was trying to chew back an uncontrollable grin as he neared.
“He won both tree and line by a good twenty feet, Joe.”
Joe gulped and slapped Mr. Black fondly across the haunches. The other dogs were now all leashed and led away. Gib tied Mr. Black to a fence post and looked down the lane. The truck with the dog starters was returning. Joe was there to meet Walt as he jumped from the platform to the ground.
“He beat them all hollow!” Joe sputtered.
“Naw,” Walt said staring at Joe with pleasure.
“Sure, he did,” said Joe as he leaned back and laughed.
“Well, at least I get my five dollar entry fee back,” said Walt. And then he swung and clutched Joe’s shoulder. “Now for Fanny! She’ll do it, too.”
The auctioning began for the second race. The three men listened and watched. When number 17 was called, Joe led the slender Blue Tick hound to the stand. He sat on the edge of the truck beside her and scratched her head. Fanny sold for one dollar for the first tree, fifty cents for second tree, and a dollar and a half for first line.
Joe leaped to the truck almost as easily as Fanny. He was in high spirits as he sat down on the bale of straw and waited for the two remaining dogs to be auctioned off and the heat to begin. After what seemed to him to be ages of waiting, the truck was slipped into gear and was moving down the lane. He looked back at his friends a little nervous for fear his training had not been rigorous enough.
Masked Prowler: The Story of a Raccoon (American Woodland Tales) Page 8