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THE DUCK-FOOTED HOUND
_By Jim Kjelgaard_
ILLUSTRATED BY MARC SIMONT
THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY New York
_Copyright_ (C) _1960 by Eddy Kjelgaard_
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except by a reviewer, without the permission of the publisher.
Manufactured in the United States of America by the Vail-Ballou Press, Inc., Binghamton, New York
Library of Congress Catalog Card No. 60-9160
First Printing
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Old Joe was the biggest, fightingest, craftiest coon in the CreepingHills. No one had ever been able to catch him; not even Precious Sue, abluetick hound peerless in tracking down coons.
But Harky felt that this autumn the hunting would be different. Old Joewas in for trouble. Precious Sue had a pup who looked like anatural-born coon hunter. With his web-footed paws he was as skillful inthe water as any coon. And on land, Duckfoot had a nose that beat everyother hound hollow.
Harky had a few troubles of his own. First there was school. Miss Cathbywas nice, but she was a teacher. She called Old Joe a _rac_coon. And shesaid he could not live forever because he was mortal.
Then there were girls. More specifically, there was Melinda--thebossiest, uppitiest young lady for miles around. And she wanted to_hunt_.
Jim Kjelgaard's story of people and hounds captures all the glory andexcitement of coon hunting on a crisp autumn night. Marc Simont hasillustrated the story with wit and brilliance.
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CONTENTS
OLD JOE 1
HARKY 16
SUE 31
HARKY GOES FISHING 46
DUCKFOOT 59
THE SUMMER OF OLD JOE 74
MISS CATHBY 89
MELINDA 106
OLD JOE UP 118
THE FALL OF MUN 132
IMPASSE 146
HARKY'S PLOT 158
AUTUMN NIGHT 172
THE DUCK-FOOTED HOUND
OLD JOE
At twenty minutes past nine on a Friday night, just after the dark ofmoon, an owl in the topmost branches of the huge hollow sycamore saw OldJoe come out of his den.
The ancient sycamore's trunk, rooted in gravel beside a brooding sloughfilled with treacherous sand bars, was five feet in diameter at thebase. With only a slight taper, it rose for twenty-five feet to thefirst crotch. Peering down through leafless twigs and branches, the owlsaw the entrance to Old Joe's den as a gaping dark hole squarely in thecenter of the crotch.
The owl was not aware of the precise second when the hole became filled.It was an unnerving thing, for the owl had long ago learned that it isthe part of wisdom to know what comes and to recognize it when itappears, and because he was startled he fluttered his wings.
He recovered almost instantly, but remained tense and alert. A notedraider himself, the owl was the rankest of amateurs compared with theold boar coon whose masked face filled the den's entrance and whoseblack nose quivered as it tested the night scents.
Old Joe, the biggest, craftiest, fightingest coon in the Creeping Hills,had slept in the hollow sycamore since the frigid blasts of mid-Decemberhad draped the hills with snow and locked the ponds and creeks in ice.But it was as impossible for him to remain asleep during this Januarythaw as it was for the sycamore not to stir its roots and make ready tofeed new sap to its budding leaves.
He came all the way out and sat in the crotch. A little more thanthirty-six inches long from the end of his tapering nose to the tip ofhis ringed tail, he stood thirteen inches high at the shoulder andweighed a pound for every inch of length. His fur, shading from lightgray to deep black, was lustrous and silky.
The owl saw beneath these external appearances and knew Old Joe for whathe was: part burglar, part devil, and part imp.
The owl flew away. He knew his superior when he met him.
Old Joe, who'd seen the owl in the upper branches before thatnight-faring pirate knew he was coming out, did not even bother toglance up. Owls, the terror of small birds and beasts, merited onlycontempt from one who'd been born with a knowledge of the pirate's craftand had refined that knowledge to an art. Old Joe would happily rob theowl's nest and eat his mate's eggs when and if he could find them, andif he had nothing more important to do. This night there was much ofimportance that cried for his attention.
Like all raiders with enemies that plot their downfall, he'd attended tohis first duty before he ever showed himself. With only his noseprotruding from the den, he'd read the stories the wind carried andfound nothing he must hide from, or match wits with, in any part of it.The wind had intensified his excitement and increased the urge that hadawakened him and sent him forth.
Last night the wind had purred out of the north, bringing intense coldthat made trees crack like cannon shots, but tonight the wind wasdirectly out of the south. The snow blanket sagged, and damp littlerivulets, from melting snow that had gathered on the upper branches,crept down the sycamore's trunk. Winter was not broken. But it wasbreaking, and there would never be a better reason for waking up andfaring forth.
Old Joe attended to his second duty. While winter had its way in theCreeping Hills, he had slept snug and warm in the hollow trunk of theold sycamore. His fur was more disheveled than any proper coon shouldever permit, and meticulous as any cat, Old Joe set to grooming himself.
The sycamore was anything but a casually chosen den. The men who livedin the Creeping Hills, small farmers for the most part, did so becausethey preferred the backwoods to anywhere else. For recreation theyturned to hunting, and Old Joe had run ahead of too many coon houndsnot to understand the whys and wherefores of such.
With a hound on his trail, any coon that did not know exactly what hewas doing would shortly end up as a pelt tacked to the side of a barnand roast coon in the oven. Hounds could not climb trees, but thehunters who accompanied the hounds carried lights, guns, and axes. Acoon that sought safety in a tree that had no hollow would be "shined"and either shot out or shaken out to be finished by the hounds. Mosttrees that were hollow were not proof against axes.
The sycamore was perfect. The slough at the bottom, with its shiftingsand bars, could be navigated in perfect safety by anything that knewwhat it was doing. Old Joe did. Most hounds did not. Many thatrecklessly flung themselves into the slough, when they were hot on OldJoe's trail, had come within a breath of entering that Heaven whichawaits all good coon hounds.
Even if a hound made its way to the base of the sycamore, and some had,Old Joe was still safe. Hunters who would enthusiastically fell smallertrees recoiled before this giant. The most skilled axeman would needhours to chop it down. Climbing the massive trunk, unless one wereequipped with climbing tools, was impossible.
If anyone tried to climb or chop, and so far no one had, Old Joe had anescape. The west fork above the crotch probed another thirty feet intothe air before its branches became too small to support a heavy coon.One solid limb leaned over a high and rocky ledge in which was theentrance to an underground tunnel. This tunnel had two exits, oneleading to a tangled mass of brush and the other to a
swamp. Old Joecould, as he had proved many times, drop directly from the overhanginglimb into the tunnel's entrance.
So far, though most coon hunters of the Creeping Hills knew that Old Joesometimes climbed the sycamore when he was hard-pressed, none evensuspected that he stayed there. From ground level the trunk did not lookhollow, and since no one had ever seen fit to climb the tree, none hadever seen the den entrance in the crotch. It was commonly supposed thatonce Old Joe was in the sycamore he climbed out on one of the branchesoverhanging the slough and dropped in.
Not all coon hunters believed that. Mellie Garson and a few others whosehounds had been good enough to trail Old Joe to the sycamore swore thatonce he reached the topmost branches the old coon simply sprouted wingsand flew away.
The last hair finally, and perfectly, in place, Old Joe came out of thetree. This he accomplished by utilizing a natural stairway that benignprovidence seemed to have provided just for him.
Long ago, a bolt of lightning had split the sycamore from crotch toground level. Over the years, save for a seam where the spreading barkhad finally met, the tree had healed itself. The seam was no wider ordeeper than the thickness of a man's thumb, but it was enough for OldJoe.
Bracing one handlike forepaw against the side, and bringing the other upbehind it, he sought and found a grip with his rear paws and descendedhead first. His grip was sure, but he hadn't the slightest fear offalling anyway. Often he had fallen or jumped from greater heights, ontohard ground, without the least injury to himself.
He descended safely, as he had known he would, and when he was near theground he halted and extended a front paw to touch the thawing snow. OldJoe chittered his pleasure.
Nature, in designing him, seemed to have started with a small bear inmind. Then she decided to incorporate portions of the beaver and otter,and at the last minute included certain characteristics of the monkeyplus a few whims of her own. With a bear's rear paws and a monkey'shands, Old Joe was at home in the trees. But he found his life in thewater and took a fair portion of his living from it. He had had his lastswim in Willow Brook the night before it froze, and that was too long togo without a bath.
Old Joe buried both front paws in the soggy snow, then let go with hisrear ones and rolled over and over. He rose with dripping fur and racingblood, not even feeling the cold.
The proper course now would be to smooth his fur by rubbing his wholebody against the trunk of the nearest tree, but he was too wise toreturn to the sycamore. Old Joe had long since learned that he lefttelltale hairs wherever he rubbed, and coon hairs on a tree are an openbook to even a semi-skilled woodsman. Old Joe made a belly dive into apuddle of slush, exulting in the spray that scattered.
He knew also that he was leaving tracks, but he did not care. He had nointention of returning to the sycamore tonight and perhaps not for manynights, and coon tracks meant only that a coon had passed this way.Besides, tracks would disappear when the snow melted. Hair clinging tothe sycamore's bark would not.
Old Joe went happily on.
Though he had eaten nothing in almost seven weeks, he was not especiallyhungry, and hunger alone never would have driven him from the den tree.There was something else: an irresistible urge that he could not havedenied if he would. Old Joe was on the most important and compelling ofall missions, a mission that had begun when time began and would endureuntil time ended. On this warm night, he must go out simply because hecould not stay.
With little side excursions here and there, but always heading directlyinto the wind, he traveled almost due south. When a bristled dog foxbarred his path, Old Joe did not swerve at all. The fox bared its fangs,snapped its jaws, and at the last second, yielded the right of way.
The Creeping Hills were Joe's beat and would remain his beat. He wouldgo where he pleased, for he feared no other wild creature. Even hisdistant cousins, the black bears that shared the Creeping Hills withhim, had never succeeded in keeping Old Joe from where he wished toventure. The bears were bigger and stronger than he, but they could notclimb so fast nor swim so far, and they did not know all the hidingplaces that Old Joe had discovered before his second birthday.
Old Joe was a match for anything in the Creeping Hills except hunterswith guns. Hunters were to be parried with wits rather than force, sinceforce alone could never hope to prevail against firearms. But huntersgave spice to what, at times, might have been a monotonous existence.The chase was usually as welcome to Old Joe as it was to any hounds orhunters that had ever pursued him.
Three-quarters of a mile from the sycamore, Old Joe halted and gravelyexamined a new scene.
The slough at the base of the sycamore remained frozen. But WillowBrook, with its due proportion of still pools and snarling riffles, hadoverflowed the ice that covered it and had surged up on both banks. Nomore than two yards from the tip of Old Joe's nose, three forlorn willowtrees seemed to shiver on a high knoll that was ordinarily dry, butthat was now a lonely little island besieged by the overflow from WillowBrook.
Quivering with delight, Old Joe rippled forward. He belly-splashed intothe water, swam across, and climbed the knoll. He rubbed himself againsteach of the willows, groaning with the luxury of such a massage. Then hejumped down the other side of the knoll, plunged into the swift waterthat flowed over Willow Brook's ice, and without yielding an inch to thecurrent emerged on the far bank. There he halted.
The owl that had sat in the top branches of the sycamore and watched OldJoe come out of his den had known that he was part burglar, part devil,and part imp. The owl had not known that, depending on circumstances,Old Joe could be any of these three without regard to the other two.Reaching the far bank, he was all imp.
He knew everything about the Creeping Hills, including the location ofeach farm, the character of the farmer and his family, the gardensplanted and the crops that would grow, and the number and species oflivestock.
A sagging barbed-wire fence two yards from the edge of Willow Brookmarked the border of the Mundee farm. Its proprietor was Arthur Mundee,but because no man in the Creeping Hills was ever called by his givenname, his neighbors knew him as Mun. He had a thirteen-year-old sonnamed Harold and called Harky, and a wife who had gone to her eternalpeace seven years ago. Next in importance was a hound, a bluetick namedPrecious Sue. Mun Mundee was a coon hunter so ardent that hunting coonswas almost a passion, and Precious Sue one of the few hounds that hadever tracked Old Joe to the great sycamore. This had not impressed OldJoe unduly, or created any special fear of either Mun Mundee or PreciousSue.
After a moment's concentration, Old Joe ran his tongue over his lips.Mun Mundee owned some horses, some cattle, and some pigs. He also ownedsome chickens. Old Joe had not been hungry when he left the sycamore,but neither had he expected an opportunity to confound Mun Mundee. OldJoe licked his lips a second time. When he thought of the chickens, hewas suddenly ravenous.
He left Willow Brook and crawled under the barbed-wire fence. He did notslink or hesitate, for he had chosen his night well; the waning moonleft complete darkness behind it. The Mundees would be asleep in theirhouse and Precious Sue on the porch. Nobody hunted coons in winter.
Walking boldly, but with not so much as a whisper of sound on thethawing snow, Old Joe saw as soon as the farm came in sight that hisanalysis was correct. The house was dark. The Mundees and Precious Suewere asleep. Cattle and horses shuffled in their stalls and pigs gruntedsleepily in their sty.
Old Joe went straight to the chicken house, and licked his lips a thirdtime as the odor of sleeping chickens delighted his nostrils.
He did not hesitate but went straight to the small door that let thechickens in and out. It was a sliding door that could be raised orlowered, and it was a combination with which Old Joe had long beenfamiliar. He slipped a front paw beneath the door, raised it, enteredthe chicken house, and let the door slide shut behind him.
The inside of Mun Mundee's chicken house, like the other chicken housesin the Creeping Hills, was familiar. Old Joe climbed to the roost, and afat whi
te hen clucked sleepily as she sensed something alien beside her.Almost gently Old Joe opened his mouth, closed it on the fat hen's neck,and leaped lightly to the floor with his plunder. He let himself outthe same way he got in.
He was halfway back to Willow Brook when, stopping to get a better gripon the fat hen, he was careless. The hen was good for one last squawk.
One was enough. Precious Sue, sleeping on the porch, heard and correctlyinterpreted. A silent trailer, a hound that made no noise until quarrywas bayed, she came rushing through the night.
Old Joe did not hurry, for haste was scarcely consistent with hisdignity. But he had not left his den to play with a hound, and therewas a simple way to be rid of Precious Sue.
Coming to Willow Brook, and still clutching his hen, Old Joe leaped inand surrendered to the water. A half mile downstream he left the brook,stopped to feast leisurely on the fat hen, and made his way to a swampso dense and thick that even full sunlight never penetrated some partsof it.
Deep in the swamp he came to his destination, a hollow oak, a huge oldtree as massive as his sycamore. Unhesitatingly he climbed the hollow,and the female coon that had chosen the oak as her winter den awoke tosnarl and bite him on the nose.
Repelled, but by no means resigned, Old Joe found another den in anearby ledge of rocks and made plans to meet the situation.
The Duck-footed Hound Page 1
