I didn’t ask, but I hung around. Granma gave me a sack with biscuits and meat and said, “I’ll sit on the porch tonight and listen; and I will hear you.”
We went into the yard and Granpa whistled up the dogs and off we set, up the hollow by the spring branch. The hounds ran back and forth, hurrying us up.
Granpa kept his hounds for only two reasons. One was his corn patch where every spring and summer, he assigned ol’ Maud and Ringer to stay and guard against deer, ’coon, hogs and crow getting all his corn.
Like Granpa said, ol’ Maud had no smell sense at all and was practical worthless on a fox trail; but she had keen hearing and eyesight, and this gave her something she could do and take pride in knowing she was of worth. Granpa said if a hound or anybody else has got no feeling of worth, then it’s a bad thing.
Ringer had been a good trail dog. He was getting old now. His tail was broke, which made him look disheartened, and he couldn’t see nor hear very well. Granpa said he put Ringer with ol’ Maud so he could help and feel that he was of worth in his old age; that it sort of dignified him, which it did for Ringer walked around right stiff-legged and dignified, especially during the periods when he was working at the corn patch.
Granpa fed ol’ Maud and Ringer at the barn up in the hollow during corn raising time, for this wasn’t far from the corn patch. They stayed there faithful. Ol’ Maud was Ringer’s eyes and ears. She would see something in the corn patch and take off after it, raising howls like she owned that corn patch, and Ringer would follow, doing the same.
They’d go crashing through the corn; and maybe ol’ Maud would run right past a ’coon if she didn’t see it, for she sure couldn’t smell it … but Ringer, following behind her, could. He’d put his nose to the ground and go braying after that ’coon. He’d run that ’coon out of the patch and hold onto his trail by smell until he run into a tree. Then he’d come back kind of sad; but him and ol’ Maud never give up. They done their job.
The other reason Granpa kept hounds was for pure fun, trailing fox. He never used dogs to hunt game. He didn’t need them. Granpa knew the watering and feeding places, the habit and trails, even the thinking and character of all the game, far better than any hound could learn.
The red fox runs in a circle when he is chased by hounds. With his den in the center, he will start on a circle swing that measures maybe a mile, sometimes more, across the middle. All the time he’s running, he’ll use tricks: backtracking, running in water and laying false trails; but he’ll stick to the circle. As he grows tired, he will make the circle smaller and smaller, until he retreats to his den. He “dens up,” they call it.
The more he runs, the hotter he gets, and his mouth sweats out stronger smells that the dogs pick up on the trail, and so get louder with their baying. It is called a “hot trail.”
When the gray fox runs, he runs in a figure 8, and his den is just about where he crosses his trail each time to make the 8.
Granpa knew the thinking of the ’coon too and laughed at his mischievous ways, and swore a solemn oath that, on occasion, the ’coon had laughed at him. He knew where the turkey ran, and could track a bee from water to hive with a look of his eye. He could make the deer come to him, because he knew his curious nature; and he could ease through a covey of quail without stirring a wing. But he never bothered them, except for what he needed and I know they understood.
Granpa lived with the game, not at it. The white mountain men were a hardy lot and Granpa bore with them well. But they would take their dogs and clatter all over the mountains chasing game this way and that, until everything run for cover. If they saw a dozen turkey, why they killed a dozen turkey, if they could.
But they respected Granpa as a master woodsman. I could see it in their eyes and the touching of their hat brims when they met him at the crossroads store. They stayed out of Granpa’s hollows and mountains with their guns and dogs, whilst they complained a lot about the game getting scarcer and scarcer where they was. Granpa often shook his head at their comments and never said anything. But he told me. They would never understand The Way of the Cherokee.
With the dogs loping behind, I trotted close behind Granpa, because it was that mysterious, exciting time in the hollows when the sun had sunk and the light faded from red to shady blood, and kept changing and darkening, as if the daylight was alive but dying. Even the dusk breeze was sly with a whisper as if it had things to tell that it couldn’t say out open.
The game was going to its beds and the night creatures was coming out for the hunt. As we passed the meadow by the barn, Granpa stopped and I stood practical under him.
An owl was flying toward us down the hollow, moving in the air no higher than Granpa’s head; and passed right by, making no sound, not a whisper nor whir of wing and settled silent as a ghost in the barn.
“Screech owl,” Granpa said, “the one ye hear sometimes at night that sounds like a woman paining. Going to catch some rats.” I sure didn’t want to disturb that ol’ owl and rat catching, and kept Granpa between me and the barn as we passed.
Dark fell in close, and the mountains moved in on either side as we walked. Before long, we came to a Y in the trail, and Granpa taken the left. Now there was no more room for the trail except right on the edge of the spring branch. Granpa called this the “Narrows.” Seemed like you could stretch out your arms on either side and touch the mountains. Straight up they went, dark and feathered with treetops, and left a thin slice of stars above us.
Way off, a mourning dove called, long and throaty, and the mountains picked it up and echoed the sound over and over, carrying it farther and farther away until you wondered how many mountains and hollows that call would travel—and it died away, so far, it was more like a memory than a sound.
It was lonesome, and I trotted right up on Granpa’s heels. None of the hounds stayed behind me, which I wished they would. They stayed ahead of Granpa, running back to him now and then, whining and wanting him to send them off trailing.
The Narrows sloped upward, and before long I could hear big water running. It was a creek that crossed what Granpa called “Hangin’ Gap.”
We moved off the trail, up into the mountain above the creek. Granpa sent the dogs off. All he had to do was point and say, “Go!” and off they went, giving little yelps, like young’uns going berry picking Granpa said.
We sat down in a pine thicket above the creek. It was warm. Pine thickets give off heat, but if it’s summertime, you want to sit amongst oak or hickory or some such, because pine gets plumb hot.
The stars were watering and moving around in the creek, riding on ripples and splashes. Granpa said we could commence to listen for the hounds in a little while, when they picked up ol’ Slick’s trail. That’s what he called the fox.
Granpa said we was in ol’ Slick’s territory. He said he had knowed him about five years. Most people think that all fox hunters kill foxes, but it’s not true. Granpa never killed a fox in his life. The reason for fox hunting is the hounds—to listen to their trailing. Granpa always called off the hounds when the fox denned up.
Granpa said that when things had got monotonous for ol’ Slick he had gone so far as to come and set in the edge of the cabin clearing, trying to get Granpa and the hounds to trail him. It sometimes caused Granpa all manner of trouble with the hounds, as they yelped and bayed, with ol’ Slick leading them up the hollow.
Granpa said he liked to slip up on ol’ Slick when he was cantankerous and not in the mood for trailing. When a fox wants to den up, he will use ingenious tricks to throw off the hounds. When he is playful, he will play all over the countryside. He said the best part was that ol’ Slick would know he was being paid back for sashaying around the cabin and troubling Granpa.
Sure enough, the moon broke over the mountain, a quarter used up. It sprinkled patterns through the pines and splashed lights off the creek, and made thin silver boats of the fog tearings sailing slow through the Narrows.
Granpa leaned back agai
nst a pine and spraddled out his legs. I done the same thing, and put the vittle sack right by me as it was my responsibility. Not far off a big bay sounded, long and hollow.
“That’s ol’ Rippitt,” Granpa said, and laughed low, “and it’s a damn lie. Rippitt knows what’s wanted … but he can’t wait, so he makes out like he’s hit a trail-scent. Listen to how falsified his bay sounds. He knows he’s a’lying.” Sure enough, it did sound that-a-way.
“He’s damn shore lying,” I said. Me and Granpa could cuss when we wasn’t around Granma.
In a minute the other hounds let him know, as they howled around him, not baying. In the mountains they call such a “bluffer dog.” There was silence again.
In a little while a deep bay broke the stillness. It was long and far off, and I knew right then it was the real thing, because it carried excitement in it. The other hounds took it up.
“That was Blue Boy,” Granpa said, “up and comin’ to have the best nose in the mountains; and that’s Little Red right behind him … and there’s Bess.” Another bay chimed in, this one kind of frantic. Granpa said, “And there’s ol’ Rippitt, gittin’ in on the last.”
They was in full voice now, moving farther and farther away, their chorus echoing backward and forward until it sounded like hounds all around. Then the sound disappeared.
“They’re on the backside of Clinch Mountain,” Granpa said. I listened hard, but I couldn’t hear anything.
A nighthawk went “SEEeeeeeee!” from the side of the mountain behind us, cutting the air with a sharp whistle. Across the creek, a hoot owl answered him, “WHO … WHO …WHOAREYouuuuu!”
Granpa laughed low. “Owl stays in the hollow, hawk stays on the ridges. Sometimes ol’ hawk figures there’s easy pickins around the water and ol’ owl don’t like it.”
A fish flopped a splash in the creek. I was beginning to get worried. “Reckin,” I whispered to Granpa, “that them hounds is lost?”
“Nope,” Granpa said, “we’ll hear ’em in a minute, and they’ll come out on t’other side of Clinch Mountain and run across that ridge in front of us.”
Sure enough they did. First they sounded far-off, then louder and louder; and they came, baying and yelping, longways along the ridge facing us and crossed the creek somewhere down below. Then they came along the side of the mountain behind us and set off again for Clinch Mountain. This time they ran on the near side of Clinch Mountain and we heard them all the way across it.
“Ol’ Slick is tightening up the circle,” Granpa said, “this time, after they cross the creek, ol’ Slick may lead ’em right in front of us.” Granpa was right. We heard them splashing across the creek not far below us … and while they was splashing and baying Granpa set up straight and grabbed my arm.
“There he is,” Granpa whispered. And there he was. Coming along through willow poles on the creek bank, it was ol’ Slick. He was trotting, with his tongue hanging out and a bushy tail dangling kind of careless behind him. He had pointed ears, and he jogged along real pickety, taking his time to go around a pile of brush. Once he stopped, lifted a front paw and licked it; then he turned his head back toward the baying of the hounds and came on.
Down in front of me and Granpa, there were some rocks that stuck up in the water, five or six of them that went out nearly to the middle of the creek. When ol’ Slick reached where the rocks were, he stopped and looked back, like he was judging how far away the hounds was. Then he sat down, calm as you please with his back to us, and just sat there, looking at the creek. The moon glinted red off his coat, and the hounds was coming closer.
Granpa squeezed my arm. “Watch him now!” Ol’ Slick jumped from the creek bank out onto the first rock. He stopped there a minute and danced on the rock. Then he jumped to the next one and danced again, then the next and the next until he reached the last one, nearly in the middle of the creek.
Then he came back, jumping from rock to rock, until he reached the one closest to the creek bank. He stopped and listened again; then stepped into the water and splashed up the creek, until he was out of sight. He sure cut the time close, because he had no more than disappeared when here come the hounds.
Blue Boy was leading with his nose right on the ground. Ol’ Rippitt was crowding him, and Bess and Little Red was bunched right behind. Now and then, one of them would raise their nose and give out a “OOOWOOOOoooooooooh!” that tingled your blood.
They came to where the rocks went out into the creek and Blue Boy never hesitated; out he went, jumping from rock to rock, and the rest of them right behind.
When they reached the last rock in the middle of the creek, Blue Boy stopped but ol’ Rippitt didn’t. He jumped right in, like there wasn’t no doubt about it, and started swimming for the other bank. Bess jumped in behind him and started swimming too.
Blue Boy raised his nose and commenced to sniff the air, and Little Red stayed there on the rock with him. In a minute here come Blue Boy and Little Red jumping back on the rocks toward us. They reached the bank, and Blue Boy led the way. Then he hit ol’ Slick’s trail and bayed long and loud, and Little Red chimed in.
Bess reversed herself while she was still swimming and come back, while ol’ Rippitt was running up and down the other bank at a total loss. He was howling and yelping and running back and forth with his nose on the ground. When he heard Blue Boy, he hit the creek water in a dive and swam so hard he splashed water over his head until he made it to the bank and taken up the trail behind the rest of them.
Me and Granpa laughed so hard we nearly fell off the mountain. I did lose my foot-bracing hold on a pine sapling and rolled into cocklebur bushes. Granpa pulled me out and we was still laughing while we picked the burrs out of my hair.
Granpa said he knowed ol’ Slick would pull that trick, and that’s why he chose the place for us to set. He said that, without a doubt, ol’ Slick had set close by and watched the dogs his own self.
Granpa said the reason ol’ Slick had waited so long for the hounds to get close is that he wanted his scent to be fresh on the rocks, figuring that the hounds’ feelings would take over from their sense, when they got excited. It worked too, with ol’ Rippitt and Bess; but not with Blue Boy and Little Red.
Granpa said he had many’s the time seen that same kind of thing, feelings taking over sense, make as big a fools out of people as it had ol’ Rippitt. Which I reckin is so.
It had broke day and I hadn’t even noticed. Me and Granpa moved down to the creek bank clearing and et our sour biscuits and meat. The dogs was baying back around and coming along the ridge in front of us.
The sun topped the mountain, sparkling the trees across the creek and brought out brush wrens and a red cardinal.
Granpa slid his knife under the bark of a cedar tree and made a dipper by twisting one end of the bark. We dipped water from the creek, cold, where you could see the pebbles on the bottom. The water had a cedary taste that made me hungrier, but we had et all the biscuits.
Granpa said ol’ Slick might come up the farther creek bank this time, and we would get to see him again; but we would have to sit quiet. I didn’t move, not even when the ants crawled up on my foot, though I wanted to.
Granpa saw them, and said it was all right to brush them off—ol’ Slick wouldn’t see me do that. Which I did.
In a little while the hounds were below us again, down the creek, and then we saw him, lazying up the creek bank on the other side with his tongue hanging out. Granpa give a low whistle and ol’ Slick stopped and stared across the creek at us. He stood there a minute, with his eyes crinkled up like he was grinning at us; then he snorted and trotted on out of sight.
Granpa said ol’ Slick snorted because he was disgusted, being caused all this inconvenience. I remembered ol’ Slick had it coming to him.
Granpa said some fellers told that they had heard about foxes “swapping out,” but he had actually seen it. He said years ago, he had been fox trailing and was sittin’ on a hillock above a meadow clearing. He said the
fox, a red one, come along with the hounds behind him and stopped at a hollow tree and give a little bark. He said another fox come out of that hollow tree, and the first one got in. Then the second fox trotted off, leading the dogs on the trail. He said he moved close to that tree and could hear that ol’ fox actually snoring while the hounds was passing a few feet from him. He said that ol’ fox had so much confidence in hisself that he didn’t give a lick-damn how close them dogs come around him.
Here comes Blue Boy and the pack up the creek bank. They bayed every step or two … it was a strong trail. They passed out of sight and in a minute, one bay split off from the rest and broke up into yelps and howls.
Granpa cussed. He said, “Damn! Ol’ Rippitt is trying to cut acrost again and cheat on ol’ Slick. He’s gone and got hisself lost.” In the mountains, such is known as a “cheater hound.”
Granpa said we would have to set up a hollering and baying ourselves to guide ol’ Rippitt back to us, and that would call off the trailing, because the other dogs would come too. So we did.
I couldn’t give the long holler like Granpa—it was almost like a yodel—but I did tolerable well, Granpa said.
In a little while here they come, and ol’ Rippitt was ashamed of what he had done. He hung back behind the others; hoping, I reckin, that he would pass unnoticed. Granpa said it served him right and maybe this time it would learn him that you can’t cheat without making unnecessary trouble for yourself. Which proves out as reasonable.
The sun had slanted into the afternoon when we left Hangin’ Gap, back down the Narrows toward home. The dogs dragged their feet in the trail and I knew they were tired. I was too and would have had a hard time making it if Granpa hadn’t been so tuckered that he walked along slow.
The Education of Little Tree Page 3
