by Wilson Rawls
It was all looking pretty good to me and I was on the point of saying so, when it hit me. Why, all the coon had to do was open his paw, drop the object, and he was free. It all blew up then and there. I just knew my grandfather was playing a joke on me.
I stepped back and almost cried as I said, “Grandpa, you’re kidding me. That kind of a trap couldn’t catch a coon. Why all he’d have to do is open his paw, drop the piece of tin, and he could pull it from the hole.”
Grandpa started roaring with laughter. This did make me feel bad. With tears in my eyes, I started for the door.
“Wait a minute,” Grandpa said. “I’m not kidding you. Oh, I know I like to have my jokes, same as any man, but I meant every word I said.”
I turned around and looked at him. He had stopped laughing and there was a hurt expression on his face.
“I wasn’t laughing at you,” he said. “I was laughing more at myself than you. I just wanted to see if you were smart enough to see that there was a way the coon could free himself.”
“A fellow wouldn’t have to be very smart to see that,” I said.
Grandpa started talking seriously again. “You know,” he said,” a coon has more than one peculiarity about him. When I was a boy I had a pet coon. By watching him, I saw and learned a lot of things.
“He had a den in an old hollow tree in our front yard. I don’t know the number of times I’d have to climb that tree and get my mother’s scissors, buttons, needles, and thimble from his den. Why, he’d even carry out our knives, forks, and spoons. Anything that was bright and shiny, he took to his den.”
Grandpa stopped talking for a few minutes. I could see a faraway look in his eyes. Once again he was living in those long-ago days. I waited in silence for him to go on with his story.
“One of the most peculiar things about that coon,” he said, “was his front feet. Once he wrapped those little paws around something he would never let go.
“My mother had an old churn. It was one of those kind with a small hole in the lid for the dasher. When she would get through churning, she would take the dasher out to wash it. That crazy coon would climb up on top of the churn, poke his little front paw through the hole, and get a fistful of butter. The hole was small, and when he closed his paw, he couldn’t get it back out. All he had to do was open it, drop the butter, and he would be free, but do you think he would? No, sir. He would carry that churn lid all over the house, squalling and growling. Why, it took everyone in the house to free him. I’d have to wrap him up in a gunny sack or an old coat and pry his claws loose from the butter. Seeing this time after time is what gave me the idea for this trap. Once he reaches in and gets hold of that tin, he’s caught, because he will never open his paw.”
With my confidence restored, it all sounded pretty good to me and I was anxious to try out this wonderful plan. I thanked him and, taking the brace and nails, I left the store.
By the time I reached home it was too late in the day to start making my traps. That night I talked the idea over with Papa.
“I’ve heard of coons being caught that way,” he said, “but I never paid much attention to it. Your grandfather should know, though, for he was quite a coon hunter when he was a boy.”
“From what he told me,” I said, “it never fails.”
Papa asked if I wanted him to help make my traps.
“No,” I said, “I think I can do it myself.”
I didn’t sleep too well that night. I bored holes, drove nails, and fought coons practically all night.
Early the next morning I went to the trash pile. As I stirred around in the rusty old cans, I thought of another time I had searched for a can. Finally I found the one I wanted. It was bright and shiny.
Everything was going along just fine until Mama caught me cutting out the circles of tin with her scissors. I always swore she could find the biggest switches of any woman in the Ozarks. That time she overdid it. I was almost to the river before the stinging stopped.
It wasn’t hard to find places for my traps. All along the river large sycamore logs lay partly submerged in the clear blue water. On one where I could see the muddy little tracks of the ringtails, I bored a hole, dropped in a piece of tin, and drove my nails.
On down the river I went, making my traps. I stopped when I ran out of nails. Altogether I had fourteen traps.
That night Papa asked me how I was making out.
“Oh, all right,” I said. “I’ve got fourteen of them made.”
He laughed and said, “Well, you can’t ever tell. You may catch one.”
The next morning I was up with the chickens. I took my pups with me as I just knew I’d have a big ringtail trapped and I wanted them to see it. I was a disappointed boy when I peeked out of a canebrake at my last trap and didn’t see a coon. All the way home I tried to figure out what I had done wrong.
I went to Papa. He put his thinking cap on and thought the situation over. “Maybe you left too much scent around when you made those traps,” he said. “If you did, it’ll take a while for it to go away. Now I wouldn’t get too impatient. I’m pretty sure you’ll catch one sooner or later.”
Papa’s words perked me up just like air does a deflated inner tube. He was right. I had simply left too much scent around my traps. All I had to do was wait until it disappeared and I’d have my coon hide.
Morning after morning it was the same old disappointment; no coon. When a week had gone by and still no results from my traps, I gave up. What little patience I had was completely gone. I was firmly convinced that coons didn’t walk on sycamore logs any more, and bright shiny objects had about as much effect on them as a coon hound would.
One morning I didn’t get up to run my trap line. I stayed in bed. What was the use? It was just a waste of time.
When the family sat down to breakfast, I heard my oldest sister say, “Mama, isn’t Billy going to get up for breakfast?”
“Why, is he in his room?” Mama asked. “I didn’t know. I thought he was down looking at his traps.”
I heard Papa say, “I’ll go wake him up.”
He came to the door and said, “You’d better get up, Billy. Breakfast is ready.”
“I don’t want any breakfast,” I said. “I’m not hungry.”
Papa took one look at me and saw I had a bad case of the ringtail blues. He came over and sat down on the bed.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You having coon trouble?”
“Grandpa lied to me, Papa,” I said. “I should’ve known better. Who ever heard of anyone catching a coon with a brace and bit and a few horseshoe nails.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Papa said. “I don’t think your grandpa deliberately lied to you. Besides, I’ve heard of coons being caught that way.”
“Well, I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong,” I said. “I’ve done everything exactly as he said, and I haven’t caught one yet.”
“I still think it’s that scent,” Papa said. “You know, someone told me, or I read it somewhere, that it takes about a week for scent to die away. How long has it been since you made those traps?”
“It’s been over a week,” I said.
“Well, the way I figure, it’s about time for you to catch one. Yes, sir, I wouldn’t be surprised if you came in with one any day now.”
After Papa had left the room I lay thinking of what he had said. “Any day now.” I got up and hurried into my clothes.
As soon as I was finished with breakfast, I called my pups and lit out for the river.
The first trap was empty. So was the second one. That old feeling of doubt came over me again. I thought, “It’s no use. I’ll never catch one and I so need the skin to train my pups.”
On the way to my third trap I had to walk through a thick stand of wild cane. It was tough going and my pups started whimpering. I stopped and picked them up.
“We’ll be out of this in a few minutes,” I said, “and then you’ll be all right.”
I came plowin
g out of the matted mass and was right on the trap before I realized it. I was met by a loud squall. I was so surprised I dropped the pups. There he was, my first coon.
He was humped up on the sycamore log, growling and showing his teeth. He kept jerking his front paw, which was jammed deep in the hole I had bored. He was trapped by his own curiosity.
I couldn’t move and I felt like my wind had been cut off. I kept hearing a noise but couldn’t make out what it was. The movement of the boy pup shook me from my trance. The unidentified sound was his bawling. He was trying to climb up on the log and get to the coon.
I yelled at him and darted in to get hold of his collar. On seeing my movement, the coon let out another squall. It scared me half to death. I froze in my tracks and started yelling again at my pup.
The girl pup worked around behind the coon and climbed up on the log. I screamed at her. She paid no attention to me.
Digging his sharp little claws in the bark, the boy pup made it to the top. He didn’t hesitate. Straight down that sycamore log he charged. With teeth bared, the coon waited. When my pup was about two feet from him, he made a lunge. The coon just seemed to pull my pup up under his stomach and went to work with tooth and claw.
The girl pup saved him. Like a cat in a corn crib, she sneaked in from behind and sank her needlesharp teeth in the coon’s back.
It was too much for Old Ringy. He turned the boy pup loose, turned around, and slapped her clear off the log. She came running to me, yelping her head off. I grabbed her up in my arms and looked for the boy pup. When the coon had turned him loose, he too had fallen off the log. He was trying to get back to the coon. I darted in and grabbed him by the hind leg.
With a pup under each arm and running as fast as I could, I lit out for the house. Coming out of the bottoms into a fresh-plowed field I set my pups down so I could get a little more speed. I started yelling as soon as I came in sight of the house.
Mama came flying out with my sisters right behind her. Papa was out by the barn harnessing his team. Mama yelled something to him about a snake. He dropped the harness, jumped over the rail fence, and in a long lope started for me.
Mama reached me first. She grabbed me and shouted, “Where did it bite you?”
“Bite me?” I said. “Why Mama, I’m not bit. I’ve got him, Mama. I’ve got him.”
“Got what?” Mama asked.
“A big coon,” I said. “The biggest one in the river bottoms. He’s this big, Mama.” I made a circle with my arms as big as a twenty-gallon keg.
Mama just groaned way down deep and covered her face with her hands. Some big tears squeezed out between her fingers. Almost in a whisper, I heard her say, “Thank God; I thought you were snake-bitten.”
My sisters, seeing Mama crying, puckered up and started bawling.
“He needs a whipping,” the oldest one said, “that’s what he needs, scaring Mama that way.”
Something busted loose inside me and I cried a little, too.
“I didn’t mean to scare Mama,” I sniffed. “I just wanted everyone to know I caught a coon.”
Up until this time Papa hadn’t said a word. He just stood looking on.
“Here now,” he said, “let’s have none of this crying. He didn’t mean to scare anyone.”
Taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he stepped over to Mama, put his arm around her, and started drying her eyes.
Mama poked her head around him and glared at me. “Billy Colman,” she shouted, “if you ever scare me like that again, I’ll take a switch and wear you to a frazzle.”
This hurt my feelings and I really did get tuned up. “Everyone’s mad at me,” I said, “and I haven’t done anything but catch the biggest coon on the river.”
Mama came over. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be cross, but you did scare me. I thought a rattlesnake had bitten you.”
“Now that that’s all settled,” Papa said, “we had better go get that coon.” Looking at Mama, he said, “Why don’t you and the girls go with us. I don’t think it’ll take long.”
Mama looked at me, smiled, and turned to the girls. “Would you like to go?” she asked.
Their only answer was a lot of squealing and jumping up and down.
On the way, Mama noticed some blood on my shirt. She stopped me and started looking me over.
“Where did that come from?” she asked. “Did that coon bite you?”
“No, Mama,” I said. “I didn’t get close enough for him to bite me.”
With a worried look on her face, she jerked out my shirt. “You don’t seem to be scratched anywhere,” she said.
“Maybe this is where it came from,” Papa said.
He reached down and picked up my boy pup. His little black nose was split wide open and was bleeding.
I saw a relieved look come over Mama’s face.
Looking at me, she started shaking her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just don’t know.”
“Did that coon get hold of this pup?” Papa asked.
“He sure did, Papa,” I said, “but it wasn’t the coon’s fault. If it hadn’t been for Little Ann, he’d have eaten him up.”
I told how my dogs had tied into the coon.
Papa laughed as he fondled my pup. “This dog is going to be a coon hound,” he said, “and I mean a good one.”
The coon started squalling as soon as we came in sight.
“My goodness,” Mama said, “you wouldn’t think anything so small would be so vicious.”
Papa picked up a club. “Now everybody stand back out of the way,” he said. “This won’t take long.”
My pups were wanting to get to the coon so badly that they were hard to hold. I had to squeeze them up tight to keep them from jumping right out of my arms.
My sisters, with eyes as big as blue marbles, got behind Mama and peeked around her.
Papa whacked the coon a good one across the head. He let out a loud squall, growled, and showed his teeth. He tried hard to get to Papa but the trap held him.
The girls buried their faces in Mama’s dress and started bawling. Mama turned her back on the fight. I heard her say, “I wish we hadn’t come. Poor thing.”
Papa whacked him again and it was all over.
It was too much for Mama and the girls. They left. I heard the tall cane rattling as they ran for the house.
After the coon was killed, I walked over. Papa was trying to get the coon’s paw from the trap. He couldn’t do it. Taking a pair of pliers from his pocket, he said, “It’s a good thing I had these along or we would have had to cut his foot off.”
After Papa had pulled the nails, he lifted the coon’s paw from the hole. There, clamped firmly in it, was the bright piece of tin.
In a low voice Papa said, “Well, I’ll be darned. All he had to do was open it up and he was free, but he wouldn’t do it. Your grandfather was right.”
A sorrowful look came over Papa’s face as he ran his fingers through the soft, yellow hair. “Billy,” he said, “I want you to take a hammer and pull the nails from every one of those traps. It’s summertime now and their fur isn’t any good. Besides, I don’t think this is very sportsmanlike. The coon doesn’t have a chance. It’s all right this time. You needed this one, but from now on I want you to catch them with your dogs. That way they have a fifty-fifty chance.”
“I will, Papa,” I said. “That’s what I intended to do.”
While we were skinning the coon, Papa asked me when I was going to start training my dogs.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Do you think they’re too young?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ve heard that the younger they are the better it is.”
“Well, in that case,” I said, “I’ll start tomorrow.”
With the help of my oldest sister, we started giving my pups their first lessons. She would hold their collars while I made trails with the hide for them to follow.
I’d climb trees that leaned out o
ver the river, jump out into the water, swim to the other side, and make trails up and down the bank. With a long pole and wire, I’d drag the hide on top of rail fences, swing it through the air, and let it touch the ground twenty or thirty feet away. I did everything with that hide a coon would do and probably a lot of things a coon couldn’t do.
It was a beautiful sight to see my pups work those trails. At first they were awkward and didn’t know what to do, but they would never quit trying.
Old Dan would get so eager and excited, he would overrun a trail. Where it twisted or turned, he would run straight on, bawling up a storm. It didn’t take him long to realize that a smart old coon didn’t always run in a straight line.
Little Ann never overran a trail. She would wiggle and twist, cry and whine, and pretty soon she would figure it out.
At first they were afraid of water. I never would admit it even to myself. I always said that they Just didn’t like to get wet. They would follow the trail to the stream and stop. Sitting down on their rears, they would cry and beg for help. With a pup under each arm, I’d wade out into the stream and set them down in the cool water. Nine times out of ten, one pup would swim one way and the other one would go just the opposite way. I had a time with this part of their training, but my persistence had no bounds.
It wasn’t long until they loved the water. Old Dan would jump as far out as he could and practically knock the river dry. Little Ann would ease herself in and swim like a muskrat for the opposite shore.
I taught my dogs every trick I knew and any new ones I heard about. I taught them how to split up on a riverbank to search for the hidden trail, because it was impossible to tell where a coon would come out of the water. Sometimes he might swim downstream and other times he might swim upstream. Maybe he would come back to the bank he had just left, or he would cross over to the other side. Perhaps he would stop in the middle of the stream on an old drift.
Sometimes he would come out of the water by catching the dangling limbs of a leaning birch and climbing up, never touching the bank. Or he could come out on the same trail he used to go in, and back-track. He would sometimes crawl up under an undermined bank or into an old muskrat den.
