Mid morning had turned to noon somewhere in the thick copse that enfolded them. And one o'clock was fast approaching. One could tell by the pains in one's stomach.
Out of the stuffy car, Moffitt found it was actually a pleasant day. A playful breeze came by now and again to ruffle his hair, but there was enough sun to keep the most daring chill away. The branches of the trees were full and vibrant. Every shade of green from sap, to emerald, to olive. And some shades never seen before.
The smell of warm earth, grass underfoot, and moss clinging lovingly to tree trunks. Had a way of making one glad to be alive.
Birds warbled overhead, and took to flight whenever Tut would answer.
Tully walked steadily, with surefooted confidence. The prince of his forest. Along a little Indian trail of his own making. Every root, every stone already known to him. In a linen shirt and brown, linen breeches, rolled to the knees, and a single suspender strap in front and back. With his hound dog ambling beside him.
Somewhere, he'd picked up a walking stick that would be a cane for any adult, but a staff for him.
Moffitt walked behind them, boy and dog. The trail being too narrow for two full people.
"Mister Jack! Mister Jack!"
Moffitt snapped out of his reverie. Tully was running toward him, holding his little staff.
"Yes Tully?"
"Mister Jack! Can we check my traps? It's longer to the waterhole, but I wanna see if I caught anything." Moffitt checked the sun. Turning his options over in his head.
After much deliberation he sighed, "I suppose we can. Lead on."
"My pa taught me to trap game. Once, I caught the biggest raccoon you've ever laid eyes on." The boy chatted happily about things he'd captured, and things his pa had captured. Moffitt nodded like he understood what the boy was saying.
Two snares hadn't been sprung. Another had, but was empty, and another had a fat, red squirrel.
"Look at the size o' this un'. Biggest boomer I ever catched."
"Caught."
"Yessir, caught." He tucked the thing into a little game pouch. Moffitt set down his things and helped reset the snare.
"Satisfied with your catch?"
"Ma'll be happy to see him. I only set one other trap, Mister Jack, and the waterhole isn't far from there." Moffitt studied the sky.
"Well, let's make it quick. Those are storm clouds moving in. My guess is they'll be ready to rain by evening."
"Okie, sir, they're right on this way." And Tully was off through the trees in another direction. Tut never far behind. Grabbing his coat and the water can, Moffitt sighed comically and followed.
The fifth and final snare was set in the edge of a clearing. Snapping and crunching brambles underfoot, they shoved through the thicket.
Tut stopped in tracks and perked his ears. He stood stock still, except for the twitch of his nose smelling the air. A low growl came from deep in his chest.
"Silly dog, you're gonna sceer away all the game." Tully reached his hand up to the flat of the hound's head. "You jus quit all that fuss, y'hear?"
But Tut would not stop. The growl vibrated in his big chest, until Jack became rather nervous for the boy standing so close.
The growl ended in a whine, and the dog swiveled to his young master. He grabbed hold of the game pouch in his front teeth and began pulling him.
"Oh, Tut! Geer offa me!" It was amazing the boy could withstand the big dog. Before Moffitt could intervene, Tully slipped the game bag over his head and sent the dog backwards.
"G'on! Get back home. Go home, Tut. Skedaddle." He waved his hands at the dog.
Tut looked at him, and let out small whine around the game bag in his mouth. He looked thoroughly chastised. Reluctantly, he obeyed and took off through the trees.
"Don't worry bout him, Mister Jack," Tully waved it off, "he's jus feelin' ornery. Prolly wants to chase down a squirrel."
They both dropped to one knee in a scrubby bush and peered through the twigs and leaves. A sudden gust of wind billowed in the trees and sent chills down Jack's spine.
"Mister Jack, I think I smell polecat."
Moffitt threw him a side-eye,
"I didn't know you had polecats in America."
"Oh, sure."
"Do they have black masks here, too?"
"Polecats with masks?" Tully sounded confused, "That's a raccoon Mister Jack! You know, polecats are the ones that smell and you have to bathe forever if they get ya." A dim flicker lit in Moffitt's mind, like a match at the end of a hallway.
He vaguely remembered American stories from the war about striped animals with a foul smell. He never knew whether or not to believe them.
He tried to ask his guide about it, but when he turned, Tully had gone.
"Mister Jack!" The pleasant forest smell was overtaken by a sour, musk smell.
"I trapped a polecat!"
Jack whipped around to see where the shouting had come from.
He saw Tully standing by a black and white heap, that he hadn't seen in the clearing.
"Don't worry, Mister Jack! He's dead."
Just then, the vermin raised it's tail.