Part 5
Lightening Strikes
As Buford glared at him, preparing to spring, the Little Raccoon stuck his thumbs in his ears, and waved his clever little hands mockingly. "Nyaw-na-nyaw-na-nyaw-nyaw!" the Raccoon taunted, wagging his tiny pink tongue.
Buford was scarcely able to control himself. He charged the Raccoon in a lavender blurr. The Raccoon zipped away, still snickering, with the hound's breath hot on his tail. Buford snapped his jaws but the quick-witted little 'coon managed to stay just beyond his reach. Buford was so intent on quashing the little headbanded hooligan, that, as usual, he didn't realize until it was too late that he was heading for a trap.
A grove of bushes lay ahead, directly in their path.The Raccoon, being very small, managed to zip under and through the grove with ease. Buford, however, though he realized the trap in the last instant, was unable to stop in time and crashed headlong into them. Then he realized the bushes were chok-full of burrs, which now clung all over him.
That infuriating, impish look still on his face, the Raccoon made a low martial-arts style bow, as though to some unseen audience. It was a self-congratulatory gesture, one that said, Aren't I something?! I can outwit any hound dog five times my size! Then he was gone, with a wide flourish of his magnificent tail.
Buford heard Woody and Cindy Mae calling him. Ordinary, he would have forgotten about the Raccoon, and gone back to sniffing clues. But then he remembered Jenna Crowley's words: Next time you will be able to trap him.
"Humph!" Buford said to himself, thinking that Jenna must be only a charlatan after all. But maybe not….if could just catch up with the Raccoon this time. Of course, the Raccoon's prank had not backfired, at least not yet.
He could get back to the mystery later, he decided. Buford squeezed free of the brambles, and shook the burrs loose. Very quickly, he picked up the Little Raccoon's trail. Nose flashing with the leafy scent of the Raccoon's fur, the hound set off. Before long, he again set eyes on his small quarry. The saucy little Raccoon was sitting smartly upon a log, fastidiously grooming his overlarge tail.
When Buford snarled at him, the Little Raccoon's tail went straight up, every individual hair on it going stiff with fright. "OOO
-Saw!" he exclaimed in fright, and forgot about fussing with his tail. It was clear that he hadn't expected Buford to follow him, and Buford noted this with a gleam of malicious triumph.
Once again, the Raccoon streaked away, Buford in hot pursuit. He still managed to stay ahead of his pursuer with ease, as he scampered around tree trunks, under bushes and through logs. Buford, however, managed to remain on his trail this time, in spite of all the Raccoon's efforts to throw him off. No opening or orfice was too narrow for the hound to pass through as well. Every once and a while, the Raccoon would glance over his shoulder in shocked fright, to see Buford still ready to pounce on him.
The chase led deeper and deeper into the island. The swamp trees grew black and thick here, but always Buford managed to stay on his ringtailed, headbanded prey, guided at times by only the scent of his quarry.
Suddenly, they burst out into a clearing. The Raccoon dashed out across the clearing through the tall grasses, having been unable to loose the hound in the trees. Buford streaked after him. Then the dog heard a sudden crashing off to his left, and one ear went up. Buford slid to a halt in the marsh grasses to see a deer-a young buck with two knobby growths that would bud into antlers-bounding off toward the trees. Somehow, the sight of the deer filled him with apprehension, though he didn't know why. He shook his head to clear it, then sniffed around for the Raccoon's scent. For a moment, he feared that he had lost it. But there it was again, and Buford renewed the chase.
The woods grew deep and thick on the other side of the clearing, but before long, Buford was hot on the Raccoon's trail again, and could see the bushy tail of his small nemesis flashing through the boles of the trees ahead of him. Again he tried to snag that vulnerable tail, but still the raccoon was able to outmanuver him.
Then the Raccoon seemed to have disappeared. Buford looked around through the gloom, but saw no sign of him. Then he realized that his scent stopped at the bole of a large cottonwood. His ears pointed above him, and he looked up.
There, with his tail curled protectively about his small body, the little masked hooligan crouched, flinging some unintelliglble, Japanese taunts at him. Buford snarled up at the treed 'coon, realizing that the little mischief-maker had outfoxed him once more.
Then something unbelievable happened.
There was a tremendous crash, as a bolt of white-hot Southern lightening cleft the humid air, and split the tree in which the Raccoon was perched perfectly in twain. Buford leaped back in shock, as the wood splintered, and one half of the entire cottonwood-the one in which the Raccoon still clung-came crashing down. For several seconds the dog did nothing. The pungent scent of burnt wood was sharp in the air.
Then he realized what this meant. Old Jenna was right! He could get that #@*///^!#@*!// raccoon after all! Whether or not that potion had caused this, he didn't care. All he cared was that the Raccoon was where he wanted him. He felt suddenly very sure that the Raccoon was his this time.
Buford needed no urging to run up the length of the downed tree. He found his prey lying dazed and stunned on the branch where he thought he was safe, eyes rolling in his masked face. Buford noticed a number of vines and creepers lying about, and these gave him an idea. Snickering in wicked triumph, he seized the vines with his paws. Paws working with fiendish speed, he bound the Little Raccoon with them to the base of a thick branch that had broken off. He made sure to tie them very tight, so his captive couldn't get away.
Then he jabbed the Raccoon with a fiendish giggle. All at once, the Raccoon snapped out of his stupor and the eyes in the little masked face went wide in shock and horror, as it dawned on him that he was trapped. He realized he was bound so tightly that he couldn't even move, and that the hound he had so relished playing pranks on was looming over him, sneering at him horribly.
"Oh, spare me pwease!" cried the Little Raccoon, trembling with fright.
Buford pondered what he should do with the little good-for-nothing now that he'd captured him. He could end the Raccoon's life right now, with a swipe of his paw. Then maybe Clarence Huffsteader could make a 'coon pie out of him. The thought made Buford grin. That would be a fitting reward for a pie-snitcher.
"No 'coon-pie!" cried the Raccoon in terror, as though reading Buford's thoughts. Buford whipped back his right paw with a fiendish sneer, ready to finish the Raccoon for good.
The Raccoon hung his head and shut his eyes, whining in a misery of fright, as he waited for the end.
Then someone tapped Buford on the shoulder. The dog's eyes went wide. He whirled around. And his every nerve went stiff with fright.
Crouched on a thick limb directly above them was a perfectly enormous swamp puma. Buford knew without guessing exactly who it was, for his glossy black coat shone like midnight oil. The cat's emerald-green eyes bore into his, paralyzing him.
And on the same limb in front of the puma, crouched the largest ugliest, mangiest opossum Buford had every seen. "Is that him, Slyface?" the cat said, not taking his eyes off Buford.
"Yep, that's him, my lord." answered the 'possum. "He did it! He frightened off our week's worth of venison!"