Part 6
Woundfoot
Sheriff Muletrain and Deputy Goofer drove down the dirt road east of Sassafras Creek, toward the Jenkins hog farm. Jenkins' headlights shone on a broken beer bottle in the center of the road, and his truck swerved to avoid it.
The sheriff had made the mistake of allowing Goofer to do the driving, and Goofer didn't have as much foresight. The sheriff's car ran clean over the bottle, with a crunch of broken glass followed by the gunshot sound of the vehicle's right front tire being punctured. The car ground to a halt as the air escaped like a steam whistle.
"Goofer!" roared Sheriff Muletrain. "You peanut- brain! Can't you watch where you're driving!"
"Golly, sheriff, I'm just following Jenkins."
"Didn't you see him make a swerve? Never mind. Just get out, and put on the spare. Jenkins is stopping I think he knows we got an emergency here."
"We do?"
"'Course we do you-'GOOOOOOFER!!!!"
Goofer pressed the emergency button on the stearing wheel, releasing the airbags. The bags ballooned out, filling the front seats, pushing Goofer back against the upholstery, and cutting off Sheriff Muletrain's words entirely. Goofer squeezed out the door. "Don't worry, sheriff, I'll git you out." He unholstered his pistol, and aimed it at the airbag. The Sheriff tried to yell frantically for him to stop, but Goofer didn't hear and fired anyway. The air went out and the bag deflated. Muletrain angerly threw the bag off and got out of the car. He nearly turned crimson for an instant, then said "Git the spare-'an be quick about."
"Yes sir."
Just then Jenkins walked up. "Got a flat? I can help you with that later if you like, sheriff. But can you take a look at my hogshed first? We're almost there."
"Well," said the sheriff. "Ah 'spose we could at that. Come on, Goofer. We'll change the flat later."
Then from the sheriff's radio came the staticy voice of Stu Willard, the chief dispatcher. The Sheriff reached into the car, and picked it up. "Sheriff Muletrain here. What's up?"
"It's them Tarkins boys." Said Stu. "They just said they got that panther that's been raiding the Fenokee stockades. He's a real black panther, sure enough!"
"Yeah?" asked the sheriff, confused.
"That's what they say."
"Well, not a second too soon. I'm calling from the Jenkins place. Says that panther just made off with one of his hogs not more than an hour ago."
"Huh?"
"Listen. You tell them Tarkins boys to meet me at Jenkins farm. "An bring the panther with 'em. Somthin' peculiar is going on here".
"Right sheriff."
"What's that, sheriff".
"It's Tarkins. Says they got the panther".
"Really sheriff?"
"Told 'em to meet us here. Let's go."
Goofer slammed down the lid of the trunk, and the three of them walked the rest of the way to the Jenkins farm. As with the Huffsteader stockade, the Jenkins hog shed had been broken into earlier in the night, and in almost the precise same manner, with the hinges on the doors hanging loose.
"Humph! Well, it shore looks like something got in here awright. Possibly the same critter as robbed Huffsteaders. But we're a long way from there."
"What do you make of these tracks, sheriff?" said Jenkins, shining his lantern on them.
"Well I'll be! They do look like some kind of big cat tracks. But they're not as big as ones we saw before. Maybe there are two big cats runnin' loose in this county."
"Well, if those guys you hired are gonna meet us here with that varmint in tow, care to step inside fer a spell?" Jenkins asked. "Marlete can whip us up some swell flapjacks while we wait."
"Gol-lee" said Goofer "that shore sounds swell to me. Ya' no my Aunt Grace used to make the best flapjacks in Fenokee County. Used to visat her all the time up at Pike road. She'd get 'em just right, 'an thet maple syrup she used to pour on 'em. Ummm-ummm! I remember the time that-"
"Shut up Goofer." said the sheriff. "Yeah we'd be rightly honored by yer hospitality, sir. Come on, Goofer."
Buford crouched on the branch, as the eyes of the huge cat continued to bore into him. There wasn't any room for doubt in his mind. These were the raiders who had stolen from the Huffsteader farm! "Who're you?" He managed once he had found his voice, though he knew perfectly well who it was.
"My name", the puma said, "is Woundfoot. And these are my hunting grounds from now on. I won't tolerate any no-account hounds on my territory!"
Buford remembered the deer he had frightened during the chase through the island, and realized that had caused the puma to miss his kill. As he stood staring goggle-eyes, unable to even move, the cat swept back one enormous paw, claws unsheathed. In less than a second, the cat would tear into him.
But the blow never fell. The cat's paws resheathed. For the first time, Woundfoot took notice of the Little Raccoon, still bound and helpless, eyes tightly shut, whining for whatever Japanese spirits protected mischief-makers to save him.
The cat flicked his paw in the direction of the Raccoon. "Let him go."
Buford couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "What?"
"The raccoon. Let him go. You heard what I said."
Let the Raccoon go? Buford wasn't about to do that. The words made him bristle in anger, and all at once he was fearless, even confronted by the puma. He glared straight into the cat's eyes, growling in threat. "Now listen here!" he snarled.
But the green fire of Woundfoot's eyes glared back with an anger that was even more intense. "No, you listen, hound-dog!" demanded the puma. "What did he do to you? Play you some harmless prank? Steal your master's pie?" Buford gulped with the realization of just how close that was to the truth. "Well, I trailed that buck for more than a mile on my bad paw," Woundfoot continued, "before your 'coon chasing Frightened him off! I've had my fill of the likes of you and your masters coming into our swamp, killing us, and stealing our game! You cost me a week's worth of fresh venison, and I demand that you pay for it! You will let the little 'coon go, or I'll tear your face off!"
"Tear your face off!" echoed Slyface from beneath him.
To make certain the puma meant what he said, Buford reached one paw toward the Little Raccoon.
Again, the cat's paw whipped back, sprouting sickle-like claws as it did so. Woundfoot was serious. Quickly, Buford retracted his paw.
The puma resheathed his claws. Then he swiped his huge paw out and under Buford's feet, knocking him clean out of the tree. He crashed through broken branches, and fell slumped on the side of felled cottonwood.
Buford shuddered, and shook his head to clear it. He sprang to his feet and looked up, half-expecting the puma to come barreling down upon him.
But the Swamp Phantom was gone, and Slyface was gone with him. They had vanished without a trace.
No…not quite. The cat had been down wind of him before, but now Buford caught his scent, and that of the 'possum. His nose flashed, and there were their tracks, where they had come upon the fallen tree just moments before.
"Buford! Hey Buford!"
Buford recognized the voices of Woody and Cindy Mae calling him in the distance. The beams of their flashlight pierced through the darkness of the trees. Buford howled to alert them.
Before long, his two friends came crashing through the thickets. "Where you been, Buford?" Woody asked.
"The panther!" explained Buford "Ah seen him!"
"You saw him?" asked Woody, stunned.
"He-he almost-" Buford shuddered.
"Hey, take it easy, Buford."
"But I found his tracks!"
Woody shone his flashlight on the puma's tracks. "Well, glory be!"
"What did I tell, you Woody? These here tracks ain't the same as the ones with the men's tracks. They look like the one at Huffsteaders! See how that right paw print is softer than the others."
"Yeah, Sis. But where'd he go?"
"Maybe you should ask Buford that."
Buford only shook his head "Huh-huh." He could probably pick up Woundfoot's trail, but he'd had enough of him for one night.
"I guess our flashlights must've scared 'im away." Cindy Mae said. "Let's go find the sheriff and tell him what we've found."
The started in the direction of the swamp buggy. Buford made one fearful backward glance into the surrounding trees before they moved off.
On the limb of the downed cottonwood, the Little Raccoon realized suddenly that he had somehow been saved. The hound that had been playing with him was gone. And not only that, the vines the dog had tied him up with had been slashed clean through. Whatever had done that had left deep claw-marks in the wood.
The Raccoon leaped to the ground. And immediately saw the huge pawprints left by the puma. The Raccoon knew then who his rescuer had been, and he fell on his masked face and kissed the indentation Woundfoot's injured paw had made in the sandy loam. He knew now that he was honor-bound to repay the cat for saving him from the hound. But he also knew that pumas sometimes ate raccoons. His life might be imperiled once more if he sought the puma out. But then he realized that if the puma had wanted to do that, he could certainly have taken him. He began following the tracks.