Part 8
A Strange Bargain
The Little Raccoon followed the tracks he believed belonged to whomever it was that had liberated him. He believed in his procyonid soul that he was on a constant quest to cause as much mischief and mayhem as possible, especially for bloodhounds and coon dogs, and most especially for the purple hound with a Confederate cap who was out to get him more than any other hound. And also to claim as many pies and sweets as possible for himself and to eat them. The thing was, he could never cause enough mayhem, or eat enough pies, so his quest never ended. But this time his quest had almost ended, when lightening struck the tree he was in, and the hound captured him. If it hadn't been for whoever had come along…
The trail belonged to huge cat with a damaged foot. It led the small mischief-maker into the very deepest part of the swamp-ringed island. Here the trees formed a dense screen overhead, shutting out any available light. When he entered a particularly dense thicket, the sounds of fangs tearing flesh come to his small ears.
Taking care not to snag his bushy tail on a briar, he crept through the thickets, until his eyes peered out at a sight that caused his tail hairs to stiffen, and his small body to tremble.
In a small space, roofed by impenetrable thorn barrier, lay the carcass of a year-old heffer-the same one that had gone missing from the Huffsteader stockade. Woundfoot and Slyface were busily munching on it. The Raccoon nearly turned tail and fled at the sight of them. But the 'possum sensed his presence.
"Well, lookee who's here." Slyface grinned. "The little masked ninja who bit off more pie than he could chew. Can we eat him, my lord? Ah here tell 'coons is mighty good eatn', especially if they've stuffed themselves full of shoo-fly pie. Ah here thet makes their meat all firm 'an juicy sos-"
"Shut up, Slyface, you idiot!" said the puma, even though the 'possums words had already caused the Raccoon's eyes to widen terribly. "He doesn't have half as much meat on him as you do!"
That shut Slyface up. The 'possum resumed feeding on the stolen heffer.
Woundfoot turned a cold glare on the Little Raccoon. "What do you want?" he demanded.
Though intimidated by the cat's stare, the Raccoon crept forward and sat before Woundfoot, then threw himself down in kow-tow position. "You save me!" he cried. "Much thanks!" His face to the ground, the Raccoon squealed a few high-pitched Japanese phrases for servitude.
"You think you owe me something?" the puma asked with scorn.
The Raccoon looked up, nodding vigorously.
"I didn't do it for you. I did it because I can't allow hound dogs on my hunting grounds! Now go away and wreck havoc somewhere else, before I change my mind and take Slyface up on his suggestion. GO!"
The Raccoon looked up pathetically, then turned to leave.
"Wait." said the puma. The Raccoon turned around and looked at him expectantly. "I just might have use for you after all. Slyface, remember the bakery we found yesterday when we were hunting?"
"Well, yeah, yer lawdship, but-"
"Go there now, and fetch the best shoo-fly pie for our small guest. Take the causeway to the mainland, and be quick about it! Don't mention where it is, or he'll follow you."
"But my lord-"
"Move it!" The 'possum was off. Woundfoot turned his cold stare back to the Little Raccoon. The Raccoon perked up at the mere mention of shoo-fly pie. He wished he could eat it right now.
"Now, small one," said the puma, "here is how I want for you to serve me."
The Raccoon looked up at him, all ears. "Slyface tells me that the farmer called Clarence Huffsteader is coming after me tonight with his hounds. Before they can pick up my trail, I want you create a diversion. Those hounds will chase a raccoon over anything else. Meanwhile, Slyface and I will head in the other direction, and cover our scent by swimming Mocassin Creek. Do you think you can manage that?"
The Raccoon, eyes now gleaming with mischief, nodded swiftly. He made a low bow to his new master.
"Very good." replied Woundfoot. "And another thing- meet us at the edge of the woods near the fairground when you are done. There you shall have your reward. But don't paint yourself in a corner again. We'll be too far away to intervene this time, and we will be too busy saving our hides to bother with yours. And remember to serve me faithfully-no double crossing."
"Honor!" the Raccoon piped up, bowing again, but as he straightened, he crossed his fingers behind his back.
Woundfoot eyed him carefully. Briefly, he considered what it would be like if he made the Raccoon replace Slyface as his servant. It was clear he had a barrel full of more wits about him then the 'possum ever had. He doubted the hound could ever have gotten the upper paw on him if lightening hadn't happened to strike the tree he was in. But he quickly dismissed the notion. For all his martial-arts pretense, he could tell just by looking at him that the Raccoon was far too unruly to be his servant, and was really only loyal to himself and to no one else. There was no way he could be trusted for long. Grateful he undoubtedly was. But the puma could tell just by the look on that little masked face, that his "honor" would only last until he discovered some new way to create havoc, or until his craving for sweets got the better of him.
Still, he was counting on his mischievous nature for him to lead the hounds away.
As the Little Raccoon gazed up at Woundfoot, he felt safer than he ever had before. The purple hound dog might have nearly gotten him, but now that he was under Woundfoot's protection, no hound would ever bother him again-they'd better not! His mind already starting to fizzle with naughty, mischievous thoughts, he imagined how much fun it would be if he got that silly hound to chase him now, and watch his face when the dog came racing at him, only to see him standing smugly next to the sleeping puma. He would have almost given up a shoo-fly pie to have seen the look on 'ol Buford's face when he first encountered Woundfoot back there in the swamp.
He turned to go waylay the Huffsteader hounds, already starting to conceive what pranks he should use. Then realized he was pinned. He huddled in sudden fright, stared up into the puma's gaze. The cat's face was directly above him, and those emerald orbs bore into his. Like Buford, he was unable to move. The cat had placed one paw down on his tail, anchoring him. "Remember," said Woundfoot, "you wouldn't be here if I hadn't come along. Don't do anything except lead away the hounds. If you betray me, you don't want to know what will happen".
"What?" the Raccoon squeaked, chained by the smoldering eyes.
"Well," the puma smiled slyly. "I could always do what Slyface wanted. But I prefer to handle things differently. This tail of yours, for instance. Oh, I wonder how long it would take for it to grow back if it were shredded to pieces!!" Woundfoot released the Raccoon's tail, and held up his paw, claws flashing out.
The Raccoon jumped back with a sharp squeal, terrified by the very thought of having his extravagant tail damaged.
"Just some extra assurance." The puma smiled. "Now off be with you!"
The Raccoon was about to dash off on his new quest, then he remembered what Woundfoot had said to the 'possum "Shoo-fwy pie?" he inquired.
"Ah, yes." Said Woundfoot. "Slyface will be returning soon. You may wait here is you wish".
The Raccoon curled up and dozed for a few moments, before the opossum returned, dragging a pie he had stolen from the bakery at the Fenokee fairgrounds. Likely it had been baked by Jeb Crowley himself, who was always a contributer to the Fenokee County Fair. "Got it, yer worship. Cen we eat it now?"
"It's for him, you marsupial moron." Woundfoot snarled, indicating the Raccoon. He pushed the pie with his paw in the Little Raccoon's direction.
At once, the Raccoon fell to. He began scarfing down the pie, getting his masked face all sticky and stained in the bargain. Shoo-fly pie was one thing he would practically sell his soul for, that is, if couldn't steal one first.
"I did all the work!" complained Slyface to his master. "Why can't I have my share? Ya jest gonna let little knot- head here have it all?"
"No." said Woundfoot, "I'm not. Just be patient, Slyface."
The Raccoon had finished nearly a fourth of his pie, when Woundfoot swatted the pie away with his paw. "You've had enough. Eat anymore, and you'll never get your job done."
The Raccoon looked up pleadingly, but the puma was unfazed. "Lead the hounds away from us. Then meet us outside the fairground, and we'll show you where you can have all the pie you want. Think how good it will taste then."
The Raccoon whined, but Woundfoot only glared at him. "Now, go! Off with you!"
The Raccoon was off. Slyface snirked as only 'possum could and burrowed his muzzle into the pie. "Ya shore you trust 'im, yor worship?" Slyface asked through his full mouth.
"Not entirely, Slyface." The puma answered. "But I think we've given him all the motivation he needs. Now hurry up with that pie! It's time we were well gone from here!"