Part 12
A Debt Repaid
Miles away, at the Huffsteader farm and commune, Clarence, Bert, and Morton Huffsteader had gathered their hounds for the chase. "Ready boys?" asked Clarence.
"Yeah, pa." Said Bert. "Ah figure we can tree that cat afore sunrise."
"Sure pa." Morton said. "The hounds sure are raring to go!"
"Now don't be too sure." cautioned the senior Huffsteader. "Ol' Woundfoot's one mean critter. 'An plenty smart, too, ah hear tell from folks in Tecusah. He jest might git the better of the dogs if we let'im."
The hounds, who had been yelping for the chase to begin, now growled in anger at Clarences's words. No critter, no matter how mean was gonna make fools of them!
"Don't you be too sure, either, Bruiser," Clarence told the leader of the dogs. "You ain't never hunted nuthin' like 'ol Woundfoot before".
Bruiser still growled, and muttered "we'll git 'im". Under his breath.
"Ah reckon we will". agreed Bert. "At least, ah figure we got a better chance then that Sheriff and Deputy. By the way, you heard from hired two guys from the government caught the cat yet? Don't think so!"
Clarence laughed. "Ya know, 'ah think yous right son. Ah been thinking, 'an ah bet them Boggs kids was right all along, an those two conservation guys probly ain't conservation guys at all. Or least ways mighty poor ones. Get things done, ya gots to do 'em ourselves."
"Rawt, pa!" said Bert and Morton. Hoisting their rifles, they released the hounds and set off.
"Stay with 'em boys." Hollered Clarence. "Figure we'll git thet ornery panther before sunup!"
The tracks from the barn had long since grown stale, but Clarence was right; it wasn't long before the hounds struck onto the fresh trail of the cat, and Bruiser gave the men and dogs a long, howling signal. Bert whistled and called Bruiser and pack to a halt as the men examined the tracks. "That's him." said Morton.
"Yep, it's our boy. Just look at the size 'o them prints, 'an this here paw's damaged. Oh, thet's Woundfoot alright."
"An look here's thet 'ol possum's tracks. Figure its the same one the kids found at the barn. Let's go!"
The hounds renewed their chase. The men followed as the baying pack led them deeper and deeper into Fenokee swamp.
At length, they came to the south side of Mocassin Creek, where the puma's trail seemed to have stopped. Bruiser and his hounds sniffed around for it but found that the cat's scent, as well as that of the 'possum, had utterly vanished. There was, however, a fresher, more recent scent, that was clearly that of a raccoon. Then they noticed the little hand and footprints by the water's edge. Bruiser growled deeply. Even the scent of raccoon was enough to drive any of the hounds' rage. And this one, it seemed, had not only been here recently, but was still nearby! The pack looked about questing the air with their nostrils.
A short distance from the bank lay a fallen tree. From behind this tree peered a little masked, bow-knotted face, grinning mischeivously. The Little Raccoon had lain in wait here, after cleansing the shoo-fly molasses from his face in the creek. The hounds had yet to take notice of him, but he didn't care to wait. He leaped onto the log and mouthed a shrill barrage of taunts at the dogs. Bruiser and others looked in his direction. The Raccoon needed nothing more than that. He pulled back a thick rubber band with his small fingers, and let it fly straight at Bruiser's face. The band struck the pack leader squarely between his eyes, causing him to yelp, then growl with rage at the little 'coon who stood on the log waving his hands at them.
"Get him!" ordered Bruiser. He charged the Little Raccoon, the rest of the pack in tow. The Raccoon snickered heeheehee and dashed.
After a few minutes, Clarence and his boys arrived at the creek. "Something's fishy here." Said Bert. "The cat's tracks stop here at the creek."
"Right," said Clarence. "I'd say he'd swum it."
"So how come them hounds are going the other way?"
"Look here!" cried Morton "Take a look at these."
The other men joined him and examined the tracks. "'Coon tracks!" exclaimed Bert. "Them crazy hounds is chasing a 'coon! And a mighty small one at that!"
They whistled to call the hounds back, but Bruiser and his pack were beyond listening. They were hot on the trail of the rascally little varmint who'd had the audacity to flick their leader with a rubber band. They were bent on tearing him to pieces once they caught him.
Ahead of them, the Little Raccoon raced for his life. He was confident though that he could outmanuver them. The flung himself forward, racing over and through logs, over stumps and around trees. He ran on and on, a small, ringtailed blurr, leading the Huffsteader pack further and further away from Woundfoot's trail. The pack raced on, but never managed to keep up. Their quarry stopped only once to secure a thin vine across the trail, using it as a tripwire. The Raccoon knew he should race on but peered around a tree some distance ahead to watch as Bruiser fell over the trip-vine followed by the remainder of his pack, who lay in stunned heep.
The Raccoon flung some more taunts at them, before zipping off once more. The pack was onto his trail again in no time.
The chase now led out of the swampy area of the woods, toward the higher country near the Fenokee farms. Directly ahead of the Raccoon was the Samuels farm. Samuels raised sweetcorn and potatos, as well sheep and rabbits, which he took to the Fenokee County fair each year. The Raccoon raced around the perimeter of the homestead, to the back gate. He sat before it and looked up. There was a lock on it that Merv Samuels had made certain was raccoon-proof, so that his sweetcorn patch would not be ravaged.
The Little Raccoon reached up, stuck one finger in the lock and picked it with ease.
He pulled open the gate door, and carefully entered, taking care to pushed the door wide, so that the dogs chasing him could enter as well. Any other night, he would have loved to lay siege to all that lovely sweetcorn, gorging himself with relish until his belly was stuffed full, but he remembered his mission, and made at once for the rabbit hutches.
There were row upon row of these confining wire enclosures, at least one rabbit in each of them. They were all white, fluffy, albino bunnys with bright pink eyes, each of them roughly the Raccoon's own small size. Looking at them in their tight little cages made the Little Raccoon feel sorry for them. But he needn't for long, he reminded himself. That was why he was here. He leaped on the first of the hutches, reached down and quickly picked the lock and through the door wide. He then picked the locks of each of the other hutches, until rabbits were leaping out in droves.
"Hey, chums!" cried one of the rabbits, pointing up at the Raccoon. It was the first rabbit he had let out. "Look who's set us free! Let's hear it for him! Yiiiiipeeeee!!!"
The Raccoon shut his eyes, and bowed once to the hordes of rabbits gazing up at him in reverence. "You free now." He piped up. "But hounds are chasing me. When they catch me, I will torn to pieces. You stop them!"
"Tear you to pieces, will they?" sneered the rabbit. "We'll see about that! C'mon guys!" Already the baying of Bruiser's pack had reached the open gate. Ordinarily, the rabbits would have scattered before the hounds, but this time they had the Huffsteader dogs outnumbered six to one. The charged leaping and hoping toward the hounds, who scudded to a stunned halt, as the white, furry battalion barraged over them, cover the dogs in their sheer weight of numbers. The dogs snapped at them, but the rabbits kicked and pummeled them with their feet. At length the white horde streaked for the door and freedom. "Lets go guys!" cried the leader of the rabbits, as they made for the woods. The hounds sniffed around, but the place was so infiltrated with the scent of rabbit, that the 'coon scent had been completely covered. Finally, Bruiser gave it up, and led his confused pack in the direction of Huffsteader's.
In the woods that resumed east of Samuel's, the Raccoon lost himself. He was certain he had given those silly old dogs the slip, but he made for a nearby creek, and swam it for good measure.
Then he made for the Fenokee fairgrounds to wait for Woundfoot. A slight rain had begun to fall, and he found a hollow log in the woods at the edge of the fairgrounds, and crawled in. He shook the wetness from his fur, and sat huddled there, waiting for the puma and his cowardly cohort to arrive. And as he did, his thoughts drifted back to when the dog of purple had captured him. Unbeleivably, it had actually happened! Once, the Raccoon had thought he could outwit any hound, especially that one. But the dog had gotten the upper paw, and the Raccoon remembered how powerless and terrified he had felt. And all once a wave of gratitude like nothing he had felt up to that moment washed over him. True, he had led the Huffsteader hounds away from Woundfoot, but he knew suddenly that all that time he'd really just enjoyed causing mischief, just like always. But now, maybe for the first time in his self-centered life, he realized just how much he wanted to show the cat how grateful he was. The puma only saved him to spite the hound, of course, but what did that matter to him? His life had been spared, and that meant more to him even than the reward he had been promised. If only there was some way to show his gratitude….
Suddenly, the sound of voices reached his small ears, and the Raccoon perked up. The voices were human, and they were coming from the trees deeper into the woods. Though he wasn't sure why, he decided to follow them.
In the woods close to the Fenokee fairgrounds, Mitch Crathers and Lou Danielson were stalking the puma. They had come across his trail on the narrow bridge of land connect the mainland to the island where the cat dragged his kills. They followed the tracks until they led here, close to the fairgrounds.
"What do you think that cat's doing here?" Mitch asked.
Lou shrugged. "Dunno, Mitch. Could be he's after some of the stock they have at the fair. They're already getting stuff ready. 4H started setting up stuff the other day, 'an Jeb Crowley sent some of this pies over for the bake sale".
"Not to mention the Fenokee annual pie 'eatn' contest." Laughed Mitch. "Remember the time-"
"Not now!" said Lou. "We got to git us that varmint. Sos be quiet sos he don't hear us comin'
"Right." Mitch amended, but then he said. "What about them nosey kids, and their snooper hound?"
"Forget 'em," said Lou. "They're probably makin' a fine meal for the gators right now!" He chuckled evilly at the thought.
But Mitch wasn't convinced. "Ah think we should have snuffed 'em, just to make sure".
"Oh, shut up. Them pesky brats won't give us any more trouble. Even if they get away, we'll be long gone by then. With a quarter-million dollar panther hide!"
"What about the sheriff?"
"Sheriff!" snorted Lou. "Thet dumb sheriff couldn't catch a flea on his ear. Now be quiet—ah thinks I hear something!'
"The panther?" Mitch had a note of fear in his voice.
"I don't know—shhh!'
Both men listened intently into the pre-dawn darkness. They heard what sounded like a low coughing some distance ahead. "I think it's him." Said Lou. They crept through the thicket, rifles at the ready. They went ten more paces into the brambles, but still they saw nothing. The noise did not sound again. Then they came clearing.
"Look, Lou." Said Mitch. "I don't think the cat's here. Why would a panther come this close to the fairgrounds? He must have doubled back."
"He's here, ah tell you!"
"Yeah, right." said Mitch. He sat down on a log, and lay down his rifle. "I don't know 'bout you, Lou, but ah need me a drink." Mitch undid the leather pouch around his waist, unstrapping his flask of beer. He unscrewed the cap, and took one sip before Lou stormed over, and angerly snatched his bottle away.
"You as plumb crazy as a mad hog!" said Lou. "Drinkin' booze when we're trackn' thet animal?"
"Shucks, Lou, ah was only—"
"Shet yer trap! Fine time you picked to git liquered up!"
Neither of the men noticed the small, clever hands that flipped open the cartridge of Mitch's air rifle, and took out the bullets.
"Hey, take a gander et this!" Lou exclaimed. "The painter's tracks. "Found 'em again. Told yah he was here!" They bent down over the panther's trail. Mitch retrieved his rifle and joined him. "Looks like yer right." He agreed.
"'Course ah am! Jest look at the size 'o them prints! "An this paw's damaged. He did come this way!" As the men were examining the print's, Lou's rifle fell victim to the same vandal.
"Well, where is he now?"
Lou frowned in confusion. "They look like he's going toward the fairgrounds again. What the hay!"
They got to their feet and began following the tracks. "Keep quiet, Mitch". Lou warned. "He's 'round here somewheres, you mark my words".
"Same to you". Mitch grumbled under his breath.
They crept stealthily forward through the trees, their every sense on the alert. Not more than ten paces in front Lou and Mitch, Woundfoot and Slyface were approaching fairgrounds. Lights were visible from the parking grounds on the other side of the ampitheater. These were of the remaining people who were arranging a movie shoot for Duchess the Wonder Dog. The lights were a long way off, but they made Woundfoot and his companion nervous, since they indicated the presence of humans. The rest of the fairgrounds were dark.
"I don't think that 'lil ringtail ruffian's here." said Slyface. "Little hooligan probably figured out where them pies were, and made off with them hisself!"
"I wouldn't put that past him, Slyface." Woundfoot purred. "But he did lead the hounds from us, just as promised. Whatever his motivations, he's entitled to his reward".
"But you already saved his skin, my lord." Answered Slyface. "Ah think we should just—"
"Silence!" Woundfoot commanded suddenly. "We're being hunted." The cat suddenly became intensely alert.
"Who's hunting us?"
"Men, you fool." Woundfoot hissed. "They must have been trailing us ever since we swam Mocassin creek!" Slyface peered fearfully into the trees, and edged closer to his master for protection.
"Where are they?" the 'possum asked.
"I don't know, but I heard them. They're very close, somewhere through those trees".
"What do we do, lordship?"
"Just keep moving. And don't make a sound. Once we're far enough away, make a run for it."
But the poachers were already peering at them from a screen of foliage, not more than ten feet away.
"Glory, ain't he a beaut!" whispered Mitch Crathers as he stared through the brambles at the puma.
"Fetch a mighty fine price, 'e will". Lou aimed his rifle at Woundfoot dead-center and squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
"This danged rifle's clean out of bullets!" Lou cursed under his breath. "What did you do with 'em, Mitch?"
"Me? It's yer gosh-danged rifle!" Mitch shot back. "Never mind. I'll take car of 'im." He aimed at the cat and fired.
No bullet exploded from the gun. Instead there was a burst of reddish pink fluid that looked like berry juice from the barrel. It exploded out with a pop and splattered back on the two poachers, as the recoil from the sabatoged rifle threw Mitch Crathers back into some thorny brambles. He got to his feet cursing loudly.
"Someone sabatoged our rifles!" Mitch complained.
"Ah cen see thet, ya idgit!" said Lou. "better not have been-"
Then peals of shrill laughter alerted both men to the real culprit. There, perched on a tree limb a short distance away, the Little Raccoon sat jeering at them.
"A 'coon!" said Mitch. "Rawt over there with the blue headband! He did it! He let that danged painter git away!"
"Glory, yer right!" said Lou. "Musta sabotaged our rifles!" "I'll git'im!" said Mitch, raising his rifle without thinking. He squeezed the trigger. Again, there was a explosion of the pink berry juice, with which the Raccoon had stuffed the empty cartridge of the air rifle. Chittering in mischievous mirth, the Raccoon whirled and vanished with a wave of his tail, his debt to Woundfoot paid in full. From a short distance away, Woundfoot and Slyface witnessed the commotion through the trees. They heard the Little Raccoon's laughter, and the shouts of the two men, and knew at once who their deliverer had been. "Why, thet ringtailed scallywag saved us!" Slyface gaped in surprise. "Ah'd never thought he'd had it in him!" He was careful to say "us" rather than "you"; Slyface knew his master would never verbally admit that his life had been saved by a smidgy raccoon. But Woundfoot said, "I must admit, he has more capacity for gratitude than I gave him credit for.""What do we do now?" Slyface asked.
"We leave." Answered the puma. "He may have his reward later. Come!"