It plum tickled his perversity to jist think ’bout chasin’ rarecoons. A classic from the November, 1935, issue of Field & Stream.
Dud Dean held the empty frying pan over the glowing coals of our little fire. The fat caught, flared and burned out. After that burst of yellow light the night seemed darker, blacker.
“Trout are middlin’ fodder,” said Dud as he laid aside the pan and drew his pipe from a shirt pocket.
There was nothing to add to that, so I settled back against a beech tree and stretched my legs toward the little fire. Dud paused in the act of pouring a palmful of cut plug into the bowl of his pipe. We heard a distinct sniffing a few feet beyond the campfire’s fringe of light.
“Porcupine,” I guessed aloud.
In a moment I secured a flashlight from the pack at my side. The light caught a half-grown raccoon sniffing at the fish bones we had lately cast aside.
Dud chuckled. “Cunnin’ little cuss. That reminds me, all of a sudden, of the time I went raccoon huntin’. ”
Coon hunting?”
“Aya. That’s a sport we’ve neglected up this way, although the coons ain’t what ye’d call thick. I’d never more than read about it, up to the time I was persuaded to enlist. A feller by the name of Shurtliff, who lived down to Lewiston, talked me into goin.’ He sold pickles, but mostly, I guess, he talked hounds an’ rarecoons. He claimed that he sold 57 sorts of pickles, an’ had owned 58 coon hounds. An’ the last of the line was the champion of them all. The last hound’s name was Vinegar.
“Shurtliff was interduced to me downtown. ‘Well, well, well,’ he says. ‘So ye’re Dud Dean? I’ve heard that ye know more ’bout trout than Izaak Walton hisself, but what do ye know about coon hounds?’
“ ‘I can tell ’em from pointers,’ I says.
“ ‘I should hope so,’ he says. “How’d ye like to go rarecoon huntin’
with me some night?’
“Wa-al, it really didn’t appeal to me, but I couldn’t put that feller off. So in due time I went. That turned out to be the most crotchly night I ever put in on land or sea. As a matter of fact, ye might say that it transpired on land an’ sea; fer if that was a sample of coon huntin’, a feller has to take events just as they come, an’ no one is more subjected to the caprice an’ damp humor of circumstances than a coon hunter is apt to be. But don’t let that discourage ye. It’s a grand sport, if ye can take it.
“Shurtliff brung along two other fellers from his town. One was named Joseph, and the other was Louis. But Shurtliff talked mostly ’bout his dog. Accordin’ to his talk, the dog, Vinegar, never chased anything but rarecoons, although Joseph put in that he had been known to chase a skunk once in a while.
“That gave me an idea. I didn’t know where to expect to find rarecoons, but I felt pretty sure that I could find Vinegar a skunk. An’ it kinda tickled my perversity to think about sech an adventure.
“Along in the summer, I had been tendin’ to some important fishin’ down on the Lake Road. On my way out I had to haul up while a she-skunk, as big as Rhode Island, sort of sauntered across the road. She was proudly followed by six duplicates in smaller calibers. That made seven, an’ it didn’t seem too far-fetched to imagine that thar was one more in the neighborhood. That made eight; so I suggested that we try the rarecoon huntin’ along the old Lake Road.
“It was certainly a pretty night when we started out. The moon was as big as an Irishman’s heart, an’ the road over Babbit Ridge was as plain as day. When we reached the fields around the Ben Adams place, everything looked mighty pretty in the silver light.
“Let’s leave the car here,’ I says when we come to the four corners. ‘Maybe we’ll pick up a coon while we’re goin’ up the old road.’
“ ‘Are they that thick?’ asks Joe.
“ ‘Thicker,’ says I, thinkin’ of them skunks.
“But, by crotch, that Vinegar was one hound that was pretty nigh as good as his owner claimed. If he winded any skunks, he never paid any attention. First he got out of the car, tail in the air, an’ then he sniffed an’ snuffed. Next he galloped off, like he’d got the situation in hand. So we hurried to git our trappings together. It seems that ye always want to take all ye can lug on a coon hunt; an’ the more ye start out with, the less ye’ll git back with.
“Shurtliff an’ Joe took the lanterns. Louis pulled out a rifle, which he said had an ivory bead on it that he could see in the dark. Well, he sure needed it before that night was done. The moon got off her trail, an’ never got back on it. The sky got black as black, an’ a damp wind begun to blow from the south. But we started up the old road, same as Vinegar had done.
“ ‘Listen,’ says Shurtliff when we’d gone about ten rods.
“We stopped an’ listened. Lo an’ behold, Vinegar was jist a-tearin’ pages out of his music book – rip, rippity, rip. An’ whatever it was he was chasin’ was headed ’bout easterly, opposite the little white schoolhouse.
“ ‘That’s him,’ says Shurtliff.
“I could have told him that the verb ‘to be’ never takes an object, as I’ve heard Nancy say more than a thousand times, but what is the use in a feller talkin’ what he don’t believe hisself? I let it pass. What I wanted to know was how we was to git to that rarecoon, if that Vinegar hound kept right on chasin’ him out of the county.
“At first we didn’t hurry none, but when we got opposite the Vigue place the dog begun to bark treed. That was when Shurtliff and Joe left me an’ Louis. I was lank an’ fit in them days, but them two fellers had been trained in a sport that makes or breaks. They lit out like the devil had them by the tail an’ was twistin’ without mercy. Of course, they had the lanterns. Me an’ Louis had been able to make out where we was goin.’
“It kept me busy tryin’ to keep up with Louis, whose feet was faster than his judgment. An’ the first thing I noticed, I see a big pine tree right ahead of me. I thought it looked kind of familiar; but when ye’re all out of wind, even old acquaintance is apt to be fergot. Louis dodged the pine, but fetched up smack agin somethin’ else. It laid him out like he’d been hit on the chin. But up he got, an’ started off to the left. He got about ten feet an’ went down agin. And that time he lay where he fell, until I come up an’ helped him to his feet.
“Where am I? An’ what did I run into?’ he asks.
“ ‘Ye’re in a graveyard,’ I says,‘an’ ye’ve run into a fence.’
“Ye see, the old gate was wide open – suggestively, ye might say. So it happened that we run in an’ down the middle without any trouble, but the way out warn’t so easy, which is typical of sech places. After Louis got his wind back, he was satisfied to let me go ahead after that.
“When we got to the spot where Vinegar was barkin’ up, I see that he’d apparently run his game up a thunderin’ big basswood. He’d put his front paws up as far as he could reach, an’ then throw back his head an’ let her roll. Then he’d go around the tree, an’ repeat. Joe was riggin’ up a little carbide light that he’d had all the time. It looked then like them guys thought me an’ Louis could see in the dark.
“Near as I could make out, it was a big occasion. I certainly admired Vinegar’s voice. The yowls ran out of him like buckshot out of a tin horn. By an’ by, Joe got set so he could train his light on the tree. It was as empty of rarecoons as a prayer meetin’ is empty of deacons. But one of them big basswoods is as sure to be hollow as a blue heron, so we looked fer a hole at the butt, but thar warn’t any. It was clear that a man couldn’t climb a tree like that, not if Paul Bunyan hisself had been thar to boost him.
“ ‘Well, thar’s jist one thing to do,’ says Shurtliff, ‘an’ that is to smoke him out.’
“ ‘But thar ain’t no hole to build a fire in,’ says Louis.
“ ‘If we had only brought along an ax, we could soon cut a hole,’ says Joe.
“ ‘Yes,’ says Shurtliff, kinda scornful; ‘if we had an ax, we could cut this darned tree down flat.’
“I must say that it looked like a purty pickle, as Shurtliff would have said himself in a more rational moment. It was Vinegar that solved the riddle by racin’ off like the whole situation had been a sorry mistake. In about two jerks of a buck’s tail, he begun bayin’ up another tree. Don’t know whether he made an error ’bout the first tree, or whether the woods was full of rarecoons.
“Of course, Shurtliff an’ his pal Joe left everything but the lanterns. However, it was a short go, an’ me an’ Louis warn’t far behind at the finish. That time Vinegar picked out a rock maple. Joe’s light found a pair of eyes that looked down on us like they hated the sight of us. Shurtliff wanted Louis’ gun, but he wouldn’t let go of it.
“If Louis got that ivory bead of his on that coon, he must have aimed at the wrong end of the critter. That was my first experience with a peeved coon. When it lit in our midst, it was fightin’ mad. I took a crack at it with the toe of my boot, but I missed, an’ hit Vinegar in the jaws. He let a bellow out of him like it didn’t feel none too good, but he seemed to think that the coon had done the damage.
“By crotch, it looked like that rarecoon was goin’ to be too much fer Vinegar, but it kinda played out after a while. I guess that Louis got the most excited. I’d have been ashamed if I was him. He kept dancin’ around an’ around, yellin’, ‘Let me git a crack at him.’
“Well, we warn’t hinderin’ him any. At last Vinegar got a farewell grip on that coon. I felt kinda sorry. It’s too bad when a good fight has to end that way.
“ ‘Number one,’ says Shurtliff, in a tone that sounded like he thought he had kicked that coon hisself.
“Vinegar hadn’t a mite of interest in a dead coon. He went off into the night, an’ left us to skin out number one. Joe had a knife. While he was gittin’ at it I made up my mind that I’d lay hold of a lantern myself, in case Vinegar should find some more coons. An’ in about three minutes I thought I had done a smart thing, fer Vinegar begun to bellow as loud as it was dark. Shurtliff dove fer the other lantern, an’ the three of us just left Joe a-skinnin’ his coon in the dark.
“I was ahead all the way, until I busted out in a little piece of pasture lot an’ dang near ran into proof enough that I was in the lead. By crotch, if that warn’t the same she-skunk that I’d seen during the early summer, it was her spittin’ image. She looked as big as a dead horse to me, an’ I put on the brakes so fast that ye could have heard me skid in the frosty grass. While I stood thar on the fringe of things, Shurtliff an’ Louis went by me like wind on a pond.
“Purty soon thar was a mighty thrashin’ in the brush, an’ Joe come out a-wavin’ the knife in his right hand. He give it a flourish when he went by me an’ shouted, ‘This place must be full of coons.’ Of course, nobody paid any attention to me. If they had, they’d have heard what I said, because I didn’t whisper it. If that place was full of rarecoons, thar was an almighty big skunk wedged in between ’em.
“Wa-al, we all gathered around with considerable caution – at least I did it that way. Vinegar growled an’ threatened, but kept in mind that he warn’t barkin’ at no coon.
“While we was considerin’, Louis stepped out an’ said that he was goin’ to shoot her head off. I backed up some more. But Shurtliff waved a hand like he was David bein’ offered Saul’s armor.
“ ‘I’ll pick him up by the tail,’ he says. “They can’t atomize when their hind feet is off the ground.’
“ ‘Then what’ll ye do?’ says Louis.
“ ‘Then you crack him in the head with a club, an’ thar won’t be any mess at all.’
“ ‘A skunk like that ain’t worth the risk,’ says Louis.
“ ‘Every last one of them critters should be exterminated,’ says Shurtlif, glarin’ at the old girl, who had her back up again a little pile of rocks. ‘We have to do it in the interest of sport, but thar ain’t no sense in stirrin’ up a cyclone. It can be done neat an’ with dispatch. Like enough ye’d just nick her.’
“ ‘Is that so?’ grumbles Louis. ‘Well, if you feel that way –’
“ ‘I’ll crack him,’ says Joe, ‘if ye’ll hold him high an’ dry.’
“So Shurtliff told Vinegar to go git at him, the idea bein’ to git the skunk’s mind off them. But shucks, a skunk ain’t got a mind. Vinegar knew that, an’ walked stiff-legged round an’ about the victim. The old lady kept her face to the music, an’ when she warn’t lookin’, he jerked her free an’ clear an’ held her at arm’s length. An’ by crotch, nothin’ happened! Even Vinegar acted like he couldn’t believe his eyes, nor his nose.
“Joe walked in with his stick.
“ ‘Steady now,’ says Shurtliff.
“ ‘All set?’ asks Joe.
“ ‘ Let him have it,’ says Shurtliff.
“But, by crotch, it was that skunk that let them have it. The night became offensive. Of course, Shurtliff dropped the critter, an’ Vinegar rushed in to muckle it. I’d have laughed if it had choked me. It durn near did.
“All I could think of, as we went along, was that line ’bout a vase in which roses has once been distilled, an’ how ye may break it an’ shatter it, but the scent of the roses hangs round it still. But by the time we come out in the old road, Shurtiff’s spirits had revived enough so’s he could whistle ‘Thar’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight.’ I don’t think that anything ever kept him down. The world was his brine, as ye might say.
“Vinegar had lingered to plow his nose in the old dry grass. An’ about the time we reached the road he trotted across like nothin’ had happened, but not smellin’ that way. Joe said that we might as well go home, because the dog wouldn’t be able to smell anything fer a week. But that warn’t possible, it seemed to me.
“Up to the old Brown place thar’s another side road that leads off to some more forgotten farms. In places that road was full of alders, which ain’t the easiest things to git through in the dark. But we had to take it because Vinegar was barkin’ on a track of some kind. Shurtliff got his shoe caught in the crotch of an alder, an’ fell on his face. Jist then Joe had to trip up, an’ the lantern he was carryin’ flew about twenty feet. Of course, it went out. I had to pull Shurtliff’s foot loose before he could git up ag’in. He talked somethin’ fierce, but it didn’t have any effect on the alders.
“By that time Joe’s lantern had leaked most of its oil, but the globe warn’t busted, jist cracked. So we lit her up, an’ went on. That’s the principal point in rarecoon huntin’ – to go on, an’ let the dead bury their dead.
“Finally, from away up on the hill, we heard Vinegar announcing’ to the tall night that he’d treed his game. Gittin’ to a dog that’s barking up ain’t so much of a picnic as ye might s’pose. Every old branch in the woods will reach out an’ take a hunk of your clothes, an’ now an’ then ye’ll lose a patch of hide. The long and short of it is that the woods ain’t friendly in the dark.
“When we reached Vinegar, he set up a tarnation of a noise around a birch as big as a barrel an’ as tall as a tree ought to be. When Joe got his carbide light out of his pocket, it had been dented, but he finally got it to workin’, an’ we see that Vinegar hadn’t made no mistake in a tree that time. But the eyes that burned down on us looked shifty an’ far apart to me.
“Louis drew a bead on that critter as careless as a kid shootin’ a robin with an airgun.
‘Hold on,’ I says. ‘Somethin’ tells me that it would be a mistake to hit that critter where ye hit the coon. I’d rather that Shurtliff picked it off by the tail.’
“ ‘Aw, hurry up,’ say Shurtliff, lookin’ scornful at me. ‘We ain’t got all night to spend in this place.’
“Must’ve been that Louis did hurry up, because I don’t believe he ever touched that bobcat. It slid out of the tree, from the back side, like a chap with skis on his feet. We rushed round, led by Vinegar, who muckled it where it lit. I got too close one spell, an’ if it didn’t make a pass at me I was in a high state of imagination. Vinegar got a wallop fer his courage that fetched a yowl out of him a yard long. Joe had to drop his lantern, an’ the dang thing went out ag’in. That left it fifty percent darker.
“Vinegar displayed more courage than judgment. Him an’ that bobcat was jist a confusion of yowls an’ claws. Louis hopped round, but might jist as well have had a crowbar as that gun in his hands. Finally I got hold of it, but by that time the wildcat was gone, like the night had reached out an’ taken him. Even Vinegar didn’t seem to realize it fer about ten seconds.
“Finally he stuck his nose in the leaves, an’ raced off, like the old soldier he was. We all took after the noise Vinegar was makin’, but crotch, we never did catch them ag’in. The hound would tree, but the cat wouldn’t stay treed. We went through places where the little firs was so thick a wind couldn’t blow through. All in all, we was up an’ down – tripped down, knocked down, an’ jist plain down, causes unaccountable – more than a hundred times, until I begun to wonder where we was anyway. Shurtliff didn’t seem to think that was important. He seemed to think that as long as we followed that bobcat we’d land up on the main street of Lewiston, which was where he lived when he was home. But I felt that we was as good as lost right then, an’ I said so. An’ it made them fellers plum scornful. Even Louis was indignant, an’ declared that he had never been lost in his life.
“I give it up. That’s an awful good cure fer that kind of distemper. I tried it out. I let them have their own way. Gosh, It was fun. We tramped round an’ round, like kids playin’ ring around the rosy, jist us rarecoon hunters lost in the Almighty’s night. At least, I know that I didn’t have no more idea where I was than Larb Blare had the time he got pifflicated and wandered into the Methodist church. But by an’ by thar was a hint of gray light off in the east, an’ I begun to git a few notions.
“Then danged if we didn’t cross a road with alders in it. Ye’d have thought that Shurtliff would have recognized it. An’ he had the only lantern that was burnin’ at that. We circled round some more, an’ by an’ by we crossed that road agin. Nobody noticed. I had to laugh.
“ ‘What are ye laughin’ at?’ asks Shurtliff in a provoked voice.
“I never answered him. A man don’t need to answer sech questions in the long run. Finally we struck off agin, an’ after Shurtliff had fallen over the same log three times he admitted that the woods was full of logs. I set down. I was tired – tired as a dog on the Fourth of July.
“ ‘What’s the matter?’ asks Shurtliff, sort of teeterin’ on his feet.
“ ‘Nothin’,’ I says, “cept I feel dizzy.’
“Louis and Joe had enough. Joe says to me, ‘Now what’ll we do?’
“ ‘Well,’ I says, ‘we can set down an’ act natural, or keep goin’ until Shurtliff breaks his neck on that log he’s crossed every time he come round in his own tracks.’
“I’m afraid Shurtliff didn’t like that, but he was glad to sit down. It was dark in them woods. An’ it was as still as under the ground. It made a man feel small an’ unimportant without anybody’s help. I watched our last lantern, burnin’ low an’ sputtery. It struck me as a poor little tin symbol of all man’s effort to go it alone in the Almighty’s night of all time. Then I fell to thinkin’ how good my own bed would feel right then. I tried to think of something’ that was softer than feathers, but couldn’t. In fact, the very idea that thar might be struck me as plum reediculous, an’ I got all out of patience. ’Bout then, I s’pose, I went off to sleep.
“When I woke up, it was rainin’ a little. The other rarecoon hunters was sleepin’. It’s kinda funny to watch the rain fall in a face that don’t know it. I got up and looked, but I couldn’t make out anything that seemed familiar, although I did see a stone pile, which meant we was in some grown-up farmin’ land.
“By an’ by Joe woke up. He got to his feet, and I heard him mutter in surprise. Then he says, ‘What’s that little white building’ over thar?’
“I looked where he was pointin’, an’ was some surprised myself. ‘Thar,’ I says, like I’d known it all the time, ‘is the schoolhouse we come by last night.’
“By crotch, if we hadn’t put in the remainder of the night, after Vinegar passed out of hearin’, within a few rods of Shurtliff’s car. When we got to it, thar was Vinegar, curled up in the back seat, fast asleep. An’ the scent of the roses hung round him still.”