Part 17 (1/2)
”Me too,” Mellie said sadly, ”but I know better. Melinda kin go if she wants to, an' I kind of think she will on account she likes c.o.o.n huntin'. But--”
”But what?” Harky asked.
”But nothin',” Mellie said.
About to fill Harky's understanding ear with his recent mental turmoil, and how that was responsible for his decision to keep Glory tied, Mellie wisely said nothing. Somehow or other he'd got just what he wanted anyhow, and Glory would be running with Duckfoot. Only fools meddled with affairs that were already perfect.
”Good enough,” said Harky. ”I'll wait 'til Melinda comes.”
In due course, another day at Miss Cathby's school behind them, Melinda and Mary danced into the yard. Mary, who not only thought Harky a roughneck but said so loudly, frequently, and publicly, stuck her tongue out at him and ran into the house. Melinda, met and accompanied by an ecstatic Glory, came to where her father and Harky waited.
”You must have your corn in, Harold,” she said sweetly.
”How come you ask that?” Harky demanded.
”If you didn't, you'd never be wasting daylight hours just talking.”
”Corn ain't in and it ain't gonna be,” Harky stated. ”It ain't none of your mix if 'tis or not. What I come to ask is, will you bring Glory and come hunting tonight?”
”Can I, Pa?” Melinda breathed.
”If you've a mind to,” Mellie said.
”Oh, Pa!”
She kissed him, a.s.sured Harky that she would be there with Glory at nightfall, and ran into the house. Mellie turned glowing eyes on Harky.
”You do git yourself a wife come two-three years, don't cuss your girl children. Didja see her kiss me?”
”f.a.gh!” said Harky.
Duckfoot, sitting on the Mundee porch, was hopefully sniffing the pork chops Harky was frying inside. Knowing that in the fullness of time he would be gnawing the bones, Duckfoot licked his pendulous jowls in happy antic.i.p.ation and blew through his nose.
If he thought of himself at all, which he seldom did, it was never to wonder what he was or why he had been created. He was a hound, he had been created to hunt c.o.o.ns, and that's all Duckfoot had to know.
He could not possibly understand that he was a canine genius, and he wouldn't have cared if he had. The blood of Precious Sue mingled with that of Rafe Bradley's huge hound in Duckfoot, and he had inherited the best of both plus something more. He was born with a sense of smell and an ability to stick to a trail that is rare in even the best of experienced hounds.
The extra something consisted of a talent to out-think and outguess the quarry he was running. He'd been a mere pup the night Old Joe came raiding, but he'd experienced little difficulty in tracking Old Joe to his magic sycamore and he'd learned since.
The second time they ran Old Joe, Duckfoot had paced the renowned Thunder and arrived at the sycamore with his far more experienced hunting companion. He'd known perfectly well that Old Joe was in the den, for he could smell him there.
With a c.o.o.n up, and for as long as the c.o.o.n remained up, Duckfoot was satisfied to run true to form and bay the tree. Sooner or later his master would hear him tonguing and arrive to take charge. But Duckfoot had no intention of letting any c.o.o.n, treed or not, get the upper hand and he called on his inborn hunting sense to make sure they never did.
Even Thunder considered his whole duty discharged if he either caught his c.o.o.n on the ground or treed him and bayed the tree. Duckfoot went beyond that to a complete grasp of any given situation. He had known even as he supported Thunder's voice with his own that Old Joe might try to escape and that the one logical escape route was farther up the sycamore and into the tunnel.
The instant Old Joe left his den, Duckfoot raced for the ledge. Only the cramped tunnel prevented his overtaking Old Joe, and there'd been a long, hard chase after the big c.o.o.n emerged into the swamp. Old Joe had finally escaped by entering a beaver pond, diving, evicting the rightful tenants from their domed house, and waiting it out.