We know they
have him treed and, breathless, we push forward, arriving in the order
of our physical vigor, those with the best legs and lungs coming first.
High up in a tree, out on a limb, we see a shadowy form and two glowing
orbs--that is the coon. The dogs are insistent; since they cannot
climb, although they try, man must rout the victim out. Somebody turns
a flashlight on the varmint. Frank Ferguson is the champion coon
hunter; so he draws a blunt arrow from his quiver, takes quick aim and
shoots. A dull thud tells that he has hit, but the coon does not fall.
Another arrow whistles past, registering a miss; then a sharp click as
the blunt point of the third arrow strikes the creature's head, a
stifled snarl, a falling body, a rush of dogs on the ground, and all is
over. The hounds are delighted, and we count one chicken thief the
less.
Sometimes the coon becomes the aggressor. He boldly enters our camp at
night and purloins a savory ham or rifles the larder and eats a pound
of butter. He fully deserves what is coming to him. I loose Teddy and
Dixie, my two faithful hounds. The morning mist is rising from the
stream, the tree trunks are barely visible in the early dawn, the
grasses drip with dew.
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