There is no doubt about it, he has
rushed in where angels fear to tread. He has received a recent lesson
in coon hunting. So I console him with a little petting and ask him
where is Teddy. Just then I hear a subterranean gurgle and scuffle and
rushing off to a nearby clump of trees, I find that away down under the
ground in a hollow stump, there is a death struggle going on--Teddy and
the coon are having it out. From the sounds I know that Ted has him by
the throat and is waiting for the end. But he seems very weak himself.
As I shout down the hole to encourage him, the coon, with one final
effort, wrests himself free from the dog and comes scuttling out of the
hole. With undignified haste I back away from the outlet and fumble a
blunt arrow on the string, and I am just in time, for here comes one of
the maddest and one of the sickest coons I ever saw. With a hasty shot
back of the ear, I bowl him over and put him out of his misery. Turning
him over with my foot to make sure he is finished, I note how desperate
the fight must have been. His neck and brisket are a mass of mangled
flesh and skin.
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