The Duck-footed Hound Part 16

[Ill.u.s.tration]

HARKY'S PLOT

Mellie Garson, still immobilized by the mule kick, was aware of the stain that afflicted his immortal soul. But he was not completely repentant. Nothing could be worse than another day on the pickle keg.

Listlessly Mellie caught up a handful of pebbles and shied them one by one at a knothole in the woodshed wall. He shook his head and uttered a despairing moan. Tossing pebbles at the knothole was the only game he'd invented to beguile the pa.s.sing hours, and at first it had been interesting because he made a bull's-eye only about one time in twenty.

Now it seemed that every pebble he tossed sailed through the knothole as naturally as a trout swims up riffles.

Mellie contemplated scooping up more pebbles for more sharpshooting, but where was the fun when he just couldn't miss? Glumly he reviewed the sin for which he must one day answer.

He should not, he told himself, ever have sent Melinda to take Glory on the c.o.o.n hunt. But how was he to know they'd get Old Joe up in his magic sycamore? Could he possibly have had forewarning of the fact that Melinda would not only question the witchery of Old Joe and his magic tree, but infect the minds of her male companions with her own skepticism? Could anyone guess that the hallowed traditions of the Creeping Hills c.o.o.n hunters would topple simply because a girl took part in a c.o.o.n hunt?

Mellie shook his head sadly. Melinda, not exactly a woman, was not exactly a girl either. She was, Mellie told himself, old enough to cast the monkey wrench that usually lands in the gears whenever women intrude on affairs that by every law of G.o.d and nature belong exclusively to men.

The wreckage had been fearful indeed; Mun Mundee laid up with a broken leg; Raw Stanfield and b.u.t.t Johnson afraid to show their faces on the lower reaches of Willow Brook; Harky Mundee mad as a trapped mink; and Melinda explaining blithely that hunting racc.o.o.ns was indeed good sport.

Mellie buried his face in his hands and shook with anguish. He was not, he told himself honestly, as ashamed as he should be because he had thrown such a destructive bomb among the Creeping Hills c.o.o.n hunters.

But that a Garson, even a female Garson, should refer to the art of c.o.o.n hunting as mere "good sport" shook the very foundations of everything in which Mellie had faith.

Glory, who had been dozing in the sun, rose and prowled restlessly over to snuffle at the woodpile. Mellie regarded her with an experienced eye.

Melinda might lack a true appreciation of c.o.o.n hunting, but she'd certainly given him a thorough rundown on Glory. A slow starter and slow hunter, Melinda had said, and she tongued on the trail. But she was steady as a church and true as a homing pigeon. She was every bit as good as Queenie, and with a little experience she'd be better. A year from now, any c.o.o.n Glory got on would be treed or run to earth.

Mellie had a sudden, uncomfortable feeling that he himself could not have found out so much about Glory in just one hunt. Or if he had, he'd be inclined to doubt until Glory proved herself. But he'd accepted Melinda's evaluation without the slightest question, and now as he looked at Glory he knew a rising uneasiness.

A good thing was never to be taken for granted, and there was much that could happen to any hunting hound; Mellie had only to remember Precious Sue. Though he fervently hoped she wouldn't, Glory might go the same way, and where would he find another c.o.o.n hound of equal quality? There was only one source.

However, there was a great deal involved. It was blasphemy even to think in terms of ordinary c.o.o.n dogs when Glory was simultaneously in mind.

There were only two hounds on Willow Brook worthy of her, Thunder and Duckfoot. Things being as they were, even if all else were equal, it was unlikely that b.u.t.t Johnson would bring either his hound or himself within nine miles of the Garsons, or anything that belonged to the Garsons.

About to catch up another handful of pebbles, Mellie grimaced and refrained. He did not know how many pebbles he'd flicked from the upended pickle keg through the knothole and into the woodshed, but offhand he guessed there were at least four bushels, and he didn't even want to think about another one. Nor had he much of anything else to occupy his thoughts. His daughters, with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of efficiency, had all the farm tasks well in hand.

Mellie resumed his study of Glory, who had lain down in the sun but was not sleeping, and wondered if he should keep her tied up. She might go wandering, and there was no a.s.surance that she'd be as lucky as Precious Sue. As everyone knew, the woods were just filled with all sorts of witches, and many of them were all bad.

Glumly Mellie pondered the probability that she'd break loose and go wandering even if he tied her (would anything ever go right for him?) when Glory sat up, tilted her head, and voiced a warning wail. A moment later, Harky Mundee appeared.

Mellie sat still, doing his best to conceal his amazement, for he'd have been no more completely astounded if Old Joe himself had appeared with the ghost of Precious Sue in hot pursuit. Obviously Harky was not seeking a fight, for he carried no fighting tools. But he certainly was not coming in peace; after Mellie's foul trick, the Mundees would never make peace with the Garsons. On the point of demanding that Harky state his business and be on his way, Harky forestalled him with:

"I come to ask can Melinda fetch Glory on another c.o.o.n hunt tonight?"

For a moment Mellie felt as though he'd again been mule-kicked, this time squarely between the eyes. He blinked and recovered.

"I thought," he heard himself saying, "that you come to ask kin Melinda fetch Glory on another c.o.o.n hunt tonight?"

"I did," Harky a.s.serted.

A sudden suspicion p.r.i.c.ked Mellie's mind. Boys were boys and girls were girls, and all things considered it was a very pleasing arrangement, and there was no harm whatever in a bit of smooching. But how come Harky Mundee, otherwise so very sensible, thought he could successfully blend that with a c.o.o.n hunt? Or did he?

"You got notions 'bout that girl child of mine?" he demanded.

"You bet!" Harky a.s.sured him.

"Well, I don't know as I have any real objections. Melinda's a mite young, but you're a mite young yourself to be huntin' a wife."

"Wife!" Harky gasped. "You think I been moonstruck?"

"You talk like you been," Mellie growled. "A man has to be 'fore he'll let himself in for all what can happen when he _asks_ a woman to go c.o.o.n huntin'. Who ya aim to take along outside o' Melinda an' Glory?"

"Me an' Duckfoot," Harky stated.

"But you ain't got no ideas 'bout Melinda?" Mellie pursued.

"You're darn' whistlin' right I got ideas!" Harky said. "I've had 'em ever since the night everything got smashed to bits!"

"I know," Mellie said gloomily.

"I can't even take no pleasure on account Pa can't make me fetch the corn in and husk it," Harky continued.

"I know," said Mellie, and he shrugged helplessly. "Many's the time I been tempted to leave mine out, but with fourteen wimmen folk, a body's got less chanst than you stand with your Pa."

"Could be you're right," Harky said reflectively. "I guess there's times when a man like you just can't help himself, and that's why you sent Melinda on the c.o.o.n hunt."

"I could of helped myself," Mellie corrected. "I could of told Melinda to stay home an' she'd of stayed. But I didn't an' she didn't."

"Why'd you send her?" Harky asked.

"Pure h.e.l.lishness," said Mellie. "I was mule-kicked an' couldn't go c.o.o.n huntin' so I figgered I'd ruin it for everybody else."

"You sure enough did," Harky told him. "Pa's got a busted leg, Raw and b.u.t.t are staying near enough the woods so they can duck into 'em, and us c.o.o.n hunters are just going to sink right where we are without we do something."

"What ya aim to do, Harky?"

"I got to take Melinda out and I'll bring her back. We have to run Old Joe up his big sycamore and I got to show Melinda that there ain't any den there for him to hide in."

"It's a right big order," Mellie said.

"But the only chance any of us got," Harky pointed out. "That Miss Cathby, she come into the hills and tried to teach that Old Joe ain't nothing but a big old c.o.o.n. The rest, she says, is a lot of foolishness, too. If we don't put a finish to that sort of thing once and for all, even us men will be sitting around gathering our lore out of books 'stead of c.o.o.n hunts."

Mellie shuddered at a prospect so horrible. There was a brief silence, and Harky asked, "Can Melinda fetch Glory tonight?"

Mellie said seriously, "Maybe you ain't been moonstruck in one way, but you sure have been in another. You ever try tellin' a woman what to do?"

"No," Harky conceded, "but I'd like to."