S5

The Old Goat and the Whippersnapper

By Dennis Clay Smith

The sun was sinking low in the West as Thomas sped his truck around the winding curves on Route 3. He thought back to the conversation he'd had with the old man earlier in the week. The County Line Café had been packed that afternoon when he noticed the old man standing by himself, looking for a place to sit. Thomas motioned to the empty chair across from him, inviting the man to join him. He pushed his copy of CoonHound Bloodlines aside as the waitress slid his plate of hamburger and fries in front of him.

"I don't take much stock in them competition coonhounds," the old man had said. "I'd put old Three-wheeler up agin 'em anytime."

"Well, I've got a pretty fair competiton Walker hound," Thomas told him. "One that's won a few hunts against some top coon dogs." He pictured the state and national trophys back at his house. "Whata ya say we hookup for a coon hunt sometime?" Thomas asked him.

"How about this Friday?" the old man said. "I know a place down in the bottoms... Ain't been hunted this winter... Always plenty of coons down there."

Thomas glanced at his watch as he slowed down and made a left on highway N.

He pressed down hard on the gas pedal; he intended to get to their meeting place well before the old man. He wanted to put his tracking collar on his prize Walker and set his GPS. Although he'd had the dog two years, he still owed the guy two thousand dollars on him and he sure didn't want to lose him in unfamiliar woods. The dayshift at the Westside factory would be getting off soon and he hoped to beat the rush-hour traffic. Heading west, the road past the parking lot was as crooked as a New York politician and passing cars was near impossible. Up ahead, a rusty pickup was chugging along well below the speed limit. Just as Thomas caught up with it and down-shifted to pass, he noticed the Border Collie hanging his head over the side of the truck, taking in the scents of the brisk November air. He passed the truck easily on the straight stretch of road.

Two miles further, he was glad to see that the factory had not let out yet; the lot was still full of cars and trucks. He rounded the first hairpin curve about a mile past the factory and--Whoa! He almost had to stand on the brake pedal to keep from plowing into the rear of a car. The faded old Chevy was a real tank, and with the driver creeping along at a robust 25 miles an hour, it seemed even bigger. He backed off the guy's bumper and snapped off the CD player, no longer in the mood for Clint Black crooning about "leaving here a better man".

He'd never get around this guy, and he could forget about getting there early. Shoot,

he'd be lucky if the old man didn't go hunting without him. He hated it when people too old to drive still clogged up the roads with junkers. He shook his head at the steady stream of blue smoke that trailed out of the rusted tailpipe. Even the car's trunk wouldn't stay closed; it was wired loosely shut with what appeared to be baling wire. The lid bobbed up and down every time the car hit the slightest of bumps since the car's shocks were obviously worn out. He glanced in his rear view mirror, expecting to see more cars filing in behind him, also stuck behind this clunker. He was somewhat relieved when the only thing in sight was his shiny aluminum dog box. Look Out! A Ferrell Gas propane truck came barreling over the hill! The driver laid on his horn as he nearly sideswiped the old car that had wandered over the center line. The driver in the old Chevy over-steered back to the right and his car bounced up and down wildly in the deep ruts in the shoulder. Thomas hit his brakes again when the Chevy slowed even more. When he saw an opening, he hit the gas on his F-250 and passed the junker in one swift maneuver. He smiled to himself: Richard Petty would have been proud

He sped back up and when he glanced in his mirror, the car was just a speck in the distance. He turned Clint back on and fished for the can of Skoal in his shirt pocket. The sun was nearly down now and darkness and colder air was creeping in fast. He hoped he'd left his new Sunburst light and Garmin GPS on the chargers long enough. There'd be no moon tonight and the weatherman had said there'd be a good chance of rain, so no stars would be out to help with directions. He reached over in the passenger's seat and squeezed the pocket of his Browning Goretex hunting coat. Good he'd remembered to bring his Timothy Ball coon squaller.

The timber was getting bigger now as he wound down closer to the Wolf River. Cottonwoods, Pecan and Sycamore trees lined the creeks along side of the corn and soybean fields. An occasional combine was left standing in the middle of the half-harvested fields. On the right, a long narrow field had winter wheat growing up through corn stubble. He spotted the five or six deer, standing in the corner of the field, looking up toward the highway. He smiled. He remembered when he started coon hunting eight years ago. He went through a passel of coonhounds that could really pole a deer, but they never put much fur up a tree. He thought about the promising young Redbone that he'd raised from a pup. It could tree its own coon on a steady basis, and it wouldn't even look at a deer. He still kicked himself for hunting it so close to C highway where a pickup hit and killed it one rainy night. He finally gave up on the started and so-called, finished dogs, tired of buying someone else's junk, and he withdrew six thousand dollars from his savings account to buy Tall Timber Ranger, the high-powered Walker that rode in the dog box behind him.

Thomas crossed Wolf River and slowed down, looking for the dirt lane on the left. He saw it and turned off. Then he stopped and pulled the piece of paper out of his shirt pocket: "go till you come to a small shack at the end of the lane. Thars a old hay rake sittin besides it." At the bottom of the note was the old man's phone number.

When he pulled up to the shack he shut off his motor and got out. Good, the old man hadn't showed up yet. He popped open the top storage on his dog box and pulled out a ten-foot chain and he let Ranger out. He snapped the chain on his fluorescent orange collar and let him jump down from the tailgate. While Ranger watered a small bush, Thomas got out his tracking collar and receiver. He pulled out his GPS and turned it on, letting it find the satellites so he could set it. It was almost dark now and he shivered at the chill in the air. He went to the cab and grabbed his coat and put it on. After he set his GPS and put Ranger's tracking collar on, he got back in the truck and poured himself a cup of coffee from his thermos and waited for the old man to show up.

He sipped on his coffee and looked out across the small field, thinking about the construction job he'd been working on. His muscles and bones were sore from working the long hours, and although he'd only got about six hours of sleep last night, he doubted he'd be pushed too hard by the old man tonight. He had to be at least seventy-five, and Thomas remembered he walked with a limp. He seemed like a nice fellow, but if he thought a cur dog could compete with a Walker well he'd show him what a coon dog was

Suddenly, across the field, a covey of quail exploded into the air! Thomas set his coffee down and watched intently. Finally, in the dim light, he saw the Red fox sneaking through the short grass. The varmint stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the pickup. He crouched lower and then slowly turned and snuck back the way he had come. Thomas finished his coffee, reclined his power seat and closed his eyes. When he awoke from his nap it was completely dark. He turned on his dome light and looked at his watch. He'd been asleep for forty-five minutes! Where was the old man? Did he back out and not tell me? He waited another fifteen minutes and then started to worry. He pulled his cell phone out of his coat and called the old man's house.

"No," his wife replied. "Joe's not here.. Left about two hours ago... Said he's going coon hunting with some Whippersnapper. Is this John? He's been trying to get a hold of you."

"No mam," Thomas said. "Just a friend... I'll call him tomorrow. Thomas thanked her and hung up. "Whippersnapper? Why that Old Goat!"

Then he saw the headlights coming down the lane. He hoped it was the old man, since he'd noticed the "No Trespassing" sign out by the blacktop. After zipping up his coat, he turned on the small floodlight on the outside of his cab. He got out and grabbed Ranger's chain and pulled him in close to the truck. He sure didn't want the old man, or whoever it was, to run over him. The vehicle pulled up beside Thomas' truck and stopped. It was the junker he'd passed back by the factory! When the guy opened his door and the dome light came on, Thomas noticed it was, Joe, the old man he'd been waiting for

"Howdy!" the old man barked as he got out of the car "Bet you gave up on me, huh?"

"Well, Joe, I was startin' to worry about you alright was afraid you had car trouble or something"

"Well you right, I did have... A dang flat! Gall-durn Propane truck ran me off the road and I blew out a tire... Liked to never got them blasted lug-nuts off."

Thomas walked over and shook hands with the old man.

"Where's your dog?" Thomas asked.

"Oh, Three-wheeler? He rides in the trunk. Got hold of a skunk one time and he's rode back there ever since. Seems to like it... Jumps right in."

"What's that shiny thing in the back of your truck?" the old man asked.

"That's my Continental Dog Box. It's all aluminum; it'll never rust; will hold four good sized dogs too."

"Whew-eee," the old man gasped. "Bet that cost a pretty penny."

"Four hundred and twenty-five dollars on sale," Thomas admitted.

"Man oh man, a feller could buy a decent car with that kinda money."

"A couple like yours," Thomas said, under his breath.

"Well, I ought to let old Three-wheeler out, reckon he's gotta go pretty bad by now."

"Ok. I'm gonna slip on my Frog-legs, just in case we hit any water."

"Your what?" The old man asked.

Thomas acted like he didn't hear him.

Joe ambled around to the back of his car and unwired the trunk. Thomas was pulling his boots on when a big, yellow, rough-haired dog with a bobbed-tail came hopping around to the back of his truck. So that's a Cur? Thomas did a double-take when he saw the dog peeing on a bush. There was something unusual about him. Then he spotted it--the dog was missing a back leg! "Three-wheeler!" he laughed to himself.

The old man hopped over toward Thomas. He was using a long walking stick and he had what Thomas assumed was a rifle under his arm. When Joe got to his tailgate and sat down, he realized the old man was carrying a wooden peg leg. Thomas acted like he didn't notice as the old man strapped it on the stub of his leg. He quickly stole a look at the contraption on Joe's cap. A Carbide light? I must be in a time machine, Thomas thought. He was feeling uneasy now, wondering what he'd got himself in to. A three-legged dog and a one-legged man Wait till the guys at the coon club hear about this one.

Suddenly, Three-wheeler started barking furiously behind them. His voice was somewhat muffled.

"Reckon you can strike and tree old Three-wheeler," the old man laughed.

Then, Ranger cranked out a thundering bawl!

"Man!" Joe yelled out as he jumped sideways. "I didn't see that hound laying there! Scared the B-Jesus outta me!"

Thomas grabbed his 16-volt light out of the top of his dog box and started for the cur. Joe picked up his walking stick and followed him. Three-wheeler was inside the little wooden tool shed. The door was hanging half off on one hinge and when Thomas shined his light inside he saw a big coon crouched down on a shelf, high up in the back corner. Three-wheeler was barking every breath and occasionally he would spin around in a tight circle and then leap high in the air, trying to grab the coon.

"Yea, that's a real dandy," Joe said as he pulled a thick rope out of his coat pocket.

It had a rusty snap on one end, and he clicked it onto the cur's ragged collar.

"Good boy," he said as he patted the dog on the side and pulled him away from the coon.

"You keep an eye on 'em, and I'll go get my .22," Joe said.

"You gonna shoot him right here?" Thomas asked. "Why don't we run him out of here and have us a chase?"

"Well, I guess we could," Joe admitted. "Be kinda like throwin' ten dollars out the car winder and then go lookin' for it, though. That's a prime fur that coon's awearing... plenty good eatin', too."

"We'll tree him again," Thomas replied, "but let's have us a chase first."

Joe shook his head, lit his carbide light and pulled Three-wheeler out of the shed's door. Ranger was chopping every breath now and foaming at the mouth, and every time he lunged at his chain the truck would shake. Joe tied Three-wheeler to a small tree and stood back by the truck. Thomas came out of the shed, carrying a short piece of rusted pipe. He fought his way through the blackberry briars and buck brush that skirted the side of the rickety building. When he got to the outside corner of the shed, he smacked the side of the wall. The coon came tearing out of the door and took off down through the woods. Three-wheeler took off after him. When he got to the end of his rope, it jerked him around in the air and the collar slipped off of his head.

"Three-wheeler!" the old man yelled.

It was no use. A few seconds later, a squalling and popping of teeth was coming from out of the dark. When Thomas made his way to the front of the shed, here came Three-wheeler. He had the big coon in his mouth and he hopped up to Joe and dropped it at his feet.

Joe patted him on the head and turned towards Thomas and said, "Well, I reckon he's warmed up You ready to go huntin' now?"

Thomas laughed, "I reckon he is."

A chilly breeze had picked up from out of the North, and the clouds overhead would occasionally thin enough to reveal a faint glow from the moon. Besides a pack of coyotes barking on a distant hill, the only sound was the steady hiss of Joe's carbide light. He and Thomas stood in the old logging road without talking, listening for the dogs. Thomas shifted the Browning .22 on the sling up tighter on his shoulder. Then, to the Southwest, Ranger opened with a long bawl. The old man cupped his hear, trying to get a bearing on the hound's location. A minute later, Ranger gave out another long drawn-out bawl.

"Sounds like a cold trail on the other side of the river" the old man said.

"Yea, I'd say so," Thomas admitted. "Don't you worry, if that coon ain't got wings, Ranger will put him up a tree. How deep is the river? Any place we can get across?"

"Yea, lots of places," the old man said. "They should have called it Wolf Creek."

Ranger was picking up the paces. His bawls were getting closer together now and sounded livelier. He was moving the track back towards them.

"What do you think Three-wheeler is doing?" Thomas asked. "Will he run with another dog."

"Well, he may... You'd never know it though unless they treed... He don't open on a track."

Suddenly, they heard a splashing of water. Something was crossing the river, coming towards them! Thomas turned his light down low and shined the amber lenses in that direction. He and Joe waited as it got closer; it was almost upon them.

Thomas grabbed Joe's arm as he slid the Browning down off his shoulder!

"A coyote," he whispered. It circled around a brushy treetop and was headed toward the logging road. They heard it stop and they froze, wondering if it had winded them. Then a rustling in the leaves started up again. It was now almost out to the road and Thomas had his gun to his shoulder, looking through his low-power scope, waiting to pull the trigger. Then he sighed and lowered his gun. It was Three-wheeler. He had something black and tan in his mouth. Whatever it was, it was big. He hopped up the road towards them, barely able to see over what he was carrying.

Joe spoke up first, "Old Three-wheeler has done got himself a double"

"Huh," Thomas said.

Then he laughed and pushed his cap back on his head when Three-wheeler dropped a coon and possum to the ground. He was panting hard and his eyes shifted from Joe to Thomas and back to Joe. After he shook the water off his back, he picked them up, hopped up to Joe and dropped them at his feet.

"Now, that's what I'd call a meat dog, for sure," Thomas admitted.

Suddenly, they heard Ranger again, coming over the hill. He was poling his track closer towards them. He was just on the other side of the river and his bawls were coming fast and loud. Three-wheeler took off for him and seconds later they heard him splashing across the river.

Thomas looked over at Joe. "Won't be long now,"

Just seconds later, Ranger and Three-wheeler were hammering hard.

"Let's go!" Joe said. "Before he jumps out!"

They crossed the river on a shallow shoal, and when they approached the tree, they spotted the boar coon. He was up a tall persimmon and looking down at the dogs.

"I'll knock him out," Thomas said and he took aim with his Browning and fired. The coon never moved. He fired again and the coon climbed higher.

"What the heck is wrong with this gun?" Thomas barked. "I was right on him."

Joe reached over and when he felt the scope it slid off the barrel and into his hand.

"There's your problem," Joe said. "Loose scope."

The coon had climbed way out on a limb and was trying to reach a big rotten sycamore.

"He's headed for that den tree!" Thomas shouted.

"Stand behind me and hold your light on him," Joe said

Joe pulled an old pistol out of his coat pocket and held it straight out and looked down the barrel. His arms were shaking badly, but when he finally pulled the trigger, the coon dropped off the limb and the dogs grabbed him.

Three hours later, Thomas and Joe made their way back up the logging road, heading for the truck. Ranger and Three-wheeler had treed four more coons, and Three-wheeler caught another possum on the ground. Thomas had Ranger on a leash and Three-wheeler hopped along beside him leading the men back. Thomas carried three coons on a rope and Joe carried the other coon and possum. Thomas suggested they skin the coons in the woods, but Joe said there was no way he was leaving all that good meat in the woods; said he had big plans for that.

"Hold on," Joe said. He stopped, removed his cap and scratched his head.

"They're somewhere around here."

"Three-wheeler," he said. "Where's the coons?"

The yellow cur hopped up the road with his head up in the air. When he got about 20 yards from them, he sat down, looked back at the men and barked twice.

He sat there and waited as the men approached. Joe waded into the edge of the brush and brought the other two coons and possum out they had caught earlier.

"That was a good idea," Thomas said, leavin' 'em here. I sure would have hated to carry them all night too."

Joe pulled a wide piece of leather out of his coat. It was about 6 inches long and had what looked like a fish-stringer snap on each end. He took the coons off the rope and ran a snap under the tendons on each coon's back legs. Three-wheeler hopped up to him and Joe laid the wide strap over the big dog's back. There was a brass snap on the front of the leather band, and Joe snapped that to a ring on Three-wheeler's collar.

"Man, Joe That's some fine dog you got there."

"Yea," Joe said as he reached down and patted the dog's head. "He's a pretty good old boy. "Used to manage four coons before he lost a leg... Two's 'bout all he can handle now. Just called him Wheeler before he lost that leg. And don't cut yourself short, son. That Ranger is one fine coon dog. I could listen to that hound music all night long."

Thomas motioned for the café waitress to bring more coffee. She refilled his cup and then Joe's.

Thomas leaned back in his chair and said, "Well, Joe, what's your plans for Christmas?"

Joe sat his coffee cup down and said, "Oh, me and the wife's takin' a trip down to Southern Arkansas this year... Gonna visit some friends who run a goat ranch, down by Magnolia... Billy told me he didn't get a deer this year and was wonderin' if I could bring him a mess of coon meat."

"What you got planned?"

"Well, my girlfriend and I are drivin' down to Carbondale. Gonna spend three days with her folks. The Wildlife Tracking Company is just up the road from them. Thought I might slip over there and take a look at that new trackin' system they just came out with. They got 'em on sale for $699. till December 31st."

"Man oh man," Joe replied. "A feller could buy a nice car with that kinda money."