Nestling at the base of a rugged knob not two miles distant from Beech Hollow was a log-roller’s hut. Of its human inmates we have no word to say, for our story has naught to do with them. But of a certain low, heavy-bodied, vengeful, mongrel cur dog which harbored at this hut in the day, it becomes necessary now to speak. This dog feared nothing—absolutely nothing. He would bite at the thick sole of the shoe which kicked him; he would fight anything that walked upon two feet or four. He was totally wicked, totally merciless in his battles, and he cherished an inveterate hatred for coons. Throughout the day he would hang around the miserable shelter of the human-people—his companions, but not his masters—and when night sank down over the broad wastes of forest and hill he would go trailing through the dense passes of the wild, sharp-nosed and vigilant; his stub tail moving like the pendulum of a clock, and keeping time to his rapid footsteps. Once in his wanderings he had entered Beech Hollow, and had run upon that which the wood-folk feared. A large, white, ghostly figure coming towards him down the ravine. The cur yelped and fled. Gaining the open to the south of the hollow, the moonlight gave him courage, and he warily circled the place, coming in at the other end and running with his keen nose not an inch above the ground. He stumbled upon the scent quickly, and the chase-yelp bubbled to his throat. But he choked it back, for he was wiser than most coon dogs, who give tongue as soon as the trail is caught, and thus warn their quarry of danger. The trail that night led him to the base of a large beech tree, and there was the coon smell on the bark as high as he could reach by standing upon his hind legs. From that night the hollow held no terror for him. A coon had but one smell, and though this one was white, whereas all with whom he had drawn blood were gray with black-ringed tails, still it was a coon, and the one idea in his head now was to harass and harry it into open fight.
So he began to stalk the lonely hollow which was shunned by the forest-people, inbred guile driving him to all the cunning artifices known to the wood-dwellers. But the ghost coon was his match in subtlety. Never since that first night had the vindictive cur laid eyes upon the phantom, though two and three times a week he would come with his fangs whetted for fight. But upon that night in autumn when the coon feasted upon the fish, and subsequently started in quest of the huddled quail, a dark, noiseless shape entered the hollow from the north, and glided down it as a cloud shadow glides over a field. The cur struck the trail a few feet from the point where the coon had dropped from the prostrate tree, and instantly he crouched and grew rigid. The odor was fresh and strong, and he had waited long and travelled far for this chance. Flattening his body on the damp leaves, he looked about him with glowing eyes. Nothing was to be seen or heard. Which way was he to go? Had his prey gone up hill or down? Guided by that unerring instinct which all animals possess, the dog arose after an instant’s hesitation and moved down the hill with his black muzzle brushing the leaves.
At the top of the other slope the white marauder was slowly closing in upon his sleeping victims. Each step was taken with painful deliberateness and extreme care, for he knew that his journey would end in a clump of huckleberry bushes just at the edge of the wood. Onward he glided, his tiny feet as noiseless in their progress as the fall of a snowflake. Beneath a bending, berry-laden spray he stopped, and gazed gloatingly for a second upon a dozen or more brown bodies crowded together with their tails touching. Then he pounced. A few sleepy chirrups, a wild scramble, and the sound of whirring wings followed. The chagrined coon, cheated of his anticipated meal, shook a few downy feathers from the claws of his right fore foot, backed out of the bushes, and took the return trail for his tree of refuge. In his anger at failing in his last adventure, he neglected to scan the slope before him as he started down it. Soon he realized that a strange stump had taken root in his path since he had trodden it a few moments before. A squat, black, ugly thing, which he had not previously noticed. He came on stubbornly, however, and did not stop until he saw two blazing eyes looking at him with an expression of fiendish joy. There was nothing to do but fight.
For a very perceptible time the two glared at each other. The dog cruel, mean, wicked; the coon angry, furtive, sly. Then low sounds came from the throat of each. The dog gave a deep, muttering growl; the coon a succession of sharp hisses, not unlike those made by a goose, the while he withdrew into himself and glanced about as if meditating flight, though no tree grew near enough for him to reach. The dog quickly assumed the offensive, for his eager hate would not countenance delay. His spring was like the rebound of a cross-bow, but his enemy knew how to fight. While the cur was yet in air the ghost of the hollow had reared and fallen prone upon his back, his hind feet drawn close down upon his belly, and his fore feet arched and ready. At the right moment the hind feet shot up, and ripped a half dozen streaming seams in the flanks of the cur as he descended with snapping jaws. A screech, a scuffle, a howl of pain, and the dog leaped backward, drew his tongue rapidly across the stinging rents in his side, and bounded for the second time upon his foe. Aiming at the throat, his teeth found the loose skin at one side of the neck instead; the coon secured one of the stub ears of the attacker in his mouth, and thus they grappled. Strange sounds floated through the length of Beech Hollow that night; sounds which never before had disturbed its accustomed quiet. There were the sounds of heavy bodies threshing the earth, the rasping snarl, the yelp of distress, and the clashing of teeth. In the still night the noise carried far, and the keen ears of some wood-dwellers running on a near-by range heard it, and the forest-folk stopped, listened, and turned their faces from it, for it came from the haunted hollow.
On the leaf-strewn slope one great ball of intermingled black and white gradually drew near the bottom of the hill. Neither knew nor thought of the course the fight was taking. Their hearts were inflamed with the battle-lust, and with lightning-like movements they fought for the death-hold. After a time the level was reached, and here, by mere chance, the jaws of the dog found the throat of his enemy. The coon realized his strait, and plied all four feet with such good effect that the blood ran in streams from the ragged wounds which he inflicted. But his breath was shut off, and nothing can live or fight without air. It was then that he felt something cool clasp his hind leg. With his remaining strength he threw himself backward, dragging the cur with him, and the water of the pool closed over them both.
A coon can remain under water for a marvelously long time. A dog knows it, and will never attack them in or near a stream. The ghost coon sank, taking his enemy with him. In the foreign element the cur, confused, strangled, and frightened, loosed his hold, came to the surface and struck out for the shore. But the tables had turned, and the valiant old boar knew it. Rising also, he received the grateful rush of air into his strained lungs, and in another moment he was on the back of his opponent and forcing him under. Fastening his teeth in the loose folds of skin at the base of the skull he sank again, dragging the cur down with him. The water boiled like a caldron, and though a leg, or even a shoulder at times appeared, no head came into view. Soon the pool grew quiet. Then, near the bank, a sharp muzzle came up, slowly followed by the dripping form of the victor. His den-tree stood quite near the other end of the hollow, and as he painfully began his march towards it, leaving a trail of water and blood behind him as he went, his body swayed and his steps were uncertain. At last he stood among the roots which he knew so well, and with eyes which scarcely saw, looked up the bare trunk which he had been wont to climb with perfect ease. Feebly he reared, and began the ascent. Six feet from the ground he stopped, gently let his head fall forward upon the bark, quivered from end to end, and dropped to the earth, dead.
THE SPOILER OF THE FOLDS