Swiftly the hawk dipped and swerved, but those big red-green eyes, to which darkness was day, beheld him, and gave chase. The wily robber dropped his burden, hoping to bribe the spectre in his wake. But with a rush the owl passed over the cast-off carcass, and sped on. The hen-hawk heard the soft, feathery wing-swish coming nearer and nearer, and though he was no coward he knew that his hour was at hand, for he was worn and spent, whereas his foe had fresh strength. Zigzagging nimbly, he strove in this manner to elude his pursuer. But the big owl had waited long for this chance, and he was resolved that it should not escape him. Suddenly he struck out with beak and claws, and the hawk careened wildly from the shock, then righting himself, turned to give battle—it was the last resort. And so they clashed and clashed again. There arose the rasping of beak on beak and the dull thud of flesh propelled against flesh. Feathers were torn out by clawfuls, and the breast of each combatant was streaked and dabbled with blood. At last the owl, maddened and all-powerful in his might, beat and smothered his antagonist to the earth, and holding that kingly head on the ground with the vise-like grip of one foot, with his curved beak he prodded and tore till life was gone from the Robber Baron.
The gray old snag which was his tower waited for his coming that night in vain.
THE GHOST COON
THE GHOST COON
SOMETHING white was moving warily through the shadows of Beech Hollow. It was near the turning of night, and the heart of the wide, uncleared knob area was quiet. Not the quiet of sleep, indeed, for the wood-folk were abroad in numbers, each bent upon a separate errand whose aim and end was death. But they moved without noise, from the largest to the smallest. A brown mink wriggled his serpentine way along the erratic path which a field-mouse had made; following him, perchance, with subtle cunning and fell purpose, was a wild-cat. A fox sniffed where a pheasant had passed, and trailed hungrily and swiftly for a dozen yards, to a point where the bird had risen in the air. So through the night they went, big and little, threading the secret ways of the underbrush, and sooner or later finding that for which they sought. Few went beyond the limits which marked Beech Hollow on every side. The lore of the wood-kind taught that this place was haunted by the ghost of a big coon, and that death awaited the invader into his precincts. By a secret telegraphic code, by purrings and by barks, there was not a denizen of the wild but knew the fact. More than one had seen the spectre. It was not the hallucination of a March-crazed cotton-tail. The ghost coon ran every night from the first cock-crow till near dawn, and his hunting ground was held inviolate by his four-footed flesh-and-blood kindred.
It was an opulent night in autumn. The half-naked beeches which gave the hollow its name shivered in their scant covering. The hillsides were heavy with drifted leaves, russet and gold and poppy-veined. Through the hollow purled a small stream, sleepily. Along the trunk of a long-dead beech, prostrate and blackened, moved something white, a figure almost ball-shaped. Its head was held low to the surface of the log; its body rose up in a peculiarly rounded hump, and its snow-white, bushy tail trailed along behind. It was the ghost coon of Beech Hollow on his nightly quest for food. His progress was most ungainly. The fore feet would move forward a few inches and the body would lengthen. Then the hind feet would get in motion and the back would assume an arc, and all the time the busy nose would be smelling to left and right. Reaching the end of the tree at last the coon reared upon his haunches, squirrel fashion, and gazed about him keenly. Nothing was stirring beyond a fluttering leaf; nothing was heard but the low soughing of the wind. Suddenly the triangular head went up a little higher, and the nose pointed directly across the hollow. Thus it was held rigidly for several moments, while the beady eyes glowed fiercely. Then a slender red tongue curved swiftly around his upper lip; he sank to the log again, and thence to the ground, and moved down the hillside with a shambling, awkward, yet incredibly swift gait.
That very day, as he was sleeping in his hollow tree at the end of the ravine, he had been awakened by the shots of some hunters in the corn-field bordering his valley of refuge. Then he had stretched himself and gone to sleep again, confident of a rich banquet in the hours of the coming night. He knew well—for he had learned the lesson when half grown—that frightened birds always take to the nearest cover when annoyed too much by men and dogs. Not long after sundown he had crawled out of his hole and crouched on the limb in front of it, and listened to the rallying call of the quail as they gathered together to squat for the night. Then, when the night was far enough advanced, he had slid down the tree like a patch of moonlight, and gone in search of his prey.
In a direct line with the coon’s progress, the stream below spread into a pool of considerable breadth and some depth, and as the soft-footed prowler gained its edge he stopped, leaned over the water, and eyed the surface intently. A born fisherman, he could not let the opportunity pass to land one of the small perch which had their home in this pool. For a number of minutes he stood as still as one of the stones lining the bank. Then he burst into action with the agility of one of the cat tribe. One claw-rimmed foot shot forward and downward, then up again all at one stroke, and the star rays glittered on a scaly body flying through the air. The fish had scarcely touched the ground when the nimble animal was beside it. Quickly the faithful paws pounced upon the flopping object and pinioned it to the earth. Then just back of the neck the sharp fangs crunched, and the ghostly ruler of the hollow ate leisurely of the toothsome dainty which his craft and skill had provided, spitting and clawing out the bones when in his greediness they stuck in his tongue. When his supper was over, the coon, his hunger appeased in a measure, did not at once take up the air-trail which was still wafted gently to him from the top of the other slope. He moved around and around the heap of bones and offal which marked his late repast, sniffing and nibbling by turns. Finally he veered about and started back over the track which he had come. Just then his nostrils were tickled by another light gust, laden with the partridge smell. It was too much to resist. He swerved again, and began to climb the slope of his temptation.