But a sudden renewal of "Bow—bow—bow—" from the Hound one hundred yards away, at the fence, ended all discussion. The dog had the hot trail again. The break had been along the line of a fence that showed, as Caleb said, "It was a Coon, 'cept it might be some old house Cat maybe; them was the only things that would run along top of a fence in the night time."
It was easy to follow now; the moonlight was good, and the baying of the Hound was loud and regular. It led right down the creek, crossing several pools and swamps.
"That settles it," remarked the Trapper decisively. "Cats don't take to the water. That's a Coon," and as they hurried they heard a sudden change in the dog's note, no longer a deep rich 'B-o-o-w-w.' It became an outrageous clamour of mingled yelps, growls and barks.
"Ha—heh. That means he's right on it. That is what he does when he sees the critter."
But the "view halloo" was quickly dropped and the tonguing of the dog was now in short, high-pitched yelps at one place.
"Jest so! He's treed! That's a Coon, all right!" and Caleb led straight for the place.
The Hound was barking and leaping against a big Basswood, and Caleb's comment was: "Hm, [450] never knowed a Coon to do any other way—always gets up the highest and tarnalest tree to climb in the hull bush. Now who's the best climber here?"
"Yan is," volunteered Sam.
"Kin ye do it, Yan?"