“I believe he’s after the old Callaghan Fox,” said the Trapper.  “They’ve tried it together before now, an’ there ain’t anything but a Fox will run so straight and fetch such a tune out of Turk.”

The baying finally was lost in the distance, probably a mile away, but there was nothing for it but to wait.  If Turk had been a full-bred and trained Foxhound he would have stuck to that trail all night, but in half an hour he returned, puffing and hot, to throw himself into the shallow pond.

“Everything scared away now,” remarked Caleb.  “We might try the other side of the pond.”  Once or twice the dog became interested, but decided that there was nothing in it, and returned to pant by his master’s feet.

They had now travelled so far toward home that a very short cut across fields would bring them into their own woods.

The moon arose as they got there, and after their long groping in the murky darkness this made the night seem very bright and clear.

They had crossed the brook below Granny de Neuville’s, and were following the old timber trail that went near the stream, when Turk stopped to sniff, ran back and forth two or three times, then stirred the echoes with a full-toned bugle blast and led toward the water.

“Bow—­bow—­bow—­bow,” he bawled for forty yards and came to a stop.  The baying was exactly the same that he gave on the Fox trail, but the course of the animal was crooked, and now there was a break.

They could hear the dog beating about close at hand and far away, but silent so far as tongue was concerned.

“What is it, Caleb?” said Sam with calm assurance, forgetting how recent was their acquaintance.

“Dunno,” was the short reply.

“’Tisn’t a Fox, is it?” asked Yan.

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.