The Hound was barking and leaping against a big Basswood, and Caleb’s comment was: “Hm, 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?”
“I’ll try.”
“Guess we’ll make a fire first and see if we can’t see him,” said the Woodpecker.
“If it was a Woodchuck I’d soon get him for you,” chimed in Hawkeye, but no one heeded.
Sam and Yan gathered stuff and soon had a flood of flickering red light on all the surrounding trees. They scanned the big Basswood without getting sight of their quarry. Caleb took a torch and found on the bark some fresh mud. By going back on the trail to where it had crossed the brook they found the footprint—undoubtedly that of a large Coon.
“Reckon he’s in some hollow; he’s surely up that tree, and Basswood’s are always hollow.”
Yan now looked at the large trunk in doubt as to whether he could manage it.
Caleb remarked his perplexity and said: “Yes; that’s so. You ain’t fifteen foot spread across the wings, are you? But hold on—”
He walked to a tall thin tree near at hand, cut it through with the axe in a few minutes, and threw it so as to rest against the lowest branch of the big Basswood. Up this Yan easily swarmed, carrying a stout Elm stick tied behind. When he got to the great Basswood he felt lost in the green mass, but the boys below carried torches so as to shed light on each part in turn. At first Yan found neither hole in the trunk nor Coon, but after long search in the upper branches he saw a great ball of fur on a high crotch and in it two glowing eyes that gave him a thrill. He yelled: “Here he is! Look out below.” He climbed up nearer and tried to push the Coon off, but it braced itself firmly and defied him until he climbed above it, when it leaped and scrambled to a lower branch.
Yan followed it, while his companions below got greatly excited, as they could see nothing, and only judged by the growling and snarling that Yan and the Coon were fighting. After another passage at arms the Coon left the second crotch and scrambled down the trunk till it reached the leaning sapling, and there perched, glaring at the hunters below. The old Hound raised a howl when he saw the quarry, and Caleb, stepping to one side, drew his revolver and fired. The Coon fell dead into their midst. Turk sprang to do battle, but he was not needed, and Caleb fondly and proudly wiped the old white pistol as though it alone were to be thanked for the clever shot.
Yan came down quickly, though he found it harder to get down than up. He hurried excitedly into the ring and stroked the Coon with a mixture of feelings—admiring its fur—sorry, after all, that it was killed, and triumphant that he had led the way. It was his Coon, and all admitted that. Sam “hefted” it by one leg and said, “Weighs thirty pounds, I bet.”