Duckfoot was not waiting. A little relieved because there was no pursuit and a little worried for the same reason, Old Joe cut a winding trail into the swamp and circled back toward Willow Brook.

He plunged in, and climbed out when he came to another swamp. It was the one he'd sought in February, when he voluntarily left his magic sycamore and stopped to steal a chicken from Mun Mundee on the way. Old Joe went unerringly to the same huge hollow oak.

There was still no hound on his trail and now he thought there'd be none. The finger of providence had crooked at the right moment, and Old Joe would run another autumn.

As he entered the hollow oak, he turned his sensitive nose away from the freezing wind that swept down. His premonition had been correct; winter would soon rule the Creeping Hills.

High in the great oak, Old Joe's sleeping mate awakened to growl. She surged forward and nipped his nose. Old Joe backed hastily away and chittered pleadingly. The next time he advanced, she let him come.

This winter they'd share the same den tree.

Harky Mundee, who knew that a hound should not be heavily fed just before a hunt, still thought it unwise and unfair if they were allowed to run on a completely empty stomach. He chose a pork chop bone and some sc.r.a.ps of meat for Duckfoot's supper and took them out on the porch.

n.o.body had to tell him what had happened.

Duckfoot, who was always fed as soon as Mun and Harky finished eating, appreciated his suppers. Nothing except the scent of a c.o.o.n could force him to be absent when his meal was ready, and the only place he might have scented a c.o.o.n was down in the shocked corn.

Harky took Duckfoot's supper back into the house. Mun looked up inquiringly.

"He's off on a c.o.o.n," Harky explained. "One must of come raiding in our corn and he winded it."

"He must of," Mun agreed. "Could it be by any chanst Old Joe, Harky?"

Mun pleaded.

Harky said sadly, "I can't tell, Pa."

"Ain't you got a feelin'?" Mun persisted.

"I ain't had any kind of feeling I can count on since the night Melinda horned in on our c.o.o.n hunt."

Mun sighed unhappily. "Goshamighty. Wish I'd of turn't her back that night."

"Wish you had," Harky agreed. "We wouldn't be in this fix now."

"If it's jest a common c.o.o.n, Duckfoot'll soon have it up," Mun said.

"You can git him an' still have the night to prowl for Old Joe."

Harky said, "I'll go out for a listen."

Harky went out on the porch and strained to hear in the deepening night.

His hopes rose. Duckfoot, a silent trailer, would come silently on any ordinary c.o.o.n that might be raiding the shocked corn and he'd almost surely tree it within hearing of the house. He would not get Old Joe up so easily. Harky rejoined Mun.

"I can't hear anything."

Mun said, "It could be Old Joe, then."

"It could be," Harky agreed. "Gol ding it! Are women late for everything? Even c.o.o.n hunts?"

"Most times," said Mun, "'cept when they're early."

Harky laid out Mun's c.o.o.n-hunting axe, filled the lantern, stuck the flashlight in his pocket, and put the .22 in easy reach. He stifled an urge to go out on the porch for another listen. This night the whole future of c.o.o.n hunting in the Creeping Hills was at stake, but such confidence as Harky had possessed was fast waning. Taking a girl on a c.o.o.n hunt had brought about this whole mess. Where was his a.s.surance that taking the same girl on a second hunt would not result in an even more hopeless tangle?

What had seemed sheer inspiration, and a positive way to retrieve shattered legend by proving to Melinda that she was wrong and the c.o.o.n hunters right, no longer seemed such a good idea. When Melinda did not come, Harky began to hope she wouldn't. Just as there seemed reason to think this hope might be realized, Melinda arrived.

She was dressed in the same costume she'd worn for the previous hunt, except that she wore two shirts instead of just one. Both together, however, did nothing to conceal the fact that no masculine c.o.o.n hunter was bundled beneath them; Harky thought sourly that even if Melinda wore her father's bearskin coat she'd still look like a girl.

"Where you been?" he demanded.

"Why I came at nightfall, Harold," she answered. "I'm not late."

"Y'are too!"

Said Melinda, "You're so unreasonable, Harold. Isn't he, Mr. Mundee?"

"I figger--Yeah," said Mun.

Harky favored his traitorous father with a bitter glance. He put on his coat, and with the flashlight secure in a pocket he took the .22 and the c.o.o.n-hunting axe in one hand and the lantern in the other.

"Duckfoot's gone," he said accusingly. "A c.o.o.n come raiding our corn and he run off on it."

"It isn't my fault," Melinda pointed out. "Let's go find him."

"Where's Glory?"

"Outside, of course. Harold, if we take Glory down to your shocked corn, she'll pick up the same scent Duckfoot's already on. That way we'll find him easily, don't you think?"

Harky expressed what he thought in a ferocious scowl, his feelings in no way improved because Melinda had suggested the very thing he intended to do anyhow.

"C'mon," he said.

"Let me carry something."

"I got it, soon's I light the lantern."

Glory rose to meet them when they went out on the porch. Harky paused just long enough to listen, and went on. Now he was fairly certain that Duckfoot was again on Old Joe, for an ordinary c.o.o.n would have been up, within hearing, before this. Without a backward glance, Harky moved toward the shocked corn.

Glory trotted away and began to tongue as she found scent. She ran directly to Willow Brook, was silent as she cast for the trail, and resumed tonguing when she found it. Harky determined her direction.

"They're on Old Joe again," Melinda p.r.o.nounced. "We'll save time by going directly to his big sycamore."

Disdaining to answer, for he had been on the point of dazzling Melinda with this very suggestion, Harky started to run. He no longer deluded himself that he was the rushing wind, or even a racing deer, for the last time he'd entertained such notions Melinda had accused him of running slowly. But he knew a direct route to Old Joe's witch tree and a blackberry thicket on the way.

He crashed through it, holding the .22 and the axe across his chest and a little in front to divert the whipping canes, and he grunted with satisfaction when he heard Melinda gasp. Harky steered a course to Willow Brook.

There was a log there, a fallen pine that spanned a shallow pool, and it made an adequate bridge except during flood time. Harky held the lantern high, jumped on the log, and at once began a wild effort to keep his footing.

The night had turned colder. Running, he hadn't noticed the lower temperature or thought the log would be ice coated. His luck held. Harky danced to the far bank, jumped off the log, and continued running.