Target: Racoon

By Cayce B. Shelton

"Go get 'im, boys," the old man cried out as the pack of hound dogs, barking and howling, were released by their owners. The bright yellow glow of the moon cut through the crisp fall night casting scary shadows throughout the surrounding trees. The six men and three boys in our group looked more like ghosts than humans as we crashed into the forest's underbrush to follow the receding baying of the hounds.

I adjusted the carbide lamp that fastened to my felt hat so that the light landed on my father ahead of me. My younger brother should have been behind me, but as I turned to check on him he was not there. I whispered to my father and he motioned to me to be quiet. I did not worry about my brother for we both were seasoned woodsmen even at our young ages of twelve and ten. But, this was our first raccoon hunt, at night, with dogs, and I knew there were more creatures than raccoons out at night.

Dogs, did I say? These were not dogs that were charging through the night as if they were bloodhounds on the trail of a convict. These were Black and Tan and Blue Tick hounds, perfect for raccoon hunting. Fearless to a fault and brave beyond reproach, this pack of twelve hounds were experienced hunters, and killers if need be. A chill ran up my spine as I listened to the baying.

There was little sound as we trudged through the brush, eighteen feet tramping down the brush as eighteen shoulders forced the way through the brush from one clearing to the next. Soon, the nine of us broke out into a field where the going was easier. However, to my surprise, we had not stumbled across the uneven ground a hundred steps when the group suddenly stopped.

I watched in awe and dismay, for I was certain our purpose was to follow the hounds, as two of the men started to build a fire with some sticks they collected from some of the men. Then, after one of the men spoke instructions, all of the carbide lamps were extinguished. I watched the shadows in the moonlight as a coffee pot was taken from a tow sack along with some cups and a sack of coffee. I am still amazed, after all of these years, at the calmness with which men, amidst the most severe conditions, will cease all efforts, make a cup of coffee and smoke a cigarette. I hunkered down as close to the ground as I could get in the cool air and listened to the murmurings around me.

Off in the distance I could hear some of the hounds still howling. I snickered as I thought they were probably just sitting around as we were, howling at the moon. But, no, for suddenly the howling stopped and the noise around the fire ceased as all heads turned to the way the howling had been heard last. Then, as a loud mixture of howling, barking, growling, and whining assaulted our ears, the men hurried to extinguish the fire, light some of the carbide lamps, and gather cups, pots and assorted tools. Without any order to the charge, the men, and us boys, ran across the field toward the melee ahead of us. There was no need to be quiet now as the men began stumbling, cussing and hollering at each other. The speed at which we were moving through the night, not knowing what we were headed into, scared the hell out of me. I was shaking and moaning, trying to keep up with my father who was charging across the uneven dirt. By the time the group had started crashing through the undergrowth of the large trees surrounding the field, I could see the light of lamps scattered to my left and right. Men were hollering at each other as we strained to quickly get through the brambles and low limbs. The sound the hounds were making was getting louder by the second.

Finally, to my relief, we all broke into a small clearing around a large oak tree whose limbs reached upward past the glow cast by the carbide lamps. Around the tree I could see by the light of the lamps, a flashing swarm of black, tan, red, white and bluish tone colors, dashing to and fro, the heads of the dogs all pointed upwards, the eyes fixed on some target far up in the tree. For a few minutes, while we all caught our breath, we watched the hounds and stared up into the tree.

Soon, the men started talking and laughing. I really could not grasp the content of the conversation, but when my father was pulled to the front of the group, I got the message. As he was the newest of the group, he had the honor of going up in the tree and knock the coon down. As I watched one man hand my father a long thick stick, I wondered at the "honor" for when Dad was overseas the last few years, I had tangled with a raccoon in a tree and I really didn't think there was any 'honor' in that.

However, brave as he was, Dad grabbed the stick and with a look of determination started to climb the tree. I watched in awe as my father, whom I knew was not a woodsman, struggle to go from one limb up to another in the decreasing light of half a dozen carbide lamps. Soon, we saw Dad pause, one foot on top of a limb while the other was hanging over a nearby limb a little higher. One of the men called out to him, "Can you see him, Larry?"

Dad did not answer as he moved, apparently trying to knock the raccoon out of the tree. The man called again, but Dad still did not reply. Suddenly, we saw my father moving quickly as we heard him shouting, "God Da_n. Look out!"

Then, amongst a shower of leaves, brush, fur and skin, Dad and raccoon, came tumbling down. The coon came down like a cannonball while Dad kinda stumbled down, pausing as he hit one limb and then another. It happened so fast that not even one of the men could reach Dad in time. The raccoon had hit the ground, the hounds had hit the coon, and Dad landed on top of them all.

If I had not been frightened out of my wits, I would have joined in the raucous mirth of watching the melee in front of us. I still don't know who got the worst end of the deal, the coon or Dad.

By the time four of the men had either grabbed hold of or knocked the fire out of the dogs, the coon was gone and Dad lay all balled up, his shirt torn to shreds and his arms and face bloody. The dogs were put on leashes as the coffee makers started putting together the makings for another coffee and cigarette feast. By the time the coffee was hot, the men had cleaned the blood off of Dad enough to find that most of the blood had been from the coon or the dogs for some of them were pretty well chewed up. Amid a lot of laughter and several retellings of the whole scene, all of the men pulled a ten-dollar bill from a pocket and handed it to Dad telling him it was the prize for a good fight.

Dad took the money, grinned, and sat down to light a Camel and sip on a hot metal cup full of steaming black coffee. I just stood and watched these heroes of a war not yet forgotten and wondered how they all had made it back alive. I know I was proud of the hunters and I was not sorry for that old fat coon in the least.