The Duck-footed Hound by Jim Kjelgaard
MISS CATHBY
His books strapped together with a discarded bridle rein, and danglingover his shoulder, Harky Mundee placed one reluctant foot after theother as he strode down the dirt road.
The events that culminated in this dreadful situation--returning to MissCathby's school at the Crossroads--had for the past three days beenbuilding up like a thunderstorm, and on the whole, it would have beeneasier to halt the storm. Every autumn, just after the harvest, Munacquired firm ideas concerning the value of higher education for Harky.But never before had Mun resorted to such foul tricks or taken suchunfair advantage.
Coming to where Tumbling Run foamed beneath a wooden bridge and hurleditself toward Willow Brook, Harky halted and rested both elbows on thebridge railing. He looked glumly into the icy water, along which coonsof high and low degree prowled every night, and he wished mightily thathe were a coon.
Though even coons had their troubles, Harky had never known of a singleone that had been forced to hoe corn, milk cows, feed pigs, pitch hay,dig potatoes, or do any of the other unspeakable tasks that were foreverfalling to the lot of human beings. But even farm chores were notentirely unbearable. In a final agony of desperation, his cause alreadylost, Harky had even pointed out to Mun that the fence needed mendingand hadn't he better cut the posts?
"Blast it!" Mun roared. "Stop this minute tryin' to make a fool of me,Harky! You know's well as I do that the cows ain't goin' to be out topasture more'n 'nother three weeks! You need some book lore!"
Harky rubbed the heel of his right shoe against the shin of his leftleg and wished again that he were a coon, even a treed coon. Beinghound-cornered was surely preferable to becoming the hapless victim ofMiss Ophelia Cathby.
Grasping the very end of the bridle rein, Harky whirled the books aroundhis head. But exactly on the point of releasing the strap and revelingin the satisfying distance the books would fly, Harky brought them to astop and slung them back over his shoulder.
He sighed. Free to walk the two miles to the Crossroads, with Mun noteven in attendance, Harky was anything except free to throw his booksaway and explore Tumbling Run. When he ran away from farm tasks, whichhe did at every opportunity, the worst he could expect was the flat ofMun's hand.
But if he did not show up at school this morning, and for as manymornings hereafter as Mun thought necessary, he would never see hisshotgun again. Harky lived again the inhuman scene wherein he had beensubjected to torture more intense than any mortal should ever endure.Mun took the shotgun, locked it in his tool case, pocketed the key andaddressed Harky:
"Thar! Now jest peg on to school, an' I aim to see Miss Cathby an' findout if ya did! Hingein' on what she tells me, ya kin have the shotgunback!"
Harky permitted himself a second doleful sigh. A man could take a hidingeven if it were laid on with a hickory gad. But a man might better loselife itself rather than the only gun he had or could hope to get, atleast in the foreseeable future. Mun was a man of his word. Harky sawhimself in a fiendish trap from which there was no faint hope of escape.
He glanced at the sun, and from the length of the shadows it was castingdeduced that it still lacked forty-five minutes of nine o'clock, thehour at which Miss Cathby called her classes to order. If he stuck tothe road, forty-five minutes was at least thirty-eight more than heneeded to cover the less than a mile remaining between himself and theCrossroads. But there were excellent reasons why he could not stick tothe road.
Raw Stanfield, Butt Johnson, Bear Pen Crawford, and Mule Domster alllived upstream from the Mundee farm. Mellie Garson and Pine Heglin liveddown. Harky had not hesitated to walk openly past Mellie's farm, forthough Mellie had been an enthusiastic sire, he had begat onlydaughters. They were all pretty enough to be snatched up the moment theycame of marriageable age, and the four oldest were happily married. Butgirls of all ages were forever gadding about doing silly things thatinterested girls only. Though they probably would think it a modernmiracle, Mellie's eight youngest would not consider it necessary to rubsalt in Harky's already-raw wounds simply because he was going toschool.
Pine Heglin had specialized in sons, of which he had seven. The sixeldest were carbon copies of their father. It was said along WillowBrook that if one cared to give Pine or any of his six elder sons a goodlaugh in January, one had only to tell them a good joke the precedingApril.
The youngest Heglin, named Loring and called Dib, had been born onHalloween and showed it. Every witch who walked must have touched DibHeglin, and among other questionable gifts they'd bestowed a tongue witha hornet's sting.
Dib was three months older than Harky. He did not go to school. He foundendless amusement in the fact that Harky did go. Harky had no wish tomeet Dib.
A quarter of a mile on the upstream side of the Heglin farm, Harkystarted into the woods and stopped worrying. Dib was a not-unskilledwoodsman. But he'd never studied in the stark school from which Harkyhad graduated with honors; anyone able to hide from Mun Mundee couldelude fifty Dib Heglins.
A sour chuckle escaped Harky. Dib, who knew how to add two and two,would know that the Mundees' harvest was ended. Nobody would have totell him that this was the logical day for Mun to expose Harky to somemore of Miss Cathby's education. No doubt he'd got up a half hour earlyjust so he could wait for Harky and insult him when he appeared.
Presently, as it always did, the magic of the forest overwhelmed lessdesirable influences. Miss Cathby and her school, while not far enoughaway to let Harky forget he'd better be there on time, needn't be facedfor the immediate present. Harky found himself wondering.
Duckfoot had grown like a weed in the corn patch, and to the casualobserver he was not greatly different from other gangling hound puppies.But a careful scrutiny revealed him as a dog of diverse talents. Therewas the incident of the root cellar.
Because it would not keep long in warm weather, meat was at a premiumalong Willow Brook during the summer months. When somebody butchered, itwas both practical and practice to share with his neighbors.
Mule Domster butchered a hog, and to the Mundees he brought a ham and aloin. Mun stored both in the root cellar, that was closed by a latch.The latch was lifted by a string dangling down the door. While Duckfoot,who to all appearances was interested only in scratching a flea behindhis ear, sat sleepily near, Mun removed the ham.
Shortly afterward, returning for the loin and finding an empty spacewhere it had been, Mun went roaring to the house for his rifle. Since nofarmer of the Creeping Hills would think of robbing his neighbor's rootcellar, obviously an unprincipled and hungry stranger had come up WillowBrook. Finding no tracks, Mun further declared that he was a cunningstranger.
Harky had a feeling. It was based on the fact that Duckfoot, whonormally ate like a horse except that he did not chew his food nearly asmuch, was not at all hungry when his meal was put before him. It meantnothing, asserted Mun, for he had flushed an early flight of teal fromWillow Brook and Duckfoot was perturbed by the ducks. Harky watched theroot cellar.
Evening shadows were merging into black night when Duckfoot padded tothe door, reared, pulled the latch string with his teeth, and entered.Since Mun was sure to take a dim view of such goings on, Harky neverbetrayed the thief. All he did was break the latch and replace it withan exterior latch that was not string-operated.
That happened shortly before Duckfoot disappeared for a whole week. Tobe expected, said Mun, for wild ducks were passing daily now anddoubtless Duckfoot had gone in search of his father. But Harky hadanother feeling.
He'd been with Duckfoot along Willow Brook, or near one of the ponds,when wild ducks flushed. Far from betraying his duck blood, Duckfoot hadgiven them not the slightest attention. Could it be, thought Harky, thata coon, maybe Old Joe himself, had come raiding? Had Duckfoot trailedhim, treed him, and stayed at the tree until he was just too tired andhungry to stay longer?
Mun scoffed at such notions. He pointed out that Duckfoot was still apuppy who, as far as anyone knew, had never been on a coon's trail. Sowhat could
Harky knew only that Duckfoot was lean as a blackberry cane when hefinally came home and that he kept looking off into the forest. If hehadn't treed a coon, he certainly acted as though he had.
In sudden panic Harky realized that he had a scant four minutes left. Hebegan to run, and he burst into Miss Cathby's school just as the lastbell was tolling laggards to their desks.
The school was a one-room affair flanked by a woodshed half as big asthe school proper. Inside were the regulation potbellied stove, six rowsof five desks each, a desk for Miss Cathby, and a plain wooden benchupon which the various classes seated themselves when called to recite.Behind Miss Cathby's desk was the blackboard. If it was not the ultimatein educational facilities, it was a vast improvement over the no schoolat all that had been at the Crossroads until three years ago.
When Harky ran in, his fellow pupils were seated.
The first grade, consisting of the younger daughters of Mellie Garsonand Raw Stanfield, and the youngest sons of Butt Johnson and MuleDomster, was the largest. Thereafter the grades decreased numericallybut with an increasing feminine contingent. Boys old enough to help outat home could hardly be expected to waste time in school. Melinda andMary Garson were the fifth grade, Harky the sixth, and Mildred andMinnie Garson the seventh and eighth.
Miss Cathby smiled pleasantly when Harky came in.
"Good morning, Harold," she greeted.
"Good morning, ma'am," Harky mumbled.
"Is your father's harvest in, Harold?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Harky, who knew his name was Harold but wished Miss Cathby didn't know,squirmed and longed to drop through the floor. With the only other malewho even approached his age being Mule Domster's ten-year-old son, hewas indeed surrounded.
Miss Cathby, who knew several things not written in textbooks,understood and let him alone. Harky fixed his eyes on the back oftwelve-year-old Melinda Garson's slender neck. He calculated the exactspot where a spitball would have the ultimate effect, then decided thatit wasn't worth his while to throw one.
The first grade was called for recitation. Solacing himself with thethought that Mun's enthusiasm for booklore seldom endured more thanthree weeks, Harky escaped in a dream. He had his shotgun, Duckfoot washot on a coon's trail, and presently they heard his tree bark. Mun andHarky made their way to the tree.
"Harky," said Mun, "git your light beam on that coon."
Harky made ready to shine the treed coon. The words were repeated and hecame rudely awake to discover that Miss Cathby was speaking.
"Harold," she said, "are you dreaming so soon?"
"Yes, ma'am," Harky said meekly.
"Well come down here. The sixth grade is called to recite."
Harky rose and shuffled unhappily to the recitation bench. He slumpeddown, head bent, shoulders hunched, fists in pockets. Never again, hethought, would he have any part in caging a coon. Not even to trainDuckfoot. He knew now what cages are like.
"Have you been keeping up with your studies?" Miss Cathby asked.
"Yes, ma'am," said Harky.
"Which books have you been using?" queried Miss Cathby.
"Same ones I used last year," Harky mumbled.
Miss Cathby frowned prettily. Harky's last year's books were for thefifth grade; Harky had started in the fourth solely because he'd beentoo old to begin in the first. Miss Cathby's frown deepened.
She knew that, with the best of luck, Harky would be under her influencefor a maximum four weeks. But Miss Cathby's fragile body harbored a willof granite. If she combined guile with persistence, four weeks wereenough to turn this youngster from the heathenish ways of his ancestorsand show him at least a glimmer of the one true light.
"Very well," she said pleasantly. "We'll review your last year'sarithmetic. If a farmer harvests thirty tons of hay, sells two thirdsand feeds the remainder, how much will he feed?"
Harky shuffled nervous feet and stared past her at the blackboard. "Inever could figger that one, Miss Cathby."
Miss Cathby said, "It isn't difficult."
"Parts ain't," Harky admitted. "But parts are. He'll sell twenty tons,always reckoning he can find somebody to buy. The rest just shrivels meup."
Miss Cathby sighed. As soon as she proved to her own satisfaction thatthese backwoods boys were not morons, they proved her wrong. Anyone ablecorrectly to deduce two thirds of thirty should be able to subtracttwenty from thirty. A firm adherent of the idea that sugar entices flieswhere vinegar will not, Miss Cathby applied the sugar.
"Come, Harold," she coaxed. "If you have thirty potatoes and give twentyaway, how many will you have left?"
"Ten," Harky said promptly. "But we was talking about tons of hay, notpotatoes, and that ain't what crosses me up."
"What is it that you do not understand?" Miss Cathby pursued.
"What kind of critter a remainder is and how much hay does it eat?"
The fifth, seventh, and eighth grades, as represented by the sistersGarson, filled the room with giggles. Miss Cathby rapped for order andevolved a cunning plan to win Harky's interest and favor by discussingsomething he did know.
"Do you have a good raccoon hound for the coming season, Harold?"
Miss Cathby composed herself to listen while Harky launched anenthusiastic, and minutely detailed, description of the misadventures ofPrecious Sue and the wiles of Old Joe. He needed eighteen minutes toreach the thrilling climax, the discovery of Duckfoot and,
"His Pa's a duck," he said seriously.
"A duck!" Miss Cathby gasped.
"Not just a barnyard duck and not just a wild duck," Harky explainedpatiently. "It was some big old duck, maybe older'n Old Joe himself,that's been setting back in the woods just hoping Sue would come along."
Miss Cathby's eyes glowed with a true crusader's zeal. In all the timeHarky had spent in school and all the time he would spend there, shecould not hope to impart more than the rudiments of an education. Buthere was a heaven-sent opportunity to strike at the very roots of theignorance and superstition that barred his march toward a moreenlightened life. Miss Cathby saw past the boy to the father who wouldbe. Strike Harky's chains and he would voluntarily free his children.
"That's impossible, Harold," she began.
Warming to her subject, she sketched the Garden of Eden, traced thehistory of mankind, disposed of witches and witch hunters in a fewhundred well-chosen words, explained the laws of genetics, and finishedwith conclusive proof that a coon hound cannot mate with a duck.
Harky listened, not without interest. When it came to telling stories,he conceded, Miss Cathby was even better than Mun and almost as good asMellie Garson. Nor was she shooting wholly in the dark; Harky himselfdid not believe that Duckfoot had been sired by a duck. But there wassomething wanting.
For a moment he could not define the lack. Then, happily, he thought ofanother of Pine Heglin's ideas. If apples were stored so they could notroll, Pine decided, there would be fewer bruised apples. Forthwith heconstructed some latticeworks of willow withes, arranged them asshelves, and stored his apples on them. But Pine had forgotten thatsome apples are big and some small. The small ones fell through thelattices and the big ones became jammed in them. All were bruised, androtted quickly, with the result that Pine had no apples at all.
Miss Cathby's lecture was like that, Harky decided. She would find anexact niche for Old Joe, Duckfoot, Mun, everything in the world, andshe'd never stop to think that few things really belonged in exactniches. Her ideas just didn't have room to grow in. Mun's did.
"Can you prove to me, Harold, that there is any such creature as thiswitch duck?" Miss Cathby finished.
"No ma'am," said Harky, and he forebore to mention that neither couldshe prove there wasn't.
By some miracle, the endless day ended. The new
"Ya been to see Miss Cathby?" Dib squawked in a voice that would havemaddened a sheep. "Did Miss Cathby give ya a bathby?"
Harky shifted the bridle rein from his right hand to his left.Effecting a gait that was supposedly a caricature of Miss Cathby'sfeminine walk, and was remarkably similar to the waddle of a fat goose,Dib came toward him.
"Ya been to see--?" he began.
They were near enough. Harky's right fist flicked out.
"Ya-ooo!" Dib shrieked.
Harky danced happily on. No day was wholly wasted if it left Dib Heglinnursing a bloody nose.