A big swamp rabbit came running down the riverbank as if all hell was close to his heels.
A bunch of mallards, feeding in the shallows across the river, took flight with frightened quacks.
A feeling that only a hunter knows slowly crept over my body.
I whooped to my dogs, urging them on. Little Ann came in.
Her bell-like tones blended with Old Dan’s, in perfect rhythm.
We stood and listened to the beautiful music, the deep-throated notes of hunting hounds on the hot-scented trail of a river coon.
Rubin said, “If he crosses the river up at the Buck Ford, it’s the ghost coon, as that’s the way he always runs.”
We stood and listened. Sure enough, the voices of my dogs were silent for a few minutes.
Old Dan, a more powerful swimmer than Little Ann, was the first to open up after crossing over.
She was close behind him. Rubin said, “That’s him, all right. That’s the ghost coon.”
They crossed the river again. We waited. Rainie said, “You may as well get your money out now.”
I told him just to wait a while, and I’d show him the ghost coon’s hide.
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