Clemson Holland sat on his trusty old cinder block, and listened intently to the sounds of the dense thickets and woods that wrapped close around his cabin.

He was getting old, but could still hear as sharp as a fox--and was just about as wily too. Or so he hoped. Without so much as a glance, he spit out a wad of tobacco square dab into the center of his old rusty coffee can and the sound splattered loud as a bug hit with a Texas flyswat.

"Danged old hooty. You ain't supposed ta be yakkin' 'til the sun goes down. Fool bird." He stubbed tobacco into his corncob pipe; tamping it down nervously, he darted his eyes around his yard. An owl talking in daytime was a bad omen, and his neck hair prickled with superstition as his thoughts traveled back to the stories his pappy had told him when he'd been no higher'n a grasshopper's ass. Now, at nearly seventy years alive, he figured he could go at any time. He just hoped it was quick. And painless.

He spat again, just for principle. And the owl hooted once more too. Argumentative critter. Clemson liked hearing them at night. Not in the afternoon--no sir. This time he spit the chew on Bear's rear. Old dog needed to be on duty too, but the heat was puttin' him to sleep. Slapping his big hands on his thighs, he stood up, feeling every sore muscle and leaned his gun against the side of the house. He wouldn't go far without it though, trouble was abrewin'. He could feel it in his bones. And it was almost as bad as the aching in his joints. There'd be no rest tonight.

He pulled a swig from the small flask that always rode in his over-all pocket, and as the sun began to set behind the blue gray tree line the low grunt sounded again. This time, the owl was silent too. Even the orioles and jays hushed, leaving Clemson and old Bear to face whatever it was that shuffled slowly up the path that wound up and down the ravine.

"Com'ere, Bear. Sit. It's a danged old hawg. He's the one been in'tha garden." Clem studied the clearing for the best tree to stand by; wild hogs could charge and he'd need a place to be. Bear sat, his body tensed and alert. He wanted to go after the thing, but Clem didn't want his buddy to get gutted by the razor sharp tusks. He led the dog to the outhouse and shut him in. The silence was almost deafening--the absence of the birds the most telling. They only stilled when evil was afoot and the small hairs along his collar bristled again. But a razorback was real. Not some old wives tale ... he stood and tried to see into the early evening shadows, but all he could see were ghosts.

Though Holland had never feared anything--no critter, nor man; he had roiling butterflies in his stomach-- the kind that wouldn't stop flailing around and sapping strength. He took another swig of his own best brew as he swung his gun over his arm and slunk out to the red oak closest to his garden. If it wasn't one thing, it was another, sometimes deer, sometimes the smaller varmints. But no hog was gonna trample his winter poke.

The shuffling stilled. It knew he was there--and now real caution was the rule. Clem fingered his shells. He'd brought six; two were usually enough to bring down a razorback, but the tracks that survived the rain had been the size of a good sized steer; and he held his breath. All he could do was wait ... and listen.

For what seemed forever 'n a day, he stood leaning on the oak, straining to hear the razorback move again, but the woods gradually came back to life. Even the breeze kicked up it's heels again. The boar was gone.

Clem moved cautiously out from the cover of the big tree, stepping soft and slow, down toward the slope into the dark of the trees; and he could see clearly, the faint marks in the dust of the path where the thing had turned around. He sighed deep down in his chest with relief. Very rarely did he ever need help, but he did now. It would have to be an organized hunt, with several men and their best dogs. There was no way him and Bear could do it alone.


All night long, the katy-dids sang to the fog, their voices drowning out the breeze that blew in a misty rain. Clem slept light; sweating, tossing--his sixth sense listening for the snuffling of the razorback. Listening for it to push through the thin screen of his only door.

~~~~~~~

The new day dawned foggy and warm. Clem ate his barley and bacon, throwing some extra down for the old dog, who instead of wagging his tail for breakfast, stood at the screen door, staring intently out to the edge of the woods where the deer trail began.

"Hey, old fella ... what'cha lookin' at, anyhows?" He opened the door and Bear took out of it like he'd been scalded. "HEY! Get back here, mutt! Oh, hell." Clem didn't want any confrontation with the hog just yet. But his dog disappeared into the trees, a bluish gray blur.

"Goldang'it, Bear. Yer gonna get 'et." There was no time to waste. His stomped into his clothes, grabbed his rifle and raced after the dog. Bear was fearless and so was Clemson, but this was not the time for getting tangled up with a bull sized boar.

He half run, half stumbled down the trail, and at the bottom he heard Bear bawlin'. "Oh, Gawdy, Bear. I'm comin'!"

The dog had something on the move, but Clem couldn't tell exactly which fork of the trail they were on. He froze, listening hard. They were headed west. Whatever it was, was leading Bear to the bottoms. The forest of horse weeds along the river were so thick a man needed a machete to get through them, but Clem had no time for that. If Bear was after the huge hog, he'd get killed if he caught him.

Out of breath and white with worry, Holland heard Bear's voice telling him he'd tree'd something. "Thank ya, Lord. Thank ya." No pig was gonna run up a tree. He slowed to a fast walk and when the trail run out, and turned into sand, he found Bear rearing up the side of a hundred foot high beech, singing like it was Sunday. He let out a breath of relief ... halfway up the trunk clung a good-sized boar coon ... mad as a wet hen, he panted and scolded the dog, daring him to come up the tree.

Clemson decided to let the old fella go. "Come on, Bear! Let this'n go! Come on." He pulled the dog away. The old rascal'd give Bear a hellu'va run, and deserved to live, at least one more day. "Come on, dawg ... let's me an' you get cooled off, what'd'ya say? Let's us git wet. It's hotter'n blue blazes already."

Bear let out another 'I ain't givin' up', Blue Tick bawl at the tree and looked at Holland with questions in his big brown eyes. "It's okay, dawg. Com'ere. Lemme git them burrs offin' ya." And the wind blew away from the river; back toward the way they'd come.

A shimmering lemon orb, the sun blazed like a furnace on the hills and deep ravines, and slowly turned the fog to steam. It's rays glinted off the rifle leaning on the mighty beech tree, and up above the slow moving river, the big coon chirped and trilled a warning ... but only the bluejay saw.

And like a quiet mist, Death came down the deer trail, silent, alert, ready ... afraid of no dog. Or man.