The Last Hunt
By Elizabeth Billips Associate Editor
M r. Lindsey Paul Jones has a story on his mind.

He hasn't been feeling himself and wants his words committed to paper before they die with him.

"I might not be around much longer," he says, pointing to my pad and pencil.

He'll actually live on for two more winters, right past his 99th birthday.

But Mr. Lindsey has no way of knowing as he opens up his journal and runs a finger along the sprawl of notes he's been saving for the visit.

He just knows that his bones are old and things should be set in order.

"My story is called The Last O'Possum and Coon Hunt," he recites, parting the years like a curtain.

~Early October, 1923

Lindsey's long legs look like a wishbone squeezing Ole Dolly's belly.

George Chandler shifts in the saddle to look back at him. He says something about needing a taller horse, then shoots a grin toward Lindsey's daddy, Pink John Jones.

Daddy always keeps a neck ahead on his sleek, red Maude.

They know the boy will ride Ole Dolly until his feet drag. She's a fine Texas pony - lowstrung and mindful.

As if on cue, Lindsey reaches forward and gives Ole Dolly a few flat-handed pats that get the dust to rising.

His throat tightens when he thinks of leaving her next week to go to the colored high school in Augusta. The excitement and dread stir in his stomach again. He swallows it back and taps Ole Dolly with his heels.

Mr. George and Daddy are swinging down from their horses to set the hounds loose, and Lindsey wants a good vantage point.

He'll never tire of watching the pack tear off into the woods. He holds his breath as they transform from a mess of yips and flopping ears into a straight line of muscle and purpose.

The three hunters make their way toward Peter's Branch where it tumbles into Brier Creek.

The sun sets behind the skeletons of cotton plants, picked clean to the lint, just the way Daddy likes them.

Lindsey spent the better part of his 15th birthday picking cotton in the five-acre "education field" behind the back pasture.

A gift from Daddy, its harvests go solely to tuition and books. The sums had lined up like soldiers in his head as he'd dumped each bag full of King Cotton.

Daddy wants the world for him. That day he'd felt like he could scoop it up and cup it in his palms like a lightning bug.

The trail narrows into the woods and the horses go singlefile by habit.

Daddy first, as always, then Mr. George on his Molly.

Lindsey waits for his eyes to adjust, focusing on the slow sway of the horses' haunches.

The horses' legs have been wrapped with paper lest a rattler were to strike.

Lindsey flexes his toes inside his thick leather boots, pondering over snake-bitten hounds who'd survived the night with heads the size of melons.

The men talk in hushed voices ahead, mindful not to miss the first howl of the hunt.

Lindsey catches bits of their conversation here and there. "Minding shop," "Keysville," "Sundays"

He purposely hangs back, knowing the talk would get to that.

Mr. George had a new bride. He'd be moving to Keysville next week to run the store and be postmaster.

Twenty-four whole miles. Might as well be 2,400 ... a half day's travel in the wagon.

Mr. George had been like an uncle since Lindsey could remember, training up Dan and Big Red along with Daddy's Ole Blue and Spot. Lindsey thinks of them as puppies lopping along together and knows they'll be good as ruined when they can't run together.

Three hunters, four dogs. Always, always, the heart of the hunt. Until now.

Ole Blue, the lead dog, snaps Lindsey out of his dreaming with his "uu-uup, uu-uup, uu-uup" from deep in the woods.

The men stiffen in the saddles, listening for Dan, with his highpitched yiiip, yiiip.

Lindsey counts one-Mississippi all the way to 91 before the dog complies. Then comes Big Red the bloodhound, always third, always letting loose his long and dragging holler with an extra howl on the tail end.

Oooooooah, Oooooooah.

Last comes Spot.

When his snappy yaps pierce the night, Lindsey always pictures Spot on his short little legs, tilting his nose to the moon.

Yip. Yip. Yip Yip.

The dogs have struck a trail, and their song has begun. The horses shoot off after them, brushing the riders' legs along sweet shrubs and limbs.

The song grows faster, and the horses gallop parallel to the creek until the men dismount to light their kerosene lanterns.

They leave the horses tethered on high land. A sinkhole could take one down in a heartbeat.

The hunters pick their way along the banks as easy as putting on their socks and boots. They know every bend, every soft spot.

They find Ole Blue trying to paw up the tree. Mr. George reflects the glow of the lantern into the yellow eyes of a coon hunkered in the crook of a high limb.

Possums act ashamed. But coons, they act like wildcats.

Daddy steadies his 22 rifle while Lindsey shakes the tree. Mr. George carries an axe just in case.

He can take down a sweet gum in a matter of minutes, but he won't have to tonight.

The rifle pops and the coon topples into the pack of dogs. It comes up clawing and biting.

They wait a few minutes before calling off the dogs, then finish off the coon with the blunt of the axe.

Lindsey finds his spot in Ole Dolly's saddle and drapes one of the three fertilizer sacks over her side.

Three coons, two possums. Two each is their standard fare for an autumn night, but Ole Blue hit another trail on the way out of the woods and no one had the heart to rein him in.

The dogs' last song held them all still as stones. Not a one of them budged until the hounds' yips ran together into full melody.

That coon was 10 pounds, their biggest ever. The meat will be tough as a sock, but they bag it anyway for show.

They blow out the lanterns and turn the horses around.

The moon casts long shadows on the three of them.

Lindsey admires Mr. George's coal black hair and big lopsided smile. He can see why they want him in Keysville. There's an easiness in him folks long for.

Daddy is a good looking man too. Graying at the temples now, but fit as a fiddle for a man in his 50s.

The difference of age and race has never gotten in the way of things. They're just two men who love good books and good dogs.

The dry corn rows rustle as they pass, ready to be pulled and put into bellies.

Back at home, Mr. George and Daddy skin the animals and rub them down with salt while Lindsey tends to the nicks and scratches on the dogs' noses and ears.

Mama pounds sassafras root in a flour sack until it's fine enough to mix with the salt. That'll take the wild scent away and make the animals tender

Tomorrow, she'll parboil them in syrup pots. The men will spoon sauce over the coons and barbecue them while the possums bake with sweet potatoes in their mouths.

As midnight nears, they pump water for washing and sit at the table for a breakfast of eggbread. The woodstove is still radiating heat as Mama passes around the cakes she made with cornmeal, eggs and milk. Their eyes grow tired as their bellies fill.

Daddy spreads quilts on the porch for the three of them. They'll nap a few hours before building fires for the barbecue.

Lindsey pulls a quilt under his chin, thinking of the sweet potatoes he'll roast in the ashes.

Daddy will flick open his knife and peel sugarcane stalks to the meat. He'll cut them in blocks and pass them around the fire.

Mr. George's bride will be there and his brother RB, too. They'll spread oilcloths over makeshift tables and eat right in the yard.

Daddy and Mr. George breathe in sync, their chests rising and falling as if they timed it so.

Even the dogs are quiet, save Spot. He's dragged a coon foot or head under the house and scrapes teeth against bone until it crunches.

Lindsey closes his eyes and lets the images flash beneath his lids.

The books and beds at boarding school. Mr. George behind the store counter. Daddy and mama at the dinner table alone.

He can feel himself teetering on the edge of manhood, knowing that tomorrow will pitch him forward.

He's not sure whether he should cry or clap.

He brings his fingers to his nose and breathes in kerosene and lye soap.

It levels him. Sets things right.

Lindsey strains to hear the soft sounds of sleep on either side of him. They anchor him there on the pallet, between the two men he loves.

The melody of the hounds still echoes through his head as he lets sleep finally take him.

(Editor's Note: Several years ago, Lindsey Jones asked associate editor Elizabeth Billips to help him document memories of his childhood in Burke County. He requested that his favorite story, The Last O'Possum and Coon Hunt, be published after his death so that "young folks" could better understand the world their ancestors grew up in

Details in the printed version are based on Mr. Jones' memories as related during a series of interviews from 2004 to 2007.

On Dec. 30, 2007, Mr. Jones died at the age of 99.

During his last interview, he said he could still hear the "melody of the hounds" and smell Mama's egg-bread cooking.)