Peach Brandy: A Jack Baylor Adventure

A short by: Ronnie

I pulled on my snow boots, tucking them into the legs of my blue coveralls. Papa bought them for me, used, from an Army supply store. I’m not sure why he didn’t buy me camouflage or at least ones with a little more insulation. I never complained. The basement floor was freezing my ass despite the added layer of clothing. I slipped on my bright orange toboggan, tightened the Velcro around my gloves and slid my six-shooter cap gun, minus the caps, inside my belt. I tested my waterproof flashlight to ensure ample battery power and made my way out the door.

Old Blue was purring just outside our house, a modest home with off-white siding and brown shutters. My father built our house with his bare hands, often alone. Papa sat waiting in the driver’s seat chewing gum and smoking a Virginia Slim. Cindy and Sam were in the cage strapped in the bed of the pickup truck restless with anticipation. Steam billowed from their noses in the cool of the early evening. Cindy was a petite Black and Tan hound with a certain timidity until treeing a coon, transforming into a stone cold killer. Sam was colossal, a Walker dog from the bloodline of Papa’s one and only grand night champion, the fabled Patchy Scout.

“Want some gum?” asked Papa.

“Sure,” I said as he produced a stick of Big Red chewing gum.

“I figure we’ll head down to the Hazelwood farm tonight.”

He threw Blue in gear, turned around in our driveway, and headed us in the opposite direction. Our road was one of the few that were still gravel, our location being beyond the county’s resources or concerns. A maelstrom of white dust billowed from the tires as we rolled down the road. I peered through the back glass, avoiding the rifles hanging in my way, and wondered what it would be like to ride in the cage.

“A full moon tonight. We probably won’t even need our lights,” said Papa. “We used to hunt by moonlight when I was a kid. Of course, we didn’t have the fancy equipment that we have now but we made due. Lanterns were all we had.”

Papa sported a light mounted on what looked like a green construction helmet. He ordered it from a coon hunter magazine. The set included a spotlight that slid into the battery pack strapped to his left hip. The light I would no doubt be shining in a coon’s eyes later that night. It’s pretty hard to shine a light with much accuracy while you’re trying to cover your ears from a rifle blast, but I’ve gotten pretty good at it. Loud sounds and I mix about as well as oil and water. I love the Fourth of July until the sun goes down. If you want to find me during a fireworks show try looking in the backseat of my parents’ Aerostar minivan. You’ll find me curled up in a ball with my fingers buried in my ears.

Papa urged Blue up the hills and through the hollows that dominated the Southern Indiana landscape, navigating the curvy roads casual yet precise as a sea captain would by the stars. We made one stop along the road so Papa could hop out and take a piss then continued on toward our destination.

“Nice night,” Papa said as he flicked his cigarette out the cracked window, not bothering to roll it back up. The cold air gave me chills but his leather skin seemed not to mind.

“Reminds me of the night me and Mike Conrad went down to Tell City for that wild coon hunt. I had that old Touncer dog at the time. That dog would run a tree. Drove the judges crazy. As soon and he opened up I’d say, ‘Tree Touncer’. That judge’d say, ‘That dog is runnin’, he ain’t on no tree’. I’d tell ‘em that I bet he’d be sittin’ on a tree by the time we got to him.” His eyes began to shine. Coon hunting was a social sport if nothing else, a sport at which Papa excelled. I’ve heard every story he could ever muster. Knew every line, pause, and outcome, yet I indulged him on every occasion. “That night I scared the shit out of the judge and all the other fellas.”

“How’d ya do that?” I asked already knowing the answer but indicating I was following the story.

“Well, I treed Touncer on the run like I always did. We had to go through some nasty shit to get to the tree. Weeds were over our damn head and Touncer was on the other side of the river. It was too deep to cross and the bank was damn near straight up and down on the other side. We shined the tree but couldn’t get the coon to show its eyes. I’d never known Touncer to run a cold track so I knew there was a coon in that tree. I pulled my pistol out of the inside of my coat and fired two shots into the branches. The judge hit the ground and a couple others scrambled. That damn judge was white as a goddamn ghost. You should have seen his face! He said, ‘You can’t have that goddamn gun out here you son of bitch!’ I told him my permit said I could. I threw my light in the tree and pointed up in the branches. I said, ‘See, two coons sittin' right there on that limb’. Of course, the judge disqualified me for pulling out my gun but I proved my point.”

We approached the narrow lane that would lead us to the old Hazelwood farm. It really wasn’t the Hazelwood farm at all anymore, being owned by my Uncle Joe, one of my mother’s twelve siblings. I couldn’t name them all if I tried. The lane was a two-mile stretch of gravel only passable by a single vehicle. In the rare chance of meeting someone, the ditch was the only option. Either side of the road was dominated by thick woods threatening to overtake the meager trail. Branches reached out like hands from crazed fans at a popular rock concert. The site was a claustrophobic nightmare. The impenetrable tangle of trees and foliage may as well have been the great steel walls of a giant trash compactor. I kept my eyes forward, half listening to Papa rattle off another one of his hunting stories.

“He pulled that waterdog out of the river and about shit his pants. Ugly sons of bitches. Who’d ever heard of fish with legs? The damn things even make a barking sound.”

Blue rolled on, rattling and vibrating as we rounded each corner and clambered through chug holes, Papa refusing to slow for either. We bypassed a mud road on the right that we sometimes take, Papa choosing to stay the course to the farmhouse rather than take the rough trail.

“I told ‘im the bastards’d bite but he didn’t listen. Stuck his hand…”

The hands opened up and emitted us from the depths of the wooded tunnel. The sight was breathtaking. Not a cloud in the night sky, no city lights to damper the glow of a million shining stars. The man in the moon gazed down, his watchful eye on the earth below. What lay before us was 100 acres of field surrounded by another 100 of woods. The only sign of civilization being the three-story farmhouse we approached silhouetted in the moonlight. The house reminded me of the ones you see on Halloween decorations. Not the most inviting place. Honestly, it scared the shit out of me.

“We’ll pull over here and let the dogs out,” said Papa.

We rolled to a stop a hundred yards from the house. Papa left Blue running and hopped out into the night. I soon followed and met him around behind the truck. He released the clasp on Cindy’s door first and she hopped off the tailgate and bolted for the woods. He instructed me to let Sam out and I did as he said. Sam leaped from the cage, made one sweeping circle around the truck and was off. The hunt began. We climbed back in Blue and made our way towards the abandoned farmhouse. The house seemed to grow straight from the ground as we meandered closer and closer. The white paint was cracked and faded revealing the wood siding beneath. This gave the house a green tint amplified by the bright moonlight. We came to a halt just yards from the front steps and got out of the truck. There were no chairs present and no railing around the porch. We plopped down right on the floor and let our feet dangle over the edge. The silence was deafening. There were no sounds of cars, neighbors, or kids at play. There were no distractions from the outside world. Here we sat, feet dangling in the crisp night. This was coon hunting.

“Patchy was a good competition dog but no good for goin’ out and hunting like this. She would run all over the damn country. You’d spend your whole night chasin’ her. Now, in competition that was good because you knew she wouldn’t stop until she treed a coon. There were a many of nights when I would go home and come back out to find her the next morning. That damn dog was somethin’ else.”

“What happened to her, Pap?”

“Sold her.”

“Why’d ya sell her?”

“A man offered me the right price.”

“But, wasn’t she special?”

“Sure was.”

“Then, why’d ya sell her?”

“I told you. A man offered me the right price.” A far off look settled across his face, a look that told me he regretted the couple hundred dollars he sold his most prized coon hound for. Of course, he would never admit that.

“You hear that?” he said with his head slightly cocked to the left.

“Um, no,” I whispered in reply.

“I hear Cindy. She’s off over that way,” he said pointing off to our left across an immense field. He listened for a few more minutes in utter silence, an eyebrow raised and he whispered, “Let’s go.”

I’m not sure how he could hear the dog at all much less determine that it was Cindy without hesitation. It must be some special skill you obtain after sixty years worth of coon hunting. The funny thing is that Papa may not hear a word you say if you’re talking to him face to face. Put him in the middle of the woods with some dogs running a trail and he’ll hear them open up five miles away. Nanny called it selective hearing.

Papa lit a Virginia Slim, hopped off the porch and retrieved the rifle from the back window of Blue. He gave me a nod and I fell in behind him. He flipped a switch on his hip and the bulb on his head came to life. I clicked the rubber button on my waterproof flashlight and off we went. The hike was easy enough. The field was planted in corn at one time or another and there were some cut off stalks that tried to trip you up. Other than that it was smooth sailing. I had no problem with the walking; it was the cold that was getting to me. Papa stopped in front of me to listen for the dogs. He glanced at me and saw that I was shivering.

“You gonna make it, Bud?”

“Yeah, I’ll be OK,” I said pulling my toboggan low over my ears.

“You sure?” He shot me a smile around his Virginia Slim. Tooth filled, he took the time to put in his dentures today.

“I’m fine. Just a little cold,” I said being sure not to sound too weak. I was freezing my ass off. All I wanted to do was run home and curl up in my bed.

“I think I have exactly what you need.”

Papa unzipped his coveralls and reached into his inside breast pocket producing a clear bottle containing an amber colored liquid. I had witnessed this bottle passed between Papa and Don, Pap's best friend, on nights similar to this but never paid it much mind. Coyotes yelped in the distance as Pap unscrewed the cap and took a deep pull from the bottle. He wiped his lips with his sleeve and exhaled a long crystallized breath.

“Awww, yeah. That’s the stuff,” he said. His eyes were closed with obvious pleasure. He extinguished his head lamp, the light of the full moon blanketing us in dull radiance, flicked his cigarette and stamped it out with his heel. I followed suit by clicking my flashlight. The pale blue light created long eerie shadows along the rows of stalk riddled ground. My teeth clattered slightly and I locked my jaws to suppress their dance.

“Here,” he said snapping out of his trance. He held the bottle at arm's length in my direction. I made a small laugh, ducked my chin and put my hands in my pockets. I had a half embarrassed, half longing smile on my face. He was obviously joking. Wrong, the arm kept extending until the smell of the amber liquid wafted into my nostrils. The aroma was sweet yet a hint of fire could be distinguished below the surface. As I reached for the bottle the twilight illuminated a full toothed grin on Pap's face. This wouldn't be my first encounter with an alcoholic beverage. A couple years ago my dad let me drink one of those "Little Millers," as they called them, the 7oz version of the popular beer. I cried when they wouldn't let me have anymore.

"Are you sure?" I asked as I grasped the bottle.

"Sure thing, Bud. Just a little liquid to warm the bones. Might even put some hair on your chin." His grin broadened and reached into his eyes. He fired up another Virginia Slim and took a deep drag, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils. "What you waitin' for?" he asked.

Fireworks went off in my body as the peach brandy first hit my lips then slid down my throat and into my stomach. To my surprise, the brandy did not stop there. The sensation first extended to my legs, then flowed like lava to the tips of my toes. My body melted. I could feel my hands begin to sweat inside my gloves. I wiped my mouth and handed the bottle back to Papa as if I did this everyday.

"How was it?" he asked.

"Fine," I said adjusting my toboggan. I prayed he wouldn't notice me fighting my gag reflex. My head was swimming and it felt like the temperature jumped 50 degrees.

"You want another?" he asked extending the bottle back in my direction.

"I'm good," I managed. "Maybe later."

"Alright, suit yourself," he said. He took one last swig, twisted the cap on the bottle, and returned it to his inside pocket.

"S'pose we should probably head on. Sounds like Cindy is sittin' on a tree."

Papa flipped the switch on his light. It was blinding. The beam was shining right in my face. I suddenly realized what a deer feels like when it is about to be hit by an oncoming car. Common sense would tell a person to look away. I couldn't. I was like a mosquito drawn to a bug light. He finally turned his head and I got my zap. All I could see were blue bubble-like objects swirling in my line of vision. I could here Papa advancing through the field but I couldn't see a damn thing. The blue bubbles combined with the peach brandy gave me a strange sense of vertigo. I stumbled to my left and caught my foot on one of the corn stalks. I went down in a heap, my meatloaf from earlier that night spraying the stalks as I hit the ground.

"Are you OK!" I heard as Papa's light turned swiftly and found me sprawled on the ground.

"I'm fine," I lied. "I'm fine. I just caught my foot on one of these stalks. Just give me a second."

"Alright, Bud. Are you sure you're OK? Do you need some help up?"

"No, I'm fine," I replied as quick as possible. I jumped to my feet, dusted myself off, holstered my cap gun, which had went flying in my fall, and scurried to catch up with Pap. I pulled my gloves off and stuck them in my pocket. My hands were sweating like crazy. I filed in behind Papa and avoided conversation.

"Did I ever tell you about the time Cecil Rudolph wore his fancy new coat out hunting one night?" Papa asked.

"No, I don't think so," I replied. I had. I would listen to a million stories if it meant avoiding the events of the last few minutes.

"Well, Cecil got this fancy new hunting jacket out of one of those magazines. It was nice. It had camouflage and all that. It also had a pouch on the back of it for carrying the animals you kill."

We were halfway across the field. My feet were on fire. I now regretted wearing two pairs of socks. My feet would begin to sweat soon and go from burning up to freezing in an instant.

"We were really just playing cards at the house that night, playing pinochle and shooting the shit. Cecil got up the notion to go hunting on accounts that he didn't have any dogs and hadn't been in quite some time. So, we got suited up and walked down to the barn lot to let the dogs loose. I can't really remember which dogs I had back then. I think it was Joe and Jared. Those were a couple big Walker dogs. It wasn't often that a coon whipped their ass."

We reached the point where field became woods. Footing was less reliable in the tangle of underbrush. Cockleburs latched to the legs of my coveralls as we trudged forward.

"The dogs opened up back on the bluff so we headed out that direction. Cecil was about three sheets to the wind and wouldn't shut up. 'F' this and 'F' that, he kept sayin'. That man cusses worse than a goddamn sailor."

"I thought he preached at the church on Sundays," I asked in an amused tone.

"He does, but that doesn't change the fact he cusses like a sailor."

I focused on Papa's footsteps. I stepped where he stepped, trying to avoid the snares and foot falls of the underbrush. All I needed was a reenactment of my previous tumble.

"Joe was treed at the top of the bluff but Jared was nowhere to be seen," Papa continued. "The coon was up one of those damn beach trees. Damn thing must have been 100 feet tall. We must have shined that tree for 30 minutes before the coon finally showed its eyes. We shot it out and had a hell of a time wrestling it away from Joe. Cecil wanted to use his fancy new coat so we wrapped the coon in a burlap sack then stuck it in his pouch."

We came to a small clearing in the woods. It was only about 30 yards across but the weeds were over our heads. We had to push the weeds aside to create a path. Papa never missed a beat with his story.

"We heard Jared open up further down the bluff so we crossed a fence and started down the hill. I was out ahead of Cecil and taking it pretty easy because there was some loose rock under my feet. All of a sudden I heard the damnedest sound. It sounded like Cecil had been attacked by a goddamn bobcat. Here he came rolling down the hill! Damn near took me out. He made it almost to the bottom before he rolled into a tree. Know what happened?"

"No, what?" I asked.

"Jared had caught the scent of the coon in Cecil's coat. Damn dog circled around behind us and jumped on old Cecil's back. Cecil had his hands in his pockets at the time and he was helpless as he rolled down the damn hill."

"Ouch!" I yelped.

"Yeah, he looked pretty bad when I finally got to him. No broken bones, but he was pretty shook up."

"No," I said. "My hands. They're on fire and itching like crazy." The pain was amazing. It felt like acid had been poured on my hands. Scratching them made it even worse.

"Itch weed," Papa said.

"It's burning like crazy," I said.

"It will for awhile. Why the hell don't you have your gloves on?"

"My hands were really hot."

"Well, they're sure as hell hot now, aren't they? Put them back on. We've got to get to Cindy."

It didn't take us much longer to find Cindy. She was sitting under a big oak tree giving it hell. The pain from the itch weed combined with the affects from the brandy had me in an undesirable state as we made our approach.

"That a girl, Cindy," said Papa. "Stay on it. Let it know you're here."

He motioned for me to come over. He had his spotlight positioned high in the tree.

"See the eyes," he said.

"Yeah," I replied.

"I'm gonna give you the light. Keep it right on the coon. I'll bust him."

I steadied the light the best I could. My hands were on fire, my head was dizzy, and my stomach was doing somersaults. I covered one ear with my left hand and did my best to cover my right ear with my shoulder. I kept the light in the general direction and prayed I wouldn't have to hold this pose for too long.

Crack! The rifle went off before I could think twice. I dropped the light and damn near pissed my pants. I heard branches cracking as the coon came tumbling out of the tree, landing just at my feet. It was still alive and I heard it hiss. This would be the ending of a perfectly disastrous night. Cindy pounced. The two minute battle played out in slow motion at my feet. One second the screech, clawing, and biting of the coon. The next, silence.

I went and sat on a nearby log attempting to slow my heart rate. I could feel a small dribble of urine in my underwear. It could have been worse. The damn thing could have landed on my head.

"Good girl, Cindy," Papa said. "Go ahead and hand it over." Papa wrenched the coon from Cindy's locked jaws patting her on the head. He produced a burlap sack, dropped the coon inside, twisted it tight and slung it over his shoulder.

"Not bad," he said glancing at me perched on the log. "What ya say we round up old Sam and head down to Jimmy's to see if we can tree another one?"

"I don't see why not," I replied. My heart was still pounding.

"Good deal. Lets head out."

We collected the gear and hooked Cindy to the lead. The shock of the coon nearly falling on my head sobered me up a bit and the bite of the itch weed was beginning to reside. We started down the path we cleared on the way in. Papa paused to light another Virginia Slim and handed me Cindy's lead. He removed the bottle of peach brandy and took a swig.

"Want some?" he asked.

"Sure," I said. I took the bottle and threw it back, welcoming the warmth.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I got Uncle Doc to eat those pickled pigs feet?"

We continued down the path.