UNCLE LUTHER’S WOLF HOUNDS
1933
“Yes, ma’am, Aint Allie. Mom (Clara McCoy James) has enough eggs to share for your bakin’. I’ll be sure to tell her you need some purty quick.”
Jesse Columbus James, aka 10 year old “Sonny,” sat down on the front porch with his “Uncle” Luther. Luther was actually a older cousin to Jesse’s dad, Jesse Garfield James, and husband to “Aint” Allie Beard James. Luther started askin’ his “nephew” how things were going, but living across James Road from his cousins he pretty much knew things were just fine. Fine enough to ask if Sonny-Jesse C. wanted to do some wolf hunting come the evenin’. “Sure, if mom says it’s ok. Dad’s down at Old Man Witherspoon’s ranch, so he won’t mind. ”
1963
“Well, that was the first time Uncle Luther took me hunting,” Jesse C. told his daughter, Peggy, as he got a cookin’ pot out and set it on the kitchen stove. One by one, cornmeal, meat scraps, and an egg or two, ingredients for “scrapple,” a homemade dog food, began to cook as Dad told me (Peggy) about “wolf hunting,” rather, coyote hunting.
“What did this cookin’ have to do with wolf hunting?” Peggy’d asked. We had run out of canned dog food for our family dog, Huckleberry. Dad assured me that “scrapple” we were cookin’ would be excellent fare for Huckleberry. Because, he said, he learned this recipe from one of the best hunting pack owners in the Somerset area: his Uncle Luther James, father of Frank, Bill, Luther, Jr., or “Scooter”, and JW “Dob” James.
Dad went on: Uncle Luther raised hounds, wolf hunting hounds. He and friends Billy Kenney, and Charles Webb McCain would take their hounds north of Old Bexar or down in the blackjacks, or wherever someone needed pest control.
1933
A typical hunt involved getting hounds, Blue Ticks and runnin’ Walkers mostly, ready then loading them in the truck or car and hauling them to the night’s hunting camp. After a campfire was laid, with hunters ready, they would turn their hounds loose to find their quarry. Mostly, hunters listened to the pack as they caught a scent and began the chase. Hunters, could hear each of their dogs and knew each of their hounds by their voice. They could tell when the dogs were still casting about smelling for a trail. They could hear the change in each dog’s voice as they found the trail, chased and, again a voice change when the hounds cornered their quarry. As many as 40-50 hounds could be in one of these hunting packs.
The last phase of the hunt was calling in the hounds and heading towards home. Sometimes you got into the car/truck the next day and rode through the blackjacks and miles of unfenced pastures of those 1920s and 1930s farms and ranches hollerin, callin’ and lookin’ for lost hounds. Often that lost hound would be found in Devine or Poteet and returned to their owner. A few were never found.
The Problem with Wolves—Coyotes
Before there is a hue and cry from you readers for chasing these poor wolves, rather, coyotes, recall that coyotes were real pests to farmers, ranchers, even Somerset town folk who may have a chicken or ten in the back yard for their needed eggs. Chickens were standard fun fare for coyotes. But, no chickens; no eggs for breakfast or fried chicken for Sunday lunch. Predator control was a critical necessity if humans wanted a meal. Coyotes in a pack were known to kill or maim cattle, shredding their noses, tongues, ears, udders and tails, as they danced around the beleaguered animal. They even killed young calves and goats.
LUTHER’S CARE FOR HIS HOUNDS
1933
In telling me about Uncle Luther’s care of his hounds, dad said Luther cooked up a batch of scrapple every day for his hounds in a big cast iron wash pot over an open fire outside the house. Anyone who knew dogs could tell ya that Luther’s dogs were always in great shape, with slick, shiny coats.
One mornin’ Aunt Allie hollered out the back door to Luther that better keep his eyes peeled for coyotes or ‘coons that were getting’ in her henhouse and stealin’ eggs. She told him that had jest bought some new laying hens that started out good layers, but she hadn’t had any eggs for several days now. She let Luther know that she’d even asked Sonny if she could borry eggs from his mom, Clara. Havin’ no hen eggs was jest…unthinkable.
Hmm. Coyotes? In Uncle Luther’s back yard? What do you think? Yup. Scrapple.
