The Lonesome Bloodhound’s Trail — A Christmas Story
A couple of years after the final Alex Taylor’s Crime Stories ran, he found himself still a frequent contributor to the Gainesville Times, although writing about a topic he holds a bit more deer … er … dear than crime. Dad has always been an avid outdoorsman, particularly known for hosting countless hunting expeditions to lesser-known and remote ranches out west. Montana to South Texas, waist-deep in frigid powder or blistering on a hilltop boulder with rattlers underfoot. Camping via horseback trails and days-long hikes. He became so well-known for it, Ed Dodd of comic strip Mark Trail fame regularly consulted for source material. More to that story, but I simply need to relay that Dad hunted—a lot. Let’s just say, we lived in a household where Dad always stuffed the extra deep freezer with venison, his favorite currency. If you ever did him a favor, he likely handed you a couple frozen white wax paper bundles of meat, whether you wanted them or not.
Anyway, one anecdote of many. I have a few of Dad’s outdoor articles and I will publish them from time to time. Today’s is sort of a repeat that first appeared in December 1987’s Crime Stories.
Last appearing in the Gainesville Times, December 24, 1992 (with updated photo!), we revisit the Christmas story of Old Joe and the homesick bloodhound that almost sent him to prison.
TRANSCRIPT of The Lonesome Bloodhound’s Trail, Alex Taylor Outdoors – Gainesville Times, December 24, 1992:
Editor’s note: Gainesville outdoorsman Alex Taylor told this story in the 1987 Times. Reader requests prompted us to publish it again in 1988. Now, we’ve revived it again for the holidays. Relax, slide close to the fire and join this trip to a Christmas years ago.
It was shortly after the Civil War in the rugged hill country of Tennessee. A trial was about to begin in Williamson County Courthouse.
Wearing a worn Confederate uniform, the old black man known locally as Uncle Joe walked slowly into the hall and sat on a bench in front of Judge Henry H. Cook.
Joe had been charged with stealing chickens. He was unable to afford an attorney, so the court had appointed one.
That council was a young man named Smith S. House. Today marked his first appearance before Judge Cook.
House opened his defense with the statement that the old man was the caretaker of 17 grandchildren and one great-grandchild.
“The sole evidence upon which the state hopes to convict this old body servant of a major in Gen. Robert E. Lee’s army is not evidence at all,” he said.
“It is the testimony of a bloodhound which when it reached the end of the trail jumped up into the lap of the defendant and tried to lick his face.”
House continued: “Now Maj. McEwen — a great hunter, whom this defendant once served — was a fancier of bloodhounds. And when he died from the effects of a wound received at Drewry’s Bluff, his bloodhounds were parceled out among the blacks on the place and a pair were given to this defendant.
“Last year, Uncle Joe gave a pair of 3-month-old puppies to the sheriff of Williamson County. One of the bloodhounds that trailed the defendant to his cabin was one of the same puppies.”
Yes, House said, Uncle Joe had passed within a few feet of the chicken house on the day the birds had been stolen.
“But why had he gone that way?” he said. “I crave your indulgence gentlemen.
“Back of the thicket is an eminence known as Winstead’s Hill. Across that rock-ribbed hill, shunning on rock-torn feet, came Hood’s army to its death in that holocaust.”
The prosecutor jumped angrily to his feet. “Your honor, I object to council fighting the battle of Drewry’s Bluff as part of the case against a chicken thief!” he said.
“Objection overruled.”
“Winstead’s Hill,” House began, “is covered with beautiful cedars which every year are all call Santa Claus. Uncle Joe visited that hill to pick a Christmas tree for Douglas Church.
“On the way, he passed the chicken pens. The bloodhound sent to catch a thief struck a scent that since puppyhood had meant food, shelter and kindness.
“A bloodhound, even a sheriff’s assistant, may be forgiven a slight inattention to duty. The dog simply followed the scent of a kind master and went home.”
With that and “I thank you,” House rested his case.
And with that, old Joe was acquitted and went back home to a warm, large family that the zeal reserved only for those with wounded souls. Today, Tennessee is still covered with those wonderful cedars that warm the Christmas spirit of those who believe. And if you should pass through the hills on a cold December evening, look closely along the pine-clad ridges. You may see an old man and his bloodhound just ambling along.
Merry Christmas.
Like this:
Like Loading...
