The Grey Ghost of Dark Corner

The year was about 1959, when the spine tingling voice of the Grey Ghost was first heard in Dark Corner. Even though the eerie vocalization was heard on almost a weekly basis, not one person was able to identify the source or ascertain that it was emanating from a living being.

At that time, several hunters would get together almost every Saturday night and run grey fox with their hounds. Ross McCorstin, Jack McCuan, Monroe Barwich, Sr. Jim Rose, Loyd Reese, Charles (Bunster) Turner, my brother Wendyl and I were some of the regulars. Wendyl McAdoo was another semi-regular and Cecil Miller would also show up if he wasn't coon hunting with old Red and Rattler.

It was always a special treat when the fox came close enough to be seen by the light of the fire. On one particular night the hunters, in a circle around the campfire, were drinking coffee when the hounds chased a fox very near the fire. They were in hot pursuit and were close at hand when a strange sensational voice joined the pack. A hush fell over the men gathered around the campfire. To speak at a time like this would be a breach of etiquette. Every elbow appeared to be frozen and the coffee cups in hand didn't move. The pack dashed by in full cry, but to our disappointment, just beyond the flickering rays of the firelight.

There is one thing for certain with a houndsman; he knows the individual voices of his hounds. He can also detect if his hound is on the front of the pack or somewhere behind the leader. The cry of the pack is music to the owner's ears, while it is a cacophony or just a bunch of racket to the disinterested listener. These hunters are not armed and in no way wanting to kill the fox, no more than the orchestra members want to murder the conductor. The whole drama is played out for the pure pleasure of listening to the music of the pack.

The new voice that had joined the pack could only be described as a unique machine gun chop. The individual short barks all ran together as one stream of a continuous ear-pleasing cry. Everyone at the campfire was mystified; the air seemed to be charged. Goose bumps were having relay races up and down our spines. We had never heard such a soul penetrating voice. This hound not only joined the pack, he totally dominated the chase until the fox chose to seek shelter in a tree. (It is common for a grey fox to climb a tree after an hour or two by pursuit by a good pack of hounds. On the other hand, a red fox rarely climbs a tree and will normally run all night and take to his earthen den only at the break of day.)

This scenario was repeated for an extended period of time on practically a weekly basis. We would cast several hounds shortly after sundown and not long after they jumped a fox the mystery hound would join the chase. You didn't hear him unless he was leading the pack and he was usually up front in the driver's seat. Just as a prince is destined for the throne, this phantom of the night seemed foreordained for a similar, but somewhat less noble cause.

It didn't seem to matter where we went to hunt; this uninvited guest would sooner or later, to the delight of the hunters, join the chase. Every time the hounds came close to the campfire we would all scatter in different directions with our flashlights and try to catch sight of the intriguing creature that had invaded our domain. As soon as our lights went on this will-o-the-wisp would fall silent. He managed to evade our every attempt at visual contact.

Someone referred to him as the "Ghost Hound". I think it was Ross McCorstin who dubbed him "The Grey Ghost of Dark Corner". Not long after that handle was affixed to this mysterious pack leader he joined in on a chase one night when we were running about three miles northeast of Kingston on Little Glasses Creek. This really heightened the drama, because, as the crow flies, this was some six or seven miles from his regular haunt, which was the Washita Point area.

I was parked on the road in my old 1950 model Ford car. I had a spotlight plugged into the cigarette lighter socket and I was standing on the hood of the car. The ghost hound was well in front of the pack. Just as his voice indicated that he was about to hit the road I turned on the spotlight. The elusive canine that I expected to see failed to materialize. He somehow managed to slam on the brakes at the edge of the road and escape detection. He must have crawled down the fence line on his belly. There was an open pasture on both sides of the road and my light searched it well. The rest of the pack soon came along and all crossed in plain view. They continued the case for about a mile before the phantom-like creature rejoined the chase, once again in his self appointed leadership role at the head of the pack.

One Saturday night we met on the north side of the railroad, just across the tracks from my grandfather's house, near what was known as Wildcat Cove. (11) This night was special, because when Ross McCorstin arrived he had his father, Oscar, with him. Oscar would routinely entertain us with stories from the past. (I wish I had written some of them down.)

In addition to having his dad with him Ross also had a surprise for us. He commented, "Boy, I think I've solved the mystery. I've found the Ghost Hound." He dropped the tailgate on his Studebaker truck and opened the dog box. Out jumped Fly, his old black and tan, then Lady, his red tick. Last but not least was a big tri-colored hound that had a hint of ticking on him. He had a big brush on his tail, commonly called "a flag tail". He hesitated on the tailgate long enough to capture the attention of every hunter. His feet looked like they were big enough for two dogs of his size.

I don't know what the others were thinking, but I had my doubts. I just couldn't believe that the hound I was scrutinizing could be capable of leading our pack of hounds throughout the endurance of every chase. These were all top notch hounds and I just couldn't picture the hound that had just vanished into the night as being able to totally dominate them. Another thing, he hadn't acted a bit shy nor did he seem to mind that for the first time he was being illuminated by the beam of every hunter's flashlight.

(Ross often turned his hound out of the kennel at home on Alberta Creek Road and let them go run to their heart's content When they got tired and hungry they would come back home to be fed. On one such occasion, this big tri-colored hound had followed them home. Ross' daughter Teresa got the hound to come to her when she pit out food for him. She petted him and soon had him eating out of her hand. Evidentially food had been hard to come by during his nomadic lifestyle and this new found source must have been very appealing to him.)

When the hounds were cast, Fly headed straight down a deep boulder strewn precipice to the lake shore. It was only a matter of minutes until she sang out with her muted voice, which was hard to detect once the pack was in full cry. However, her close proximity to the other hounds summoned them and they were soon in the canyon below headed around the lake in hot pursuit on the track of a gray fox. The pack went east, crossed the railroad and went south down fox ridge.

However, the instant that first machine gun chop rolled out, echoed off the solid rock walls of Wildcat Cove, out across the rippling waves of Lake Texoma and came wafting through the still night air back up the hill to our attentive ears we all knew that the mystery was indeed solved. We were almost in a trance when Ross broke the spell by saying, "I've named him Hobo."

Just as suddenly as the perplexing phenomena had mysteriously burst upon the scene several months earlier the phantom vanished into the shadows of the night.

Hobo, on that memorable occasion a half a century ago, had with one spine-tingling bark simultaneously identified and embodied "THE GREY GHOST OF DARK CORNER."