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Dad's Fox Story
by
Charles L. Dobbins
Chapter 1 - The Den
The small brown fox
moved along the passageway that angled slightly upward. The air
was taking on a different smell than he had known the past few
weeks. A faint glow began to appear ahead on the walls of the
tunnel. This light was coming from the main entrance of the den,
which contained his two brothers and two sisters.
The tunnel
made a slight turn and before him was the den entrance with the air
coming in and the light made him squint as it hurt his eyes.
He emerged with only his head and neck out of the entrance.
This was his first sight of the world outside the den.
His eyes took in the drab dead grass and leaves, low leaden gray
clouds moving across the sky, the gently swaying of the upper branches
of the oak and the white patches of winter snow which was fast
diminishing.
The far away sound of a crow, the sighting of the chilly early
spring wind in the gnarled old oak, the nearby stream as it dashed over
a rocky riffle was the first sounds he heard outside the den.
His black button of a nose brought the smell of decaying leaves,
the damp sweet smell of water from the rushing stream intermingled with
the smells of the fields.
This was his introduction to the big world outside the den.
A movement to his right caught his eye and there stood his
mother watching him. The young fox emerged from the
den and walked toward her. She licked his face with
her soft, moist warm tongue.
Another fox somewhat larger than his mother came walking up the
path towards them. There were two outstanding
features about this fox, his size and a large white tip on his tail.
This was the young fox’s father, known as Brush. This
was the first time Brush had seen any of the litter and curiously
looked and smelled around his offspring.
Brush also had three white toes on his right front foot, but
this young one had four white toes on each front foot. This
young one was then known as White Feet.
The vixen urged the young fox to go back into the den.
She followed and the litter suckled their supper. She
also made White Feet and the others understand not to venture out of
the den unless she was with them.
The time came when she brought three field mice into the den and
showed the pups this was food and how to eat them.
A few days later she led the litter outside. It
was an early spring day and the warm sun felt good to the young pups.
They explored around the immediate area of the den taking in all
the strange sights and smells.
They
were shown two other entrances that would lead back to into the den,
but were cautioned these were to be used in an emergency only.
The main entrance went in beside a large jutting outcrop of soft
sandstone, it jutted out of the earth at an angle and this created an
overhang of some three feet where the young pups could play in the
rainy weather. Growing beside the sandstone was an
old gnarled oak. In the past, stones taken off of
the nearby fields were dumped here at the sandstone outcropping.
Other smaller trees and brush grew up through and around the
deposited stones.
All this made an overgrown clump about twenty five yards across
in diameter set in the lower corner of the pasture field which was
rather grown up with young hawthorn, blackberry bushes, a few scraggly
sumacs and broomsedge. This pasture was part of the
farm whose shiny silo roof and the roof of the barn could be seen about
three quarters of a mile to the east. The pasture
continued up the gently hill to the north where it bordered on a heavy
woods.
To the south of the den the pasture continued about forty yards
to a narrow stream. Under normal conditions this
stream was only about eighteen to twenty four inches wide, but during
periods of prolonged rain it would flow out of its banks and sometimes
cover the fields in the narrow bottom.
Across the stream was a woven wire fence with a heavy growth of
weeds and vines clinging to it. Beyond the fence
was a cornfield with its dead stalks rattling in the spring wind.
This cornfield ran parallel to the stream with the woven wire
fence along the far stream bank. On the upper side
of this field, which was about a hundred yards wide was a barbed wire
fence in long need of repair with fence posts rotted off and laying
down and others standing at crazy angles with only a strand or two of
rusted barbed wire holding them up. The land beyond
the old fence was a grown up thick tangle of underbrush consisting of
small oak, dogwoods, wild grape vines and a sprinkling if pines of a
stunted nature.
To the east of the den the pasture continued about one hundred
twenty five yards to a new barbed wire fence and across this fence was
a freshly planted oats field. Other fields
continued eastward to where the roofs of the farm buildings could be
seen in the distance.
Looking westward from the den the pasture continued for about a
quarter of a mile which gave way to heavy woods that continued to the
far away hill tops. These distant hills were where
the headwaters of the stream below the den originated.
The pups romped and played in the warm spring sunshine.
White feet and one of his brothers were playing tug of war with
a short stick when Brush came in carrying a rabbit. All
five pups started tugging and pulling at the furry hide to get to the
sweet red meat they knew lay underneath.
Brush layed down on the sandstone by the vixen who was keeping
watch on the young brood.
She
noticed that White Feet was the strongest of the litter and was
learning fast, but there was one of his brothers who had been born with
only a stuff of a tail, and the appropriate name for him would be Stub
Tail.
Stub Tail was the last born of the litter and was also the
smallest.
The pups had eaten as much of the rabbit as they wanted and
resumed their puppy like play. The vixen gathered
up the partially eaten rabbit and started in the direction of the new
oats field. The pups started to follow, but she
stopped and looked back over her shoulder at them. They
seemed to understand that they were not to come along and went back to
their play.
She carried the rabbit about ten yards into the oats field and
selecting a spot she dug a hole in the soft ground large enough to
contain the rabbit carcass. The fresh earth
contained some of the oat seeds, with their pale yellow-green sprouts.
She placed the mutilated carcass in the hole and using her nose,
pushed the fresh dug earth onto the carcass until it was completely
covered.
She
returned to the sandstone and layed beside Brush while the pups
continued their play.
Well after sunset she let the pups to the stream and selected a
place where the stream bank gently sloped to the water’s edge like a
miniature beach and she began lapping the water. White
Feet came up beside her and his first try he put his face in the clear
water all t he way up to his eyes. He stumbled
back, blowing water from his nose and licking it from his face.
The vixen looked at him and he came back and succeeded in
lapping the cool sweet water.
The other pups learned to drink after watching White Feet and
their mother, except Stub Tail who went a few feet farther up stream
where the sand bank was about six inches above the water. He
tried to reach the water as the others were doing but he couldn’t.
He stretched his head and neck down and moved his front feet
closer, the fragile undercut sod gave way and he was floundering in
about three to four inches of water. He quickly
climbed out and shook himself. What a sorry sight a wet fox is.
He looked like a long legged skinny rat.
Back at the den the vixen licked Sub Tail dry and put them all
safely in the deep den for the night.
Chapter 2 - The Hunt
Tonight,
she and Brush would hunt together on the hill north of the den.
They proceeded together for the first quarter mile.
Blackberry
bushes here grew in small patches of three to five yards across and the
clumps of berry bushes were separated by grass with the cattle trails
winding between the clumps.
The two foxes
separated about twenty-five yards apart and very cautiously moved
forward with the night breeze in their faces.
Each berry patch was
checked for game, which might afford food for the pups.
Suddenly the vixen
saw Bush freeze, then he got as low in the pastured grass as he could
get his body and started to stalk toward the thorny berry growth ahead
of him about fifteen yards away. She quietly
circled to the other side of the berry patch that was being stalked by
Brush, there she stopped a few yards from the berry bushes and hunkered
down.
The rabbit that
Brush had smelled but couldn’t see was in the grass between the
protective bushes and Brush. The startled rabbit
made a mad dash for the berry patch with the big fox in hot pursuit.
The rabbit knew
the berry brushes would slow the fox down enough so it could gain a
couple more patches away and hopefully lose the fox. The
rabbit put on a burst of speed as it started to emerge from the clump
about two yards from the vixen. She gauged her
spring and the rabbit’s speed perfectly, her forepaws and mouth pinned
the squealing bunny to the earth. The powerful jaws around the rib cage
of the squirming rabbit quickly put it out of its misery.
While Brush watched,
she pushed the dead rabbit under some dead grass and berry bushes.
This was only temporary and they would pick it up on their
return to the den.
Towards the upper
end of the pasture a spring trickled from under a ledge of limestone
and made a small stream for a few yards, then it disappeared
underground for about a hundred and fifty yards where it reappeared.
The ground between
the disappearance and reappearance of this small rivulet had a lush
growth of long type grass, which had been flattened by winter snows.
Mice
ate on the roots of this grass and even stored some of the bulb like
roots of it in underground caches for winter use.
The pair
of foxes eased onto this grassy mat with ears and eyes alert.
The mice had runways under this layer of dead and matted grass
and they could be heard moving along the hidden runways.
The foxes focused to
catch a movement on of the grass and pounce upon this disturbance.
If the fox was lucky and didn’t miss, a fat mouse would be the
reward.
A lightning like
movement from Brush and a mouse’s faint squeaking could be heard from
under Brush’s front feet. A couple of quick
snaps of his flashing white teeth assured them of a meal for a pup.
After about an hour
of hunting this grassy swale, they cached three mice by an old rotted
log and progressed on east with their hunting.
They entered into a
large field that had not been cultivated for several years.
This field had a covering of standing weeds, dead grass and a
few stray blackberry bushes were starting to take hold.
Both foxes stopped
and stood frozen in their tracks. Their keen noses
told them there was quail on the ground in front of them. The
foxes knew at this time of the year that quail don’t usually congregate
in coveys. It was probably a pair roosting on the
ground in the clump of dead goldenrod about eight yards ahead.
Each fox knew what
to do.
They rushed headlong
towards the dead goldenrod stalks silhouetted against the night sky.
The two quail flushed simultaneously on whirring wings.
The vixen was slightly off stride to the rising bird, and her
white teeth clicked on empty air. Brush leaped when
he spotted the rising bird as it got to the top of the weeds.
His leap carried him a good six feet into the air and about
fifteen feet to the other side of the roosting place of the birds.
When he came down, a few stray feathers lazily followed him to
earth. The vixen knew Brush had succeeded as she
heard the crunch of breaking bones of the quail in his jaws, which
quickly killed the bird. They retraced their route
to where they had cached the mice and the vixen gathered them up.
They continued on in the direction of the hidden rabbit.
Chapter 3 - The Fight
They were about fifty yards from where they had cached the rabbit under
the dead grass and berry bushes when both fox stopped and stood as
still as statues. Brush gently laid the quail by the trailside
and the vixen dropped the three mice.
The hair from their necks to their tail along their back was standing
erect. They kept testing the wind with their noses.
The wind told their noses an enemy, a grey fox, had found their rabbit
and was eating it, as the wind also brought the smell of the fresh meat
of the rabbit to their noses.
This was their domain and Brush had it well marked against all
intruders, but there was one. The pair of fox moved boldly
towards the unseen intruder.
The grey fox’s range was in the higher hills to the west. It had
little game in it at that this time of the year and the few grey fox
that inhabited that area, now ranged far and wide during this time of
the year. Later in the season there would be lots of fruits and
berries to sustain them.
The grey fox had found where the pair of red fox had cached the rabbit
and immediately went to eating it. The grey fox’s hunger was
great, and it knew the chance it was taking and kept a keen ear and its
sharp eyes watching for the owners of the rabbit.
Brush heard the crunching of bones and knew the feasting grey fox was
only a few yards dwon the cattle trail on the other side of the briar
patch. He rushed boldly headlong towards the sounds of the thief
with the vixen at his side.
The grey fox saw the assailants rushing in on him and he dove headlong
into the briar patch.
The grey fox is shorter legged than the red fox and is more accustomed
to heavy cover, in which it spends much of its life. It can go
through heavy briars and weed cover somewhat faster than the red
fox. However, on clear open ground, the red fox will quickly
outdistance the grey fox.
The grey fox knew his only escape was to keep to the patches of
protective back berry clumps and while the reds were going around them,
the grey fox hoped to gain the next clump of thorny growth.
The powerful strides of the big red male, as he covered the grassy
pasture, was no match for the grey fox, and Brush caught him as he was
coming out of the third briar patch.
The red fox’s sharp teeth sank into the hip of the dodging grey
fox. They both went tumbling end over end in a flash of red,
white and grey fur.
The grey fox twisted around and sank his teeth into the meaty part of
the neck behind the ear of the red fox, then again on his cheek and got
a good bite on his black nose. The big red fox still hung on the
hip till that stinging bite on his sensitive nose caused him to release
the hold on the grey fox.
A red fox will bite and hold on, while a grey will snap several times
in quick succession.
By this time the vixen was at the scene and she joined forces with her
mate. She timed her jump so she would land a couple of feet short
of the grey fox and let her front legs fold back under her so she would
slide into the enemy with her mouth open wide. She would close
her powerful jaws in a vise like grip on the grey’s soft
underside. The grey fox didn’t see her coming and she had the
grey fox’s front leg high behind the elbow joint in her strong jaws.
What a squalling, snarling snapping scrap this was. The grey fox
knew he was fighting for his life and put all his ability into
escaping. As soon as he would get one red fox to let go, the
other would have a new hold on him.
One time he was free of both of them and darted into the sanctuary of a
nearby briar patch. The vixen went into the briar patch on his
heels and Brush circled the patch quickly to ambush the grey when he
emerged.
Luck was with the try fox as this briar
patch had an old abandoned broundhog hole in it.
His small size let him squeeze into it,
and the reds at once knew they couldn’t dislodge the gray
intruder. And neither of the reds were willing to go into the
hole and face those quick snapping teeth of the grey fox.
The pair of red foxes sat on the edge
of the briar patch and licked their lacerations and disarrayed fur.
After a while Brush retrieved the quail
and three mice, which were laid aside before the encounter with the
grey fox. He carried them to where his mate was keeping watch on
the hole where the grey marauder was last seen.
They rested awhile longer hoping the
grey fox would attempt to come out, but they left in the direction of
their responsibilities. Brush carried the three mice and the
quail and his mate carried the partly devoured rabbit.
Upon reaching the oats field adjacent
to the den, the vixen buried the remains of the rabbit. Brush
then carried the remaining spoils of the night’s hunt to the den in the
stony, overgrown clump with the gnarled old oak standing in the
middle.
The vixen poked her head inside the den
entrance and let out a few low whines. Soon five brown furry
hungry pups were eating their breakfast in the light of a new day.
Brush layed on the outcropping of sandstone and rested till midday,
then informed his mate he would see what happened to the grey
fox. He soon disappeared in the direction of the big fight.
Brush stalked the retreat of
the grey fox from the downwind side and found the faint trail of the
grey fox going westward towards the high hills.
He followed the trail with his
nose to the edge of his “staked out domain”. There he left his
droppings on a small decaying pine stump a couple of inches high, and
from about a yard away scratched grass and dirt in the direction of the
pine stump boundary marker. Brush had these markers through out
his range and any fox coming into his domain trespassed at their own
risk.
The pups quickly
ate the mice and what they wanted of the quail. Afterward, they
played with the wings of the bird. Their favorite game was
tug-of-war, which always ended with a pup sitting on his haunches with
a feather or two in his mouth, which had let go and sent him sprawling.
The vixen led the pups to the
stream to drink. It was rather a joyous, playful happening, but
the old female kept a constant vigil because she knew the perils of
life.
They were on their way back from
the stream to the den when the old fox stopped and her black ears stood
erect. With her nose twitching, she quickly ushered the small
pups into the den.
The farmer had taken a stroll with
his constant companion, a black and brown, longhaired heavy bodied dog
of a mixed breed. The dog’s features seemed to favor a
collie more than any other.
The farmer had come to inspect the
oats field and to see if the ground was dry enough to plow the
cornfield across the small stream.
The vixen watched
the progress of the bib-overhauled man and dog amble along the fence
separating the pasture from the oats field, and she felt an
apprehension of fear for her pups. She kept low in the weeds and
broomsedge of the pasture, crossed the stream in a low hurdle and
exposed herself in the old cornfield.
The dog was quick
to see her and with shouts of “Sic’m Shep”, the man urged the dog after
the fox.
The dog “sight
chased” the fox to the lower end of the cornfield and then attempted to
trail her in the thicket, but she was schooled in throwing would be
trailers off the track, and the dog returned after awhile with its
tongue hanging and sides heaving.
The farmer patted the dog’s head
and said, “We don’t want none of those dang chicken thieves around this
place.”
She watched them return in the
direction of the shiny rooftops of the distant farm buildings.
Low ominous clouds rose on the
horizon as she angled across the old cornfield toward the
den.
She tested the wind with her nose
and knew a big rain was in the making. It started as a few drops
spattering on the dead leaves and the tempo gradually increased until a
full-fledged early spring rainstorm was washing the countryside.
Dawn came and the rain did not slacken.
The stream was
starting to overflow its banks and inundate the fields in the narrow
bottom.
About midday Brush returned with a
grouse, which was quickly devoured by the hungry pups inside the
den. The inclement weather put a halt to all hunting.
The next day the rain slackened a
little but didn’t stop; hungry mouths still must be fed.
The vixen went to the oats field
and dug up the first rabbit carcass and carried it into the den.
At first the pups didn’t like the aging smell of it, but then their
hungry stomachs overtook their aversion. The pups soon made short
work of it and all that remained was bits of fur and furry feet of the
rabbit on the den floor.
The rain still kept coming down
and the mother fox started to be concerned for the pups.
She knew about the remaining rabbit buried in the oats field, but
suppose this rain kept up for several more days.
She went outside
the den and gathered the dripping wet remains of all the field mice,
grouse, rabbits and other parts of discarded food and carried it to the
hungry pups. Food disappeared quickly when there were five hungry
mouths to feed.
Brush never came
into the den but took shelter under the sandstone outcropping.
Morning came with the rain still
falling. The mother fox went to the oats field and dug the last
rabbit from the muddy ground. She noticed the green sprouts of
oats starting to show through the sodden earth.
Once again the pups hungrily ate
their daily meal.
Brush could feel the uneasiness of
his mate and trotted off toward the east soon disappearing in the gray
falling rain. He went in the direction of the farm buildings now
hidden from view by the misty rain.
The rain made miniature lakes in
the low-lying fields and the wet fox followed a fencerow, which would
take him within a hundred and twenty five yards of the
outbuildings. He could watch and remain hidden from this vantage
point.
He stopped under some budding
dogwoods growing along the fencerow and watched the white buildings
across the field. A few cows in the fenced in lot behind the barn
stood in the rain chewing their cud. In the barn a young calf
bawled from time to time and was answered by an almost all white cow in
the lot.
Assorted farm machinery stood
outside the barn and the big white house with green shutters stood
across the gravel road from the white farm buildings.
The big black and brown dog moved
off the back porch and disappeared under the porch steps.
A couple hours had slipped by and
the only movement Brush had seen was the cows and the dog. His
ears could make out the sounds of clucking chickens, but he couldn’t
see them.
He moved from under the dripping
dogwoods and went farther along the fencerow to where a rather large
wild cherry tree leaned out over the field. He stopped beneath
the leaning trunk of the wild cherry tree and took what protection it
offered from the falling rain and dripping branches.
The big barn with a tall silo by
its side was flanked on the right by an open fronted machinery shed
protecting the contents from the elements. There was other
machinery sitting around outside. On the left of the barn was a
long rather low building with fine mesh wire fastened to the outside of
the windows.
Brush was downwind from the barn
and what his eyes and ears didn’t tell him, his keen nose did.
The damp air moving across the
field brought the smell of the barnyard, stored hay, oily machinery and
the mouth-watering smell of chickens.
Presently the farmer came out onto
the back porch wearing a raincoat. As he started down the porch
steps, the dog came out from under the steps and followed the farmer
into the barn. A barn door opened to the cow lot and the wet
black and white cows went into the barn. After the last cow
entered the barn, the door closed.
Soon the man went to the other low
long building with the fine mesh wire over the windows. When the
farmer opened the door to this building the sound of chickens could be
distinctly heard and the sound quickly stopped when the door closed
with the dog standing outside in the light misty rain. A few
minutes later the farmer emerged from the chicken house carrying a wire
basket of eggs to the big white house across the gravel road with the
dog leading the way. Immediately after arriving at the house the
dog disappeared under the steps.
Soon the windows of the house
showed lights being turned on, as darkness approached on this overcast
day.
The fox cautiously moved from
under the leaning wild cherry tree and he stealthily made his way
across the open field towards the barn. He took protection under
a dripping hay loader and surveyed the area ahead.
The machinery shed
was on his right and the big barn and silo lay straight ahead. He
could move toward the barn and it would screen his movements from
hostile eyes in the house.
The chicken house
was his goal and it stood some thirty yards to the left of the
barn. He moved around an old mowing machine and slid under the
board fence, which surrounded the cow lot, and now could hear the big
animals inside the barn munching hay. The new calf had ceased its
bawling.
He stopped by the
manure pile by the side of the barn to reconnoiter the route to the
chicken house when the air current coming around the corner of the barn
carried something to his nose, which spelled food.
He looked the manure pile over and
boldly climbed to the top of the four-foot high pile. His nose
found what he was looking for laying on the side of the manure pile
among the trampled hay. It was the afterbirth from the cow when
her new calf was born. The farmer had discarded it here during
the daily cleaning chores of the barn. Brush tugged it free of
the trampled hay where it lay entwined and carried it back over his
route to the hay loader.
It was now almost
dark and the rain was still falling. He looked toward the house
and there was no action there, a glance toward the barn and all was
clear. He then proceeded to the fencerow and on back across the
soggy fields to the den.
The vixen was pleased
that she had found something for the pups, but they only ate a portion
of it. The rest was cached for later.
The morning brought clear skies and warm sunshine. Everything
seemed to turn green at once.
In a few days the forming buds on the trees
put forth their fragile green, soft leaves. The new green blades
of grass were pushing through last year’s dead brown grass. The
stream receded to it’s normal level, and small birds seemed to be
everywhere in the fields, woods and brushland.
The pups were losing their fuzzy brown
appearance and their legs seemed to grow longer than necessary for such
a small body.
As the warming spring days passed, the
pup’s playground in the immediate area of the den became warm, smooth
and littered with the remnants of fur and feathers of small animals and
birds, which the parents kept daily bringing to the ever hungry pups.
The dogwoods were ready to burst into bloom
and the apple, pear, peach and cheery trees had their pink-white
dresses on. The wild strawberries and back raspberries were in
bloom. The vixen made a mental note of these berry blossoms,
because when they ripen, she will take the young foxes to feast on the
juicy fruits of these plants.
Her glossy orange-red fur has now become
rather ragged looking and has patches of blue-gray underfur showing
through.
This was caused by the annual shedding and
the hard work of obtaining food in the thick weeds and underbrush to
feed the pups.
She now has the pups almost weaned and
soon, she and Brush will take them on short hunts.
The pups are now going to the stream for
water unattended and are ranging about a hundred yards from the den.
The pair of red fox hunt almost twenty four
hours a day to keep the hungry pups fed. Sometimes they hunted
together and sometimes they went different directions.
Brush checked the gravel road each morning
where three miles of it meanders through “his domain” to see what road
kills can easily be picked up. He must make this check between
dawn and sunup as other animals, such as crows, hawks, buzzards and
stray dogs also know about the easy pickings on the roadway. The
road kills are mostly rabbits, skunks and groundhogs, which help to
make up the menu here.
Once a large truck hit a small doe deer,
and the dual wheels on the back of the truck mangled the deer’s
chest. The force of the collision caused the carcass to be hurled
into a weed and brush choked ravine just off the roadway and out of
sight of passing motorists. Brush found it with his nose and he
managed to tear and chew a mangled front quarter from the
carcass. The front quarter was everything from the hoof to and
including the shoulder blade.
This is big haul for a fox to carry, but he
had no way of getting it any smaller. When moving the quarter, he
was partially dragging and partly carrying it. During this
endeavor, a passenger in a passing pickup saw the fox.
The truck stopped and the occupants got out
to see what the fox was laboriously dragging. The shutting of the
truck door alerted the fox and he bolted away to the safety of a brushy
fencerow at the side of a field. One of the occupants retrieved
the deer quarter the fox had dropped and put it in the bed of the
pickup. This incident caused a story to be circulated in the area
about foxes killing deer, and the evidence was lying in the bed of the
pickup truck.
Brush returned to the deer carcass later
that day, but a couple of stray dogs had laid claim to it and were
sleeping off a big feed a few yards from the mangled deer
carcass. Brush dismissed it from his mind and went on across a
pasture that had just had a herd of sheep turned out in it.
They were mostly ewes and new lambs.
In the middle of this pasture is an old weather beaten barn standing
there alone. It is known by the owner as the “sheep barn”.
Here the ewes are kept during lambing time until they can be turned out
to the new spring grass. In the process of lambing, the farmer or
hired hand looks after the newborn lambs, as this is a critical time in
their life.
A few die at birth and some a few days
later, either through accidental or natural causes. The dead
lambs are tossed out on the manure pile to be disposed of later.
The nose of the big fox smelled the
carcasses of dead lambs coming from the area of the sheep barn.
He circled the barn at a safe distance and
his eyes, ears and nose couldn’t detect any presence of dog or
man. He started looking for the dead lambs. He found
two lying beside the manure pile and snatched one up, then carried it
to the den.
He arrived at the den the same time as his
mate did, and she had two crows that had fallen victim to some farmer’s
shotgun.
Brush returned to the sheep barn later that night and brought in the
other dead lamb.
Chapter 6 - Time to
Move
As she topped the last brushy rise, she could hear a tractor working and the sound of it was coming from close to the area of where the den was located. She quickly hid the grouse and eased to the edge of the cornfield by the old broken down fence on the upper side of the field.
The old cornfield was being plowed with the farmer riding the big red tractor and a black and brown dog was trotting along behind the plows.
Black birds and an occasional robin were alighting in the freshly turned furrow to collect any earthworms or other morsels, which the plows turned up.
The female laid at the upper side of the field under a hawthorn brush and watched the dog, man and tractor go back and forth the length of the field. With each pass, the wind brought the smell of the exhaust, gasoline and hot oil from the tractor. It also brought the smell of the man and his dog along with the damp rich smell of the new earth being turned over.
A movement at the fence by the stream caught her eyes and her two black ears stood erect. It was two of the pups playing by the fence. The tractor, man and dog would pass by them at lest than fifty yards.
She knew the wind would give the pups presence away to the dog. If only they would go back to the den where they would be safe.
As the tractor neared the end of the field, the dog stopped, put his nose in the air and stood looking intently in the direction of the stream. He started trotting stiff-legged with his nose still in the air towards the fence by the stream.
The tractor was now nearing the end of the field where it would turn to lay over two more furrows in the opposite direction. The man looked back at the plows so he could raise them at the proper time, and noticed the dog was not in his customary place behind the plows. The man glanced out across the freshly plowed ground and didn’t see the dog. He then looked toward the fence and saw the dog trotting stiff-legged toward the fence by the stream. The farmer knew the dog had winded something so he pushed in the tractor’s clutch, and put the gear shift lever in neutral to watch what would happen.
Everything seemed to happen at once. The pups saw the black and brown animal approaching them and their instinct told them this was danger. They wheeled and bounded through the fence and across the stream, on up the slight rise to the old gnarled oak to safety.
The dog saw them when they went though the fence and started barking and running in fast pursuit. The mesh of the woven wire fence was large enough to let the foxes through, but the dog was too big to go through and had to go about ten yards along the fence to where a wash from the field had cut its way under the wire mesh. The dog passed through the opening, barking all the while.
The farmer stood up from his seat on the tractor when the dog started barking and saw the two foxes as they leaped across the narrow stream and on to disappear into the overgrown clump in the pasture.
The dog entered this brushy clump about four jumps behind the young foxes as they vanished into their den by the sandstone.
The dog barked furiously and dug among the hindering roots and stones when the bib-overalled farmer arrived on the scene. He reached the dog and said to him, “So this is where they have their den”.
The farmer took a plug of tobacco from his shirt pocket and cut off a chew all the while his eyes were taking in the poultry feathers, lamb wool and fur of different animals scattered about the area. Then he exclaimed to the dog that these chicken and lamb killers have to be eliminated before theyeatus out of house and home.
He let go a stream of brown tobacco juice from time to time.
“We’ll get John and his hounds over here to catch these foxes and rid us of them”, he said as he started back in the direction of the idling tractor and coaxed the dog to come along. The big black and brown dog followed reluctantly, every now and then stopping to look back in the direction of the old oak and he whined. The man said a few words to the dog and climbed on the tractor and finished plowing the field.
The vixen saw the man, dog and tractor go through the gate at the lower end of the plowed field and disappear in the direction of the farm buildings.
It was almost dark when she retrieved the hidden grouse, widely circled the plowed field, and crossed the small stream.
Upon reaching the den, she could smell where the dog had dug at the main entrance and the foul smelling tobacco juice from the man. There were the man’s boot tracks in the fresh dirt dug by the dog. All this made the hair along her back stand up.
She went above the oak, poked her head into a concealed back entrance and gave a low pitched whine. Soon there were five hungry pups eating their supper from the grouse.
While the pups ate, she went to the east side of the protective clump and watched in the direction of the farm buildings. She had encounters with man and dogs before and she knew to keep them at a safe distance.
The den had been found and she knew the man would be back, so she decided it was time to move. When Brush returned, he could follow their trail to the new den.
She knew of an old log barn that had fallen down and groundhogs had long ago excavated their den under the cut stone foundation of the old barn. She wished Brush were here to help her move the pups. It was about two miles to the old barn and she figured it would take most of the night to get there. The pups were small yet, but it had to be done. She knew she would have to be extra careful as the pups couldn’t run fast or far in case a dog was encountered. The fear of man at night did not bother her. But there was a gravel road to be crossed, and fast moving things went along it sometimes with two bright lights. These fast moving things smelled of gasoline, exhaust, hot oil and always the man smell was associated with it.
She made the trip alone across the stream and under the fence, then across the freshly plowed field to where she had lain and watched the excitement a few hours ago.
She went back to the den and headed all five pups along this route and hid them under the protecting branches of a fallen maple while she checked out the route to the gravel road. If only Brush was here to help with the moving of the small pups. One could check the route and the other could always be with the pups.
She returned to the fallen maple and moved the pups within a dozen or so yards of the gravel road and hid them under a hawthorn bush with its lower branches touching the greening sod.
She then checked the road from a high bank for lights and listened for the roaring sounds vehicles make. She then bounded across the road and through a fence into an old cornfield not yet plowed. The wind rustled some of the dry stalks and husks, which momentarily startled her.
A moon had started to rise and its gray light made dark shadows along the edge of the big woods by the old cornfield.
Back to the hawthorn bush she went and quickly moved the pups across the gravel road without incident. Then they went into the cornfield with its dead and dry rattling stalks, and on through the cornfield to its edge by the big woods.
There she deposited the pups in a weed choked corner of an old rail fence. From here she planned to reconnoiter the route all the way to the old fallen down log barn, which lay on the other side of this big woods.
She had hunted with Brush in this area a few times and remembered the fields were on the top of this ridge. She would rather travel in the fields with the small pups than through the woods with its blow downs, sticks, logs, and especially she didn’t like the noise the dry dead leaves would make underfoot with five inexperienced tired pups. It would also be easier walking and keeping the pups together along the edge of the open fields. She went all the way to the old barn and the groundhog hole would need enlarged, but she could put them under the fallen timbers for now until the digging was done.
On her way back to the pups, she noticed the last open stretch they would cross was just plowed within the last couple of days. The last furrow the plow made would act as a guideline to the old barn which lay in its sprawled position about two hundred yards through a growth of heavy weeds and underbrush.
The pups were all asleep in a tight huddle in the rail fence corner when she returned to them. She woke them and moved them along the longest leg of their journey to their new home.
Her legs stopped in mid-stride and her senses were keyed up. She heard something she dreaded. It sounded like hounds. The pups were moving around in the dry grass and leaves at the edge of the field and their unintentional noise hindered her keen ears.
She ran about fifteen long bounds and sprang lightly upon an anthill. This put her away from the pup’s noise and being about eighteen inches higher afforded a better field of view and an advantage for listening. There it was again off to the west. It was the baying of hounds, but they were far away and she dismissed them for now.
Stub Tail, the smallest, was showing signs of tiring, and kept lagging behind. The vixen had to go back and nose it along to keep it with the group.
They crossed the meadow at the end of the rattling corn stalks, then through a low damp weed grown bottom, and then there was the freshly plowed field with the last furrow acting as a guide line for a foot path towards the old barn.
This plowed field was over a half mile long with a fence along the upper side. They wouldn’t cross this fence, but on the other side of this weed covered wire was first a pasture field, then a block of woods and last was a field of new oats with its green tender blades showing through the brown dirt.
They started down the furrow single file and after about a hundred yards, Stub Tail laid down in the cool moist furrow to rest. The rest of the group traveled about twenty-five yards and the old female missed him. She went back in to uncertain terms persuaded the little one to join the other four sitting on their haunches waiting.
The pasture on the other side of the fence looked silvery with the dew on the grass in the moonlight, and the block of tall woods beside it resembled a black void by contrast.
The vixen now was behind the litter and urging them on. She knew they were tiring, but just a little while longer and they should reach the old barn before dawn.
She trotted ahead a few hundred yards to check for danger and when she returned to the pups, they had hardly went any farther than when she had left them. They lay in a huddle in the bottom of the furrow asleep. She woke them and got them started along the furrow again. Now she was alternating between urging them along and trotting ahead to check the route for danger. The procession of foxes was passing the dark black of woods with the old one leading the way when a cry of pain from one of the pups broke the night stillness. The vixen whirled to face the danger and overhead, just out of jumping reach, was a great horned owl with one set of sharp talons in Stub Tail’s back and the other set of talons clasped over the top of his head. The powerful silent wings lifted the squalling pup p and over the high treetops. The vixen charged through the fence and into the woods in the direction the owl had flown.
The pup’s cries were fast diminishing in the distance. The old female returned to the four remaining pups. They were shaking with fright. She had no trouble keeping them moving to within fifty yards of the barn where she hid them in a patch of elderberry bushes.
Then she circled the barn with all senses alert for danger.
Satisfied all was well, she led the pups through the fallen timbers to the horse stalls. A few planks by the manger had been taken out long ago, which left a place to enter under the plank floor and provided temporary safety for the pups.
The pups were soon all curled up next to a hewed floor joist and slept the sleep of exhaustion.
The vixen then went outside to the foundation and started to enlarge the entrance of the old abandoned groundhog hole. The dirt was very easy digging, just what had fallen in from the freezing and thawing of winter. As soon as it went under the cut stone foundation, the tunnel turned at a right angle and followed the foundation wall for about eight feet. Then the tunnel made a shallow angle upward and here it led two ways. The one led to a hollowed out chamber, which had a layer of dry grass and leaves on the floor. The other way led slightly upward about ten feet and the tunnel was blocked by a large piece of seasoned log. But she detected cool fresh air entering on the bottom side of the wood and the air smelled of old hay and decaying manure.
She started digging and soon squirmed out from under the log to find herself in the middle of the fallen timbers of the barn. The log had fallen from the barn walls long ago and fell across the inside entrance to the old groundhog hole. This entrance was well concealed, because it was under the jumble of the other logs, planks and rafters in the different stages of decay that had fallen as the barn had slowly fallen down over the years.
The sun was coming up when she climbed over the ramparts of the barn and into the horse stalls where she awakened the four pups and led them to the underground sanctuary of the grass lined chamber.
She had left several carcasses buried in the oats field by the old den and wished she had them now to feed her hungry pups. But she didn’t want to return to that evil smelling place.
She went to the top of the hill behind the old barn in quest of food for the pups and off to the north she could hear the baying of hounds. They sounded far away so she gave the sound to more notice.
Chapter 7 - The Chase
Brush came in from the north to the den by the old oak carrying a new born lamb which was deposited on a freshly manured field by a tractor drawn manure spreader. As soon as he entered the clump that contained the den, he knew something was amiss. He circled and found the trail of the vixen and pups and their trail headed south. He went back to the den and could smell where the dog and man had been. Now he knew why his family had abandoned this place.
He ate part of the lamb just as the sun was starting to rise and was planning to bury the rest of the lamb carcass. Suddenly his keen ears heard noises of men.
The sound of their talking was coming from the east. He eased from the cover of the clump and went up the gentle rise of the pasture so he could be down wind and at a higher elevation. From here he could observe what was happening. Also what his eyes and ears didn’t pick up, his nose would.
The men were coming across the oats field and had several dogs on leshes. They crossed the fence and headed straight into the clump.
At once some of the dogs started barking and baying.
The men saw the partially eaten lamb and assumed the lamb killer lived here.
Some of the dogs were unleashed and the hounds quickly found the fresh trail of the big red fox and left on the trail in a barking, howling frenzy.
Brush heard and saw it all happening. He knew not to head south, in the direction his mate had taken the young foxes.
Up the gentle sloped hill he went, past the place where the fight with the grey fox had taken place, on along the edge of the big woods to the outer limits of his domain.
There he swung east along a ridge top and the land sloped away to gently rolling farm fields and fencerows. He was running easily, but wasn’t gaining any appreciable amount on his loud-mouthed pursuers, who were about three fields behind.
He angled along a fencerow, which would intercept the familiar stretch of gravel road.
A speeding bullet with the sound of a mad bee buzzed a few inches over his head and smashed into the heavy growth along the fencerow.
The report of the gun then came from the vicinity of the gravel road.
His reflexes caused him to leap to the side and he redoubled his efforts going through the fence and bounding northeast across a newly planted cornfield.
Another bullet kicked up a small geyser of dirt a foot or so behind him and it whined off into oblivion. Again the gun report came from the vicinity of the gravel road.
He thought he was running fast before the second bullet came his way, but now he was really stretching out with his white tipped tail seeming to float behind him, and his belly fur was almost touching the brown dirt of the field between each bounding spring.
He reached the sanctuary of a brushy fencerow with a sheep pasture on the other side. He went through the fencerow then went along it on the pasture side. Now he entered the brushy fencerow again to have a look in the direction of the loud sounding gun.
The pursuing dogs had not yet come to the place where he was shot at.
The shouting of men by the roadside attracted his attention and he could see them unloading other dogs from the big box on the back of a hidden pickup truck. The men quickly led the fresh dogs to the place where he had gone through the fence.
The fresh hounds took up the trail and were rushing across the freshly planted cornfield. The big fox nearly flew across the sheep pasture and on through a large tract of woods. He knew beyond this large stand of hardwoods was a big pasture, which contained Hereford cows with their new calves.
He planned to mix his trail with those of the cattle so he could get a rest and catch his breath while the dogs unraveled his trail. The fox was among the grazing cattle before they realized an intruder was among them. He ran straight through the herd and then circled back and in doing so was charged by a wild-eyed cow with pounding hooves. Brush deftly sidestepped the charge but other cows were coming after him, which he eluded and bounded off in the direction of a small knoll with some trees on it where he could catch his breath. The knoll was about two hundred yards away from the angry herd.
What Brush did not know was when cattle are turned out on the range they don’t like to have their calves molested and will promptly chase off any dog or similar intruder.
He sat on his haunches in the shade on the breezy knoll and could hear the baying hounds coming to the edge of the big woods and saw them enter the pasture.
The already alerted and angry cows heard the pack of four dogs coming and as soon as they were in sight the cows gave chase to the oncoming dogs.
The baying dogs, with their noses close to the ground and had only the scent trail of the fox on their minds. Soon they were among the pounding hooves and lowered heads with red-rimmed eyes and snorting hot bovine breath.
The lead dog, a rather rangy long legged black and white Walker managed to dodge the angry cows by cutting wide around the rushing herd.
The next dog, a young pup startled by the on rushing cows, managed to move aside from one only to be butted end over end by another. The battered gyp quickly scrambled back through the fence where she had entered the field.
This was a real show for Brush sitting on his haunches under the trees in the shade catching his breath.
Cows were bawling and running wildly to chase the dogs.
The dogs were trying to stay clear of the angry, rushing, bawling cows.
Calves standing still but shaking with fright and bawling for their mothers added to the frenzy of the cows.
The dogs would cross the trail of the fox and bay only to be harassed off the broken trail by the rushing cows.
The big rangy walker circled wide and picked up the trail of the fox, and by the sound of his far ranging voice, the other two dogs knew that the big Walker had found where the fox had left and rushed to join the chase. The young gyp went in the pack that headed in the direction of the tree-covered knoll.
Brush saw everything taking place from his vantage place and now he had a plan to go across a few fields to where a black top road angled across the corner of his domain.
He knew when he hunted in the vicinity of this black harsh smelling road that if a rabbit ran across or along the smooth black surface that his nose could not pick up the trail. Even when he saw the rabbit go up the bank on the other side of the road and into the weeds, his nose couldn’t pick up the scent for some time.
He came near the black top road, and on a high bank above it he scrambled down the loose shaley bank to the smooth black surface.
He started trotting up the center of the road. He knew of a culvert of about fourteen inches in diameter that ran under the black road. He planned to enter this culvert on the lower side of the road and come out on the upper side and climb the high bank to watch the dogs try to unravel the trail.
Just beyond the bend ahead about fifty yards was the culvert and he angled over to the side of the roadway where he would enter the culvert. As he left the hard black top and was trotting along the loose gravelly shoulder of the road, a hi-powered rifle bullet plowed into the loose gravel a foot in front of him. The flying small stones stung him on the legs, neck and face. They pelted him with such force that it knocked him off his feet. He quickly scrambled down over the road bank and through an old rail fence. He ran like he thought he never could. The elusive tactic with the culvert was quickly forgotten as he raced through the pastured timberland.
He tasted blood in his mouth and his tongue found where a pebble had struck him on the upper lip and put a small cut there.
This wooded pasture rose slowly to the timbered ridges on the skyline and he headed that way.
He stopped to catch his breath and could hear the shouts of voices. They were saying, “I hit him, bring the pick up here so we can get those rested dogs on his track.”
The rifle toting man examined the place where the rifle bullet had dislodged the gravel.
The truck stopped beside him and he used the rifle as a pointer and said, “He went over the bank here and through that rail fence.”
“Look, there’s a couple of drops of blood on that lower rail,” and he excitedly continued, “See, I knew I hit him.”
The fresh and rested dogs took up the chase from the rail fence and an occasional drop of blood on the trail urged them on even faster.
The fox knew he had tough adversaries to lose.
He reasoned to stay away from all roads when being chased by dogs.
Of course the fox couldn’t know all this was being worked against him.
The hunters would listen to the voices of the dogs and determine the direction the chase was going. Then the hunters, guns and spare dogs would travel by vehicle around large tracts of land to try and intercept the fox as he would attempt to cross a road they had under surveillance.
The tiring fox went to the high timbered ridges where he remembered where a hillside was completely strewn with large boulders. He knew if he could lay a trail on the hard surface of those large rounded boulders it would at least slow down the pack of dogs.
He put on a burst of speed and landed on top of the first rounded boulder about four feet high and his momentum carried him to the second one about six feet away and over six feet off the ground. He cocked his head to one side to listen and tried to determine how far away the baying hounds were. He estimated he had about ten minutes before they reached this boulder studded hillside. He leaped to the next one, a good twelve feet away only slightly lower and he continued to a place where he had to jump to the ground. He ran a small circle around a couple of boulders and bounded upon another, all the while working his way along the hillside to a steep sided ravine which topped out on the ridge with towering oak, maple and lesser hardwoods.
Among the gray and yellow boulders grew trees and shrubs that could be called stunted because of the poor soil conditions of this particular area. There were also some laurel, blueberry and other brushy plants.
When he reached the end of the boulders, he dropped lightly to the ground and trotted along the side of the steep walled ravine to its top on the ridge.
From the upper end of the ravine, the fox followed the sounds of the baying hounds with his ears and could tell when they had entered the boulder-covered hillside. Now there were only occasional barks and very little baying from the dogs. When they did bark, it seemed as if they were not together. They were baffled as to where the big red fox’s trail went.
He moved off to the west across the next ridge was out of his domain, and he didn’t relish having to run in unfamiliar territory. He moved along the ridge but not on the very top as he could be silhouetted against the sky there.
The forest plants grew in abundance on this ridge there was the soft velvet green of the heart shaped wild ginger leaves, the blood root with its lighter green scalloped edged leaves, the lacey sweet anise, may apple growing in large patches with its leaves having almost a waxy appearance. There were also a few laurel bushes with their leaves like green leather.
An air current brought him a smell, which caused him to freeze in his tracks. He smelled grey fox and it was fairly fresh. He stood and used all his senses to see, smell or hear the new smell. He moved along slowly and found a trail of the grey fox, and it was only minutes old. Brush started following the trail left by the grey fox, more out of curiosity than anything else. He kept looking in the direction of where he had last heard the dogs and they seemed to still be on the bolder covered hillside.
Here was a pile of damp reddish decayed rotten wood dug from under an old stump where the grey fox had dug out a nest of mice. Soon he saw the grey working among some old logs that had not been taken to the sawmill when the timber in this area was cut long ago.
Brush watched the grey fox start to dig under a half rotted log and assumed he had found another mouse nest.
One of the hounds started baying in earnest and his voice was quickly joined by others as they headed up the ravine towards the ridge top.
Brush knew they had found where he had left the boulder complex. He felt rested now and decided to go northward as there were no roads in that direction and the general terrain was rough, which would work in his favor.
The dogs followed Brush’s trail to where it mingled with that of the grey fox. There the dogs split up, with some on the trail of Brush and the rest on the trail of the grey fox.
The grey fox was busily digging under a large partly rotted log to excavate a mouse next along with its inhabitants. The digging fox had a hole big enough to accommodate his head neck and shoulder. He could hear the frantic stirrings in the dry nest a few inches in front of his digging paws. He had his ears laid back tight against his head to keep the loose dirt from getting in them.
All this dulled the senses of the mouse hunter. Suddenly he heard the dogs and quickly backed out of the hole, there were two big hounds only about four jumps away. The alarmed fox jumped over the log and was off like a grey streak.
This prompted the two hounds upon seeing the fox to really let out with frenzied barking.
It was their way of telling the rest of the pack, “Here he is, we have him in sight, come on and join the chase.”
The other dogs that were on the trail of the red fox heard the invitation and interpreted what it meant, they didn’t need coaxing to get into a sight chase.
The grey fox dodged around trees, logs and brush with the two barking hounds only a few jumps behind.
The pursued grey fox knew of an underground sanctuary where he had weathered out a harsh storm last winter. A large shell bark hickory tree had been uprooted years ago and it lay about a hundred and fifty yards ahead. He could hear the dogs coming fast now that they were clear of the laurel and they sounded louder, but how was he to know they had doubled in number.
The tiring grey fox could now see the light brown dirt that the old hickory’s roots held above the floor of the woods and the big dead limbs standing out from the prone trunk twigless and leafless.
The hole under the roots was partially plugged with dirt and wind blown leaves. He scratched away the loose leaves and squirmed into the coal blackness as the clicking white teeth of the lead dog snapped at the fast disappearing grey and black tail.
The hole angled down for three feet, then leveled off and made a slow turn to the left for about four more feet, then the passageway went slightly upward another three feet and ended in a hollowed out cavity about one foot high, two feet wide and two feet long. There was no other exit.
The panting grey fox could hear the dogs digging and barking at the den entrance but he felt rather safe. He hoped they would tire after a while and leave.
The hunters knew their dogs. The different sounds of baying and barking means different things.
The hunters knew a “sight chase” was on when the dogs came upon the grey fox while digging for mice. Now the voices of the dogs say, “ we have him cornered, come help us get him.”
Soon two men came upon the scene of the barking and digging dogs.
One was about eighteen, wore Levis tucked in high leather boots, a faded checkered flannel shirt and he carried a rifle.
The other was about forty-five, wore bib overhalls and a blue shirt with cowboy type boots crushing the leafy carpet of the woods with each step. He also had a plump round red face. The exertion of getting to the dogs caused him to wheeze and blow like a steam engine.
The red faced man talked to the younger man and assured him that the fox could be dug out in a couple of hours.
He instructed the younger man to get the rest of the hunters and to bring a shovel, axe and mattock.
The younger man returned with two other men with the assorted tools and two six packs to quench the thirst of the coming labor.
A shirt was taken off and the area close around the den is cleared of all interfering brush and vines by the shirtless ax swinger.
The mattock took the mellow topsoil and cut through the harassing roots above the underground hideaway of what the hunters think is the big red fox.
Soon one of the hunters was standing in the excavation about eighteen inches wide and three feet deep. This small trench was following the hole and it went underground.
A slender stick of less than an inch in diameter and about five feet long was pushed into the hole to find which way it led. Then digging was resumed in the direction indicated by the slender “feeler rod”.
The men took turns with the mattock and shovel. The anxious dogs were held back out of the way. The mattock wielder dug until he got all the hard dirt and roots cut loose, then the shoveler took over and removed the loose dirt, stones and cut up roots.
At the bottom was the slowly diminishing passageway to the fox.
It was cleaned out and the “feeler rod” was again poked back into the passageway to determine which way the mattock is to dig in the next round.
The dogs were put into the lengthening trench from time to time, the smell of the fox was stronger as they got closer with each round of digging. The dogs had to be forcibly dragged out of the way so the digging could be resumed.
The red-faced man was pushing the “feeler rod” back into the passageway and the end of the rod jabbed the grey fox. The fox sank his teeth into the tormenting stick and bit it. This was relayed down the “feeling rod” much like a nibble is felt on a fishing pole.
With a shout of, “I felt him, he is only back about three more feet”, the digging was resumed with renewed vigor.
The last few shovels full of loose dirt were being taken from the trench and the trey fox was backed to the end of the cavity, with the loose dirt falling in all around him. He saw the shining shovel blade scooping up the loose dirt and as the blade cleaned out the last remaining bit of loose dirt, the fox made a pass at the shovel with a lightening like grab, then quickly backed into the last remaining two feet of his retreat.
The dogs were being held but just the fleeting glimpse of the fox was too much and a big redbone hound jerked free and sprung into the trench. He poked his head far back into the hole where the fox was making his last ditch stand.
The grey fox snapped the black nose of the dog, but this was a fighting dog and he didn’t give up. He tried to get his bulk into the confined passageway to the fox. The big teeth of the dog got a hold of the fox and a tug of war was on.
The other dogs were trying to get in on the fight, but just the big redbone hound had room to get hold of the grey fox.
It was no contest. A forty pound dog against a ten pound fox.
The fox was jerked out into the open and three more sets of teeth took hold of the fighting, snarling, snapping fox. Before the men could get hold of any of the dogs, the grey fox was literally torn apart.
As soon as the grey fox was seen by the men, they exclaimed almost in unison, “That isn’t the fox I shot at,” “It was a red fox that I saw going across that cornfield.”
The hole is checked to see if maybe the red fox might be there, but only an empty void of less than two feet remained.
The rest of the contents of the six packs were drained and the empty cans tossed into the open trench along with the remains of the grey fox. The tools were gathered up and four tired and disappointed men and their dogs walked back to the road where the pick up trucks were parked.
Brush heard the change in the hounds barking and put on more speed along the north bound ridge. Soon this ridge ended and before him lay open fields and blocks of woodland. He remembered a high-banked stream that could be gotten across only by a running jump. He thought he could jump across the stream, follow along it a ways and cross it again and circle back over his trail a few times to lose the dogs.
He jumped the stream and stopped on the othe