Chapter 8 - The Reunion 

            The vixen hunted the hill behind the new home of her pups and in a thicket of flowering dogwood she managed to run down a rabbit.
            This rabbit would have made a nest in about a week and in the nest would have been born five baby cottontails, but his is the survival of the fittest.
            The tired vixen promptly ate the fetus, as this is considered a delicacy to all the canine family.  The rest of the carcass she hid and would pick it up when she returned to the new den.
            She hunted on through the thicket and under the new bursting fray-green leaves of some tall white barked aspen.  She heard the plain tine calls of a young robin.  She moved stealthily in the direction of the sound and was soon being “dive-bombed” by the two adult robins squawking at the predator.  The underbrush helped to keep the scolding, dive bombers just out of her reach when she saw the young robin hopping along the ground.  She made a dash for the fledgling bird as it vainly tried to fly.  Between running and half flying, it eluded her first assault, but she wheeled and scooped it up and ran off, all the while being harassed by the two parents of the bird that was now on the supper menu for the pups.
            The hungry pups hastily devoured the rabbit and the young robin, their first meal at their new home.
            It was well after sundown when she lead the four pups to a spring seeping from under an old fallen down spring house about seventy five yards west of the new den.
            The pups played among the fallen timbers of the barn and the vixen went up the wooded hill to the north.  East of the hill lay open fields on high ground.  She caught a couple of mice and a small garter snake for her late meal.  She went to the center of a cornfield with the first green shoots breaking through the brown earth.
            She sat there with eyes and ears alert toward the north.
            The stars were out and there was no moon as yet.  She gave a couple of short, choppy H-A-A-R-R-N-K …… H-A-A-R-R-N-K barks and listened intently.  In about a half hour she repeated the barks all the while listening.
            Brush, after drinking from the stream went to an outcropping of gray-white limestone and laid down under the protective branches of a fallen tree situated on a slight rise which would afford him good observation in all directions.  He partially dozed and yet kept his ears and eyes tuned for danger.
            It was dark when he came from under the branches on the limestone outcropping and the long chase had given him an appetite.  He hunted in an overgrown brushy ravine and a rabbit escaped him by going into a pile of stacked fence posts.  He found a grouse roosting in a small wild cherry tree, but the bird was too high and out of reach.  He then hunted the lower part of an overgrown meadow and satisfied his hunger with three field mice and a ground roosting sparrow.
            He traveled south by southwest as that was the direction his mate and litter took from the den, which was disturbed by the dog and vile smelling man.  No self-respecting fox would stay there now.  Especially with a litter of pups.
            He knew she would stay within his “staked out domain” and he would cover it all, south of the small stream tonight if he had to, to find them.
            He crossed the small stream about three quarters of a mile below the abandoned den where the long chase had started earlier that day, and then he traveled southward to the top of a pastured hill.  Here he sat and listened.
            Presently he gave forth with a H-A-E-E-R-R-N-K-….H-A-E-R-R-N-K bark and listened intently for several minutes.  Then he moved on southward keeping to the highest terrain that would give him good listening advantage.  He gave forth with the short choppy barks from time to time.
            The moon showed itself on the high hills to the left of the big red male fox.  On a high knoll he let out a couple more barks.  Almost immediately he heard it, it could be an echo of his own voice, so he barked again.  The answer was repeated, and he loped in the direction of his answering mate.
            The vixen showed Brush the old barn and new den.  They left and went hunting the rest of the night to obtain food for the ever hungry and fast growing pups.
            This is the general open farmland with only small patches of woodland and fencerows for cover.   The foxes surveyed the area ahead from a rise on a barren pastured knoll.
            They didn’t particularly like the looks of the open farmland, as that kind of terrain doesn’t afford much in the way of cover for rabbits, small birds and mice.
            The moonlight could be seen shimmering from the metal roofs of a group of farm buildings three quarters of a mile distant.
            They proceeded on and slightly changed their course as to give the farm buildings a wide berth on the upwind side.
            The were about two hundred yards from the buildings when their noses told them there was food on a freshly plowed plot ahead of them.
            Their noses told them there was poultry there.  The foxes moved silently in that direction guided by the ever-increasing tantalizing smell.
            This group of farm buildings was a poultry farm and the main income for this family was the selling of eggs, chickens and turkeys.
            The spring grain planting had just been finished and the annual cleaning of the poultry houses and pens was being done.
            Among the poultry there was the usual mortality rate among the flock from disease and accidents.
            The deceased birds were disposed of in the same manner as the young lambs.  The carcasses were tossed onto the manure pile to be hauled out onto the fields.  This was what the foxes found.  One young turkey poult and two hen chickens had been tossed on the manure spreader and deposited on the newly planted field late that afternoon.
            Brush buried one of the hens.  Then he picked up the turkey poult by the neck and tossed the wing flapping carcass onto his back.  He followed his mate carrying the other hen in the same manner.
            They reached the den as the eastern sky was starting to pale by the arrival of dawn.
            Brush left the turkey at the den entrance and returned to the other cached hen in the plowed field.  He dug up the hen and promptly urinated on the empty hole.  He then  returned to the den with the early morning sun well up and drying the dew from the grass.
            In the next few weeks the pups grew fast and the parent foxes worked almost around the clock to keep the pups fed.
            The pups were fully weaned now and the vixen’s udders started shrinking back to normal size.
            The poultry farmer moved the mobile turkey shelters out onto the pasture fields for his growing young turkeys.
            Once Brush passed on the high ground overlooking the poultry farm early one morning, he saw all the white turkeys feeding at the freshly filled feed troughs and a plan began to form.
            Here was food in plenty for the pups, but Brush also knew about the man and a large, long nosed, black and white, longhaired collie that was always close by the young turkeys.
            He would study the situation from time to time and maybe a plan could be worked out to get some of those delicious white turkeys.
            The pups played and fought sham battles among the down and rotting timbers of the old barn.  The area around the old barn was well littered with the remains of the feathers of chickens, turkeys, grouse, quail and of lesser wild birds.  There was also the fur and hair of rabbits, skunks, groundhogs, squirrels and other small animals.
            One day the pair of red fox brought in two small young groundhogs to the den.  The young groundhogs were about the size of gray squirrels and the foxes carried them to the den alive.
            This was going to be the pup’s first lesson in killing their prey.
            The young jostling pups were assembled in front of the old barn and the vixen placed the young groundhog on the ground.  It immediately attempted to escape into the tall weeds and high grass.
            She ran to the escaping animal and grabbed it behind the head where the head and neck join.  She went through the motions of putting powerful pressure there with her jaws.  Then holding it in her mouth, she gave it a few not too gentle shakes.  She then carried it to the group of gawking, eager pups and laid it down.  It feebly attempted to run and White Feet, with his rather clumsy puppy like style, placed his forepaw on it and rolled it over.  He then grabbed it by its back quarters.
            He attempted to shake it, but the young groundhog clawed and hung onto the inexperienced pup’s nose and ears with its claws.  He shook free of it and one of his sisters grabbed it by the back of its neck and shook the young animal so vigorously the victim hung limp from the young female’s mouth.
            Meanwhile Brush was standing off to the side holding the other small groundhog.  He carried it to the group of young fox and no sooner laid it on the ground when three pups all pounced upon it and promptly ended their first lesson with flying colors.
            The typical spring weather with some of its rainy days, chilly damp wind, and some of the wondrous warm sunshine, saw the dogwood bloom.  Soon as its large white petals started to fall, the black locust and wild cherry burst forth with their fragrant white blossoms.
            One sunny late morning the pups were doing their romping and playing by the old barn.  One of the young females was batting the downy head of a dandelion, watching the fuzz float away on the gentle breeze.
            She kept playing with it until it was almost bald when a large black and yellow bumble bee passed in front of her nose and landed on a yellow dandelion blossom a few feet away.
            Curiosity being quite a trait among red fox, and this buzzing insect had to be inspected.  The young fox put her black nose next to the bee as it was collecting nectar from the yellow bloom.
            Being disturbed the bee flew to the next flower a few feet away and the young fox followed, still trying to investigate the black and yellow buzzer.  The bee left for another bloom with the fox playfully following.  The young fox placed its large black forepaw on the bee and the blossom holding it down among the green leaves and grass.  The bee was mainly trying to escape and its buzzing under the paw of the fox gave her a strange sensation.  As the fox slowly lifted its paw to investigate this strange thing, the bee rose on humming wings to escape.  The instinct of the fox was to grab it, and the young fox’s mouth closed over the airborne bee.  With a yelp of surprised pain, she shook her head to rid the mouth of this thing that had twice stung her on the upper lip.  The bee was flung into the air and quickly disappeared unnoticed.
            The now smarter but hurting fox rubbed her face in the grass and shook her head.  After a while, she layed next to the stone foundation where the shade and coolness of the large stones and moist earth seemed to help the pulsating and enlarged upper lip.  The mother fox inspected the young and somewhat sick offspring; the old female knew this would soon pass. 
            She showed the other young fox what happens when you molest bees.  The name for this young female is now Puff Face.
            Brush was hunting to the east in a small valley that was mostly pasture land with a few fields of newly planted grain and a few green meadows in full bloom.  He came upon an old ewe that had just given birth to twin lambs.
            This was rather late in the season for lambs to be born, but there are exceptions to all rules.
            The ewe and lambs were in the shady corner of the pasture and away from the rest of the flock.  Brush circled wide and saw neither dog nor man anywhere.
            He rushed in on one of the newborn lambs and sank his teeth in at the base of the skull.  The ewe ran off bleating loudly, while the other new lamb stood in amazement, not knowing what was happening.
            The big fox dragged the limp carcass of the lamb under the lower strand of rusty sagging barbed wire, into the meadow and proceeded in the direction of the den with the heavy lamb.  Sometimes dragging it and sometimes carrying it with its feet and tail dragging.
            Unknown to Brush, the bleating of the ewe attracted the attention of the farmer in the adjoining cornfield.  The farmer was inspecting his newly planted crop to see how well the kernels germinated.
            The man watched the bleating ewe run, then stop and look back towards the fence corner.  He also noticed the rest of the sheep were grazing at the other end of the pasture.  He knew this was rather uncommon for a lone sheep to be away from the rest of the flock.  The landowner crossed the fence to investigate this strange happening.
            Upon entering the fence corner he saw the newborn lamb of only a few hours old and wondered what frightened its mother into running and leaving it unattended.
            The man looked around and his eyes are attracted to a moving brownish animal about a hundred yards or more moving slowly across the adjoining meadow.
            The grass and clover of the meadow was about a foot high and this tended to make it hard for the man to distinguish what this animal was.
            There had been raids on other sheep raisers flocks over in the bigger valley by stray dogs, and the farmer thought this is what happened.  A stray dog had attacked the ewe and frightened her.
            To get a better view the man climbed upon the strands of barbed wire.  One of the wires squeaked loudly as the man’s weight made the wire move through a fastening staple.
            The ears of the fox heard the squeaking wire and dropped the lamb to look towards the sound.  Brush saw the man standing on the fence and bolted away to the protective cover of an overgrown abandoned field.
            The sheepman swears under his breath as he recognizes the animal as a fox and tried to reason why he never saw one when he was carrying his gun.
            The farmer went to the carcass of the dead lamb and made plans to rid himself of these sheep killers.
            The farmer left in the direction of his house and barn.  Presently he returned carrying a rifle and smoking a cigarette.  He walked the last few steps to the fleeing victim and threw his cigarette butt in the green grass and crushed it with his heavy soled work shoes.
            Laying the rifle down, he fished in his pocket and brought out a small glass vial with a white powder-like substance in it.  He used his pocketknife and made small deep incisions in the tender carcass and used the knife blade to work the white powder deep into the red oozing cuts.
            When Brush left the lamb lay in the meadow, he went across the abandoned grown up field and watched his back trail.   After a while he was satisfied the man did not pursue him, and he began hunting for whatever could be fed to the ever-hungry pups back at the den.  Under an old rail fence he dragged out a chipmunk and a little farther on he located a nest of cottontails.  He brought them all to the den and they were quickly devoured by the young foxes.
            Brush laid in the shade of the old barn foundation wall until the stars were winking overhead.  Then he moved off in the direction of where he had left the lamb laying in the meadow.
            He circled the light colored fleecy lamb and he could smell its tantalizing odor, but there was also the smell of man and tobacco coming on the breeze with that of the dead lamb.
            These foreign smells were somewhat old and he knew the immediate presence of the man was not there now.  He cautiously circled closer.
            The smell of the man and his tobacco made the fox wary of approaching any closer.  He could see the somewhat bloated lamb laying on its side in the dew covered grass of the meadow.  He left the much needed pup food and entered the abandoned grown up field in search of the rabbit whose nest he had robbed earlier that day.

Chapter 12 - The Pro Trapper

            That evening at the crossroads store there were about a half dozen men sitting on benches in front of the store.  They were smoking, chewing tobacco, talking and drinking soft drinks.  When the talk got around to fox, the sheepman inquired to the group that if somebody knew how to trap fox, they might be able to cut the local fox population down.
            One of the bench sitters stated that when he was a boy of eight or ten years old, his granddad used to be able to trap them.  That was about forty years ago.  He got a good price for the fur too.  If I remember right he got twenty dollars for some.  That was a lot of money in those days.  He just trapped on our farm and maybe on a neighbor’s adjoining fields.  He trapped within walking distance after the morning chores were done.
            He got twelve one winter and I remember us losing some calves and lambs due to a late cold damp spring.  The money he got for those fox helped us get seed grain and fertilizer that year.
            There was one thing granddad would not do and that was to take somebody along on his trap line.  He said that someday he would show me how to catch fox.  A couple of years later he passed away and didn’t leave any of his knowledge behind to anyone.  There always seemed to be some mystery connected with his success at catching fox.  I know that several times men had asked to show them how to catch fox, but he never showed or told anybody that I know of.  One man came up from Big Rock, that is about seventy-five miles away and offered to pay granddad to show him how to trap fox, but the man left disappointed.
            The old bewhiskered man with the cane spoke up, “Yes, I remember how everybody around here thought Bill, that was your grandfather, was a real wizard at catching fox.  Somebody said he had a secret scent he sent away for to catch fox with.”
            He continued, “I’ve heard that man down state is a real fox catcher.  They say he sometimes catches over two hundred in the winter.”
            The sheepman stood up and asked about this trapper’s name and where he lived.
            The old man replied, “I heard the name, but didn’t remember it.  Maybe our county game warden could tell you.  When the Game Department stocked all those pheasants on that state game reserve, the Game Department hired him to rid the area of all predators so the stocked birds would have a chance to take hold.  Now that area has some of the best pheasant and rabbit hunting around, so I hear.”
            The store was near closing time and everybody made small talk about what they had to do tomorrow.
            The next morning the sheepman telephoned the county game warden and got the name and address of the trapper down state.  The warden recommended him highly as having lots of “know how” about fox.
            The sheep man tried to call the trapper by telephone, but couldn’t reach him.  Evidently, he had an unlisted number or didn’t have a telephone.
            The sheep man made plans to go and try to find this trapper next Sunday.
            It was about an eighty-mile drive to the little town that was the address of the trapper.
            Sunday at noon a signpost with Ford Mills on it meant this was she sheep man’s destination.
            Ahead was a combination gas station and general store.
            Ford Mills only had about 12 to 15 houses in it.  He stopped by the gas pumps of the gas station and told the proprietor to fill the tank.
            He ambled inside where it was cooler and opened the soft drink cooler, selected a bottle and opened it.
            The smell of kerosene, cheese, binder twine, leather, dill pickles and other unidentified smells filled the dim, cool interior of the store.
            Several men were sitting on the porch and he walked out and introduced himself and inquired about the residence of the trapper.
            The sheep man learned the trapper lived about two miles further down the highway, turn left at the first road and he lived in the second house on the right.
            He paid for the drink and gas.
            Soon he was at the left turn off down the gravel road.   The first house was a large white farm home with gleaming white barns and outbuildings.
            The dusty gravel road dipped lower around a sweeping turn and a one-story bungalow came into view.  There were three or four outbuildings in the back.  A Jeep truck was parked by one of the buildings.  A canoe was laying on its side against the building by the truck.
            There was also a well cared for garden with its straight rows and lush green foliage giving promise of a good supply of vegetables.
            A rather tall, slender built man came out on to the porch when the Chevy truck turned into the driveway to the bungalow.
            The sheepman and the tall man exchanged greetings.  They introduced themselves and the traveler was invited into the house.  The furnishings of the front room were somewhat worn, but clean and looked comfortable.
            The trapper introduced his wife, a rather plump pleasant looking woman, wiping her hands on her apron.
            The woman asked the guest if he would have dinner with them as they were just ready to sit down.
            The man declined the invitation to dinner, but he told her not to hurry the meal because of him.
            He settled himself into an easy chair and picked up a magazine from an end table within easy reach, as the trapper and his wife disappeared into the kitchen.
            He looked at the cover of the magazine and was surprised at its title, “Trapper’s Journal”.
            He opened the magazine and started to thumb through it.  There were stories about fishing, trapping, hunting, root digging and a classified section of advertising everything from hunting clothes and dogs, to traps, trapping equipment and fishing gear.
            He started to read a story about bear hunting just when the trapper emerged from the kitchen, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and sat down on the sofa.
            The sheepman told of how he got the trappers name and started his reason for coming to see him, which was to learn to trap fox.
            The trapper sat there not saying a word. 
The words of “how to trap fox”, seemed to hang in the charged atmosphere.
            The sheepman could feel that he might have said the wrong thing first.  At any rate he at once realized this was not going to be easy.
            He fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered the trapper one, which was declined.
            Then the uneasy guest told of the lambs and poultry he and his neighbors had lost over the past few weeks.  He also told of the chase and his failed attempt to trap the fox.
            The sheepman went on to explain that something had to be done as the fox were cutting into the communities means of livelihood.
            The trapper sat and listened.
            After a brief silence he told the sheepman that he understood the farmer’s problem.  It also was problem for the trapper.
            The guest asked how this was the trapper’s problem, being all this was taking place so far from him.
            “It’s a long story”, stated the trapper, “and if you listen to what I have to say, maybe you will see and understand my side of it.”
            “I’m not against the landowners, farmers, hunt club groups, Wildlife Depts. Of different states, hunters, dog owners or any other person or group of persons, but they all enter into what I’m about to say,” the trapper continued.
            I learned to trap at an early age in the west.  I went and lived with my grandfather on a large sheep ranch after my parents were killed in an auto accident.
            Coyotes and cats were the main predators of sheep on my grandfather’s ranch.  After a few years, I got rather good at catching these predators.  If a neighboring rancher was having a predator problem, they would send for me.
            Then the Federal men came in and started a predator control program through out the sheep raising area of the state.
            Soon they would have trouble with an individual predator that was trap-wise and somehow the Federal trappers had heard of me.
            Their supervisor for the area asked if I would give them a hand at catching the problem predator.
            Being young and in my late teens at the time, I jumped at the chance to show off my skill.
            Generally in a span of a few days, I had the trap-wise animal.
            One day the supervisor asked why I didn’t try to get on the force.  He told me about the benefits and the pay.  It sounded good and to my liking.
            He gave me some forms to fill out and I mailed them in to the district office of that area.
            After a few weeks a letter came from the district office, asking me to go to the state capital to take a test.  This would be a breeze because at that time I thought I knew it all about trapping.
            Well, didn’t they come to ask me for help to catch some animal that they couldn’t?  Of course they paid me, but I never worked for them over a week at a time.
            I went to the state capital and took the test.
            I still say it wasn’t a fair test for what they wanted me to do.  It was a civil service test and questions on it didn’t pertain to the job I wanted to do.
            In short, I flunked the test.
            Several days later the supervisor came to visit me and he already knew I had flunked the test.  He said he was sorry that I did not pass, because the need for my kind of “know how” was greatly needed throughout the range of the coyote.  At that time, the range of this animal ran roughly from the Mississippi to the west coast and from the Canadian border to the Mexican border.
            We had supper together and talked “trap talk”.  He told of how he was afraid that a poison program was being thought about by the “higher ups” in Washington.
            I could feel that he was against using poison.  He also stated that if an animal would come to a poisoned bait, that same animal would come to a bait with a well concealed and constructed trap guarding the unpoisoned bait.
            With a poison program the poisoner has no way of being selective.  What ever takes the poisoned bait dies, and whatever eats the first victim of the poison also dies.  A chain reaction is started.
            (We lost lots of good forbearing animals and birds of all descriptions because of the poison program, which was started.)
            The Second World War came along and I spent a few years in it.
            When I got out, I went back to the ranch.  It didn’t take me long to dig the traps out of the shed where I had stored them four years ago.
            All the while I was in the service, I planned on a long trapline in the mountains to the west of the ranch.  In those mountains were marten, lynx, mink, fox, mountain coyotes ermine, a few beavers, and wolves.
            I had trapped that area for fur before I had left for the service.  With all the young men in the military service and the older ones away at defense jobs in the cities, I assumed the population of the animals should have built up to sizeable proportions in the mountains.
            However, when I got to the old line cabin in the mountains and started to prospect out the intended traplines to see what animals were there and locate good set sites, I found that the animals were actually scarce.  There was no snow yet, but if you know animal sign, you can tell if the animals are around or not.
            I found almost no sign of mink, coyote, marten or wolf.
            A new poison was developed for use by the Federal men and they really plastered it around.  The poison took its toll of almost all carnivorous animals.  This poison was called 1080.
            I stayed at the line cabin a few days, but didn’t set any traps because of the scarcity of animals.
            I left there and went north to the Platte River country to trap for muskrat, beaver and mink.
            The mink were even somewhat scarce in the Platte River basin, because the poison program was so wide spread.
            Then the following few years the price of fur got so low that a long trapline couldn’t be operated profitably.
            I traveled eastward and got a job driving a semi-truck, but that wasn’t what I wanted to do.
            I got to see lots of country from the cab of the big truck.
            I wanted to have my shoes on the green grass or in powdery snow, I wanted to walk in the shade of towering trees.  I wanted to wade or swim in the clear looking streams that I drove the big semi over.
            I wanted to smell of water soaked willow leaves along some lake’s edge.  I wanted to fill my nostrils with the smell of a wood campfire along with the resinous smell of pine trees.  I wanted to hear the riffle of a stream, the sigh of the wind in the trees and the chirping and twittering of birds at dawn’s first light.
            The job I wanted, I couldn’t find.
            One day I had a load of fence wire to be delivered to a game farm.
            While I was backing the truck to a building where the wire was to be unloaded, the axle broke and it took two days to get a new part and get the semi fixed.
            While it was being repaired, I found out the fencing was to protect the small game birds and animals being raised on this game farm from predators.
            I talked to the game farm manager, then the owner and convinced them I could do a better job of predator control than they could hope for with any type of fence.
            “To make a long story short, I worked there for five years.”  Said the trapper.
            “This place consisted of several thousand acres, some of it was marshland and used for waterfowl rearing.”  He continued.
            He continued, “ While I worked on this game farm, the word traveled fast and far about the success the owner had with raising small game and game birds under more or less natural conditions.  This game farm was so successful that biologists and men high up in different state game departments came to see how the food patch planting was carried out, how food was distributed in bad winter weather, how cover growth was planted or artificially constructed, how rearing young birds were cared for and how they were being adapted before being turned out.”
          He mentioned that all this can be seen now in some state game management programs.
          The trapper also told the sheepman that his main job was predator control, but he also helped with the planting, feeding and other work on the farm.
          He smiled widely and said, “The landowners surrounding the game farm were glad for me to trap their land as there was somewhat of an overflow of game animals and birds from the game farm and the surrounding landowners welcomed them.”
          Then with a bit of sorrow in his voice, the trapper said, “The owner of the game farm unexpectedly passed away and a real estate firm bought the game farm. It was to be made into a housing development.  When the farm finally shut down, I worked for several state game departments doing predator control work part time.”
          He explained, “They would hire me to clean up the predators in a specified area prior to a wild turkey, pheasant, or quail release.  I couldn’t get a permanent job with them, as I couldn’t pass the civil service tests.  I’ve only got an eighth grade education.”
          The trapper went on to explain the price of fur started to slowly rise and I trapped for fur during the winter and did odd jobs during the summer.
          He also told him that there was a university in the state west of his that received a grant from the government for a study to see how much of a coyote’s diet consisted of wild life, bruits and berries and domestic birds and animals.  The professor in charge of the study got in touch with the trapper by mail and asked if he would come for an interview. The interview resulted in him getting the job of catching the coyotes for the study.
          This program was to run for twelve consecutive months.  He could trap anywhere for coyotes in that state.
          The stomach of each coyote had to be removed and placed in a jar of formaldehyde and the jars sent to the university once each week.
           At the lab in the university, the stomach contents would be analyzed to ascertain what the coyote had eaten.  The trapper had told the professor that he could tell him now within a few percent of what the stomachs would contain for each month.   But the trapper didn’t have a degree from a college or other school of higher learning and what he knew didn’t count.
            The grant had been made and the program was to be carried out as planned.
            Long before the year was up, the money ran out and the professor notified the trapper that the program would be terminated.  The trapper told the professor that the money already spent would be thrown away unless the full cycle of a year’s study was made.  The animals that were analyzed were caught from May to October and at that time of the year, food is abundant for the coyote.  He went on to explain that the fruits and berries are gone in October and the coyote would have to go on an almost straight meat diet.
           The facts taken from the study said the coyotes diet consisted mainly of fruits and berries.  Only a small percent of the coyotes diet was meat.  What meat there was found was mostly harmful rodents.  This is what is taught to biology students and others going into the field of wildlife.
           The trapper knew this was wrong.  He had lived with these animals the year round.  He knew their habits, fears, dislikes and almost their thoughts.  He didn’t claim to know it all.  If he lived to be two hundred years old, he would still learn more about them.  Not just the coyote, but all animals.
           The trapper’s wife came into the living room after finishing the dinner dishes and asked if the two men would like some coffee or a soft drink.  The trapper and guest both chose coffee.
           The woman spoke to the guest saying that once you get him started talking bout trapping it is almost impossible to get him to stop.
           The trapper looked at his wife and gave her a knowing smile.  He sipped the aromatic coffee and looked deeply into the steaming cup, and continued talking about trapping.
           The trapper told the sheepman about an outfit that owned a big feed mill.  They paid landowners or anybody that has the facilities to raise turkeys for them.  The mill furnished the turkeys a few weeks old and the mill also furnished the feed.  These people were paid so much per turkey at market time.  Any turkeys lost though disease, theft or predation was a lost to all concerned.
            The fox population had grown to such proportions in that area which consisted of about two or three counties that the mill was having a hard time getting anyone to take on raising their turkeys because of the predator problem.
            So, the trapper got the job of thinning down the fox population and he was very proficient at trapping foxes.  He still works for the mill two months of every year. 
The mill pays pretty good for doing it.  They still lose a few turkeys to the fox, but it is no way as bad as it was before he started working for them.  The raisers are happy, the mill owners are happy and so is the trapper.
          From that story, the trapper went to another one about a woolgrower’s co-op.
          He went on to say he wasn’t against all woolgrower’s co-ops, but his particular one hired me to trap for them.  He had a hard time getting them to come to his price.  After all he had his expenses.  Finally it was agreed that he would get so much per coyote and so much per bobcat.  The cat pay was only good from March to July as that was when they worked on the lambs.  This was way back in the high country and he kept ahead of the sheep herds and had the grazing land pretty well cleaned up a head of them as they moved to higher elevations as the seasons progressed.
           The co-ops main office was about a hundred and fifty miles from where he was trapping and every two or three weeks, he would take his catch to them.  The president of the co-op would write a check for what he brought in.  He wasn’t getting rich, but was making about the same wages as a skilled bricklayer or machinist.  However, hourly employees work only eight hours and any work over that time they received premium pay for it.  The trapper put in many more hours.  He would be on his way to the first traps with his headlights on and generally didn’t get back to the trailer till after dark.
           The difference was that he liked his job and enjoyed doing it.  He had trapped there for better than two months and on one of the trips to the main co-op office to turn in his bounty for payment, he was informed that the president was away for a few days and I could get the check when he returned.  He couldn’t wait around for the man to come back because he had traps to check.  He went back to the high country and trapped for almost two more weeks before he came in to collect his piled up bounty.
           The president of the co-op was also the county’s prosecuting attorney, and was also a county commissioner in one of the counties he was trapping in.  When the trapper got up with the co-op president, he told the trapper that he had bad news for him.  Because the four counties that made up the co-op had run out of  bounty money, the day after the trapper cashed his last check, about four weeks prior.
           The trapper didn’t understand this and told the president so.  He went on to explain in his political, apologetic way that what ever the four counties would put up financially, the co-op would match it.  The trapper didn’t know anything about the counties putting up any money for bounties.  He assumed it all came from the co-op.  The president told him that he had caught more than they had anticipated.
          The president had no explanations about why the trapper wasn’t notified that the money had run out.  They just let him go on and spent his time and expenses for their own good.
          The co-op had asked the trapper back a couple of times since then, but he wouldn’t go.  He also notified all the other professional trappers he knew about the outfit so they wouldn’t get taken by them.
          The trapper declared he’d never trap for bounty again.  Any trapping assignments he’d take on would be for a flat rate depending on the animals, size of the area and the amount of time to do the job.
          The sheepman was sitting on the edge of his chair listening to all this and didn’t even notice his coffee was getting cold.
          The sheepman spoke up and asked, “Why do you do this kind of work if it is so uncertain?”
          The trapper looked deeply into his empty cup with a far-away gaze in his eyes and said, “Everyone has something they are good at.  Wildlife is my strong suit.  The pay is rather short, and I know at times it seems like everything and everybody is against the trapper.  Laws are made about trapping that look all right to the layman, but then the man on the street knows little or nothing about wildlife or trapping.  Politicians get in on the act proclaiming to do something about ecology and wildlife, but there is little or nothing being done.  License fees in some states run pretty high.  I’ve paid as low as $15.00 for a non-resident license and as high as $200.00, depending on the state.  Then there are the do-gooders that think they have all the answers by outlawing guns, traps, archery or other forms of harvesting the surplus wildlife.  If it wasn’t for the so called gun nuts and sportsmen’s dollars going for license fees there wouldn’t be any game management except private hunt clubs.  For the trapper there are long hours, rain, mud, snow, high water, unwanted catches, trap and fur thieves and deep drifting snow.” 
          The trapper continued, “However, I guess there must be the challenge of it all.  It has its rewards also.  There is the clean fresh air, exercise, beautiful sunsets, the early morning dawn where you can almost hear the sun rise with all nature coming awake to a new day.  Out there is peace and solitude, no boss looking over your shoulder and no time clock to punch.  Not all my living comes from the trapline.  This place was left to my wife by her parents.  We raise a couple or three pigs to butcher each fall.  The garden supplies us with almost all our produce.  We either can or freeze the surplus and store apples, potatoes, turnips, carrots and cabbage in the cellar for later use.  In the off season from fur trapping if I don’t have a predator assignment I work for local construction outfits, helping them build houses, barns or other buildings.  I sometimes make long runs for the Cattle Shippers located over in the next county if one of their truck drivers is sick or they have a lot of cattle to transport a long distance away.”
          The trapper stood up and stretched.  He carried his coffee cup and the guest’s cup to the kitchen.  He returned and took his place on the sofa.
          The trapper then spoke to the sheepman about his problem.  “By what you have told me, all this poultry and lamb killing has been taking place in one locality of only a few farms.  It sounds to me like the work of a family of red foxes.  When they have a litter of pups, the pups must be fed.  The old pair will gather in anything and everything that can be fed to the pups.  This problem you have with the foxes in your area can be taken care of in a few days.  This is how I would work it if I was to trap those fox.”
          The sheepman leaned toward the speaker so he wouldn’t miss a word being said.
          The trapper continued, “I would look the area over where the foxes have done their killing and try to judge the range of these fox.  You see, each family of fox has a definite range or territory that they live in.  It will vary in size depending upon terrain, amount of natural food and other factors.  They won’t usually leave this range unless harassed quite a bit by man and dogs, but the main reason they leave their established domain is food conditions.  If there is little or no food, they will move on.  I would use from five to eight traps to do the job on these fox.  I wouldn’t set all the traps in one field either.  Take a two hundred acre farm, and I might set two to four traps on it.  I know all the fox are not on this one piece of property.  A fox doesn’t know a property line fence from any other fence and their range could cover up to a thousand or more acres in farm country.  It could very likely be more in woodland or desert type terrain.  Farmland has more fox food in it per acre than large tracts of timberland or prairie type terrain.”
          The sheepman was nodding his head in agreement with what the trapper was saying.  He moved uneasy on the sofa and cleared his throat.  He opened his mouth as if to speak, then hesitated.  He clasped his hands in front of him and thoughtfully looked at them. 
          The trapper looking sincerely at the sheepman said, “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to put you down or trying to discourage you from trapping or attempting to trap those fox.  What I’m going to say is coming from similar past experiences with men that had the same problem as you and your neighbors have.  If I would show you how to make the set to catch fox, your inexperience would cause the fox to know what was going on and they would avoid all your sets.  You may get lucky and catch a fox or so, but once the rest are educated, they can give even a pro trapper a rough way to go.  The pro trapper will get the educated foxes, but it will take longer and time is what the trapper can’t afford to lose.  The educated fox doesn’t look any different than any other fox.  I’ve tried to help others such as you, but the only ones that really learned to trap fox or coyote were the men that could or would devote almost all their time at learning the habits, range and learn to read fox sign.  Most men with an occupation, whether he was a farmer or a skilled draftsman can’t devote that much time and usually ends up quitting in disgust and saying it can’t be done.  The reason for the failure is that they haven’t learned the fox and his ways.  You raise sheep, I know that you can almost predict what a sheep will do under all given circumstances when you are working or handling them.”
          The sheepman smiled and nodded his head in agreement then stated that he didn’t want to go into trapping in a big way, but just be able to rid his premises of these fox.  Maybe you know of a book that can tell me how to catch fox. Could be the kind of traps I was using were the wrong kind.  I don’t know but I am willing to learn.
          The trapper reached over to the end table at the end of the sofa and picked up a copy of Trapper’s Journal.  Opening it up about three quarters of the way through, said, “There are all kinds of books in this magazine on trapping and trapping supplies.  You can have this copy as they sent me two of them this month.  Also there is much to be learned by reading the trapping stories that are published in the magazine, but sometimes you must read between the lines of some of the stories.”
          The sheepman accepted the magazine and ran the palm of his hand over the front cover of it.  He then took out his watch and said he must be going as he has his daily chores to do.
         The trapper saw him out to the Chevy truck and they said their goodbyes.

            The vixen found some wild strawberries ripening on a south slope of an abandoned field.   She layed down the grouse she was carrying and ate a few of the ripe berries.
            The pups saw her approaching from their vantage place, on top of the sawdust pile and ran pell-mell to see what she had brought for their hungry stomachs.
            The grouse didn't last long among the hungry pups.
            It was dark when she led the pups around the sawdust pile, past the pond and along an overgrown road of sorts that had been used to skid logs from along the hill to the sawmill.
            She picked the easiest route for the puts to the abandoned field where the wild strawberries were growing.
            The young pups found that the small, juicy, sweet berries tasted good.  They used their noses to find the red gems hidden under and among the green ground cover.
            The trip back to the slab pile through the dew covered grass and foliage left the foxes wet from their berry picking adventure.
            Soon the eastern sky had a hint of dawn in it, and the tired young foxes disappeared deep among the piled slabs for some sleep.
            The old female fox left traveling in a northerly direction.  She was intending to check on other strawberry patches which she had found while on previous hunting trips.
            She skirted wide around a field of red clover where the sound of a tractor and the purr of a mowing machine were cutting hay.
            She stopped by a farm pond for a drink.  A movement along the edge of the cattails with their tall leaf blades waving in the light breeze caught her eye.  It was something swimming in the deeper water out from the tall green cattails.  She stood motionless watching the small vee-like disturbance on the surface of the water.
            She backed behind the screening cattails, and then she trotted along the edge of the pond where the water, the cattails and grassy shore met.  Soon she was abreast of the swimming animal, which she recognized as a muskrat with three smaller muskrats following close behind.
            Their small squeak-like voices could now be heard as they played in the clear warm water of the pond.
            The fox would have liked to capture them, as their dark red meat was delicious.  But she knew that she couldn't out swim them.  Her only hope would be if they came ashore to feed on the roots of the clover and grasses.  Soon the muskrats disappeared among the cattails where a mound shaped dome of cattails had been piled by the adult muskrats to serve as their home.
            In an abandoned grown up pasture field with elderberry bushes growing in the scattered clumps with their white blossom cluster hanging heavy, tall sparse timothy with its heads covered with super miniature blue blossoms and the field daisies nodded their white and yellow heads in the breeze.
            Here she found a large patch of wild strawberries.  The patch continued all along the upper slope of this field.
            That night after darkness had fallen, she led the pups to the big wild strawberry patch to feed on the juicy, red sweet berries.
            While the pups foraged for the berries, the adult female went to the upper edge of the field, which was bordered by a wooded area and kept watch from this higher vantage point.
            The night breeze brought to her a new smell.  It was of something good to eat.  Her nose led her to a large tall cherry tree growing along the fence, which was hanging heavy with its small dark sweet fruit.  This was a real find for the foxes.  She sounded forth with a bark, which was promptly answered by one of the young foxes.
            Soon the four pups were coming in her direction and she could follow their progress by the tall sparse growing timothy in the field.  Many of the timothy heads were covered with pollen.  The pollen covered heads of the timothy sent off a puff of pollen whenever a pup would brush by one of the slender stems.
            She led them to the cherry tree by the fence, and a new taste treat was enjoyed by the pups.  The cherries when fully ripe, would fall to the ground.  The sweet odor of the ripe fruit in the grass and ground foliage under the tree was easily found by the noses of the young foxes.
            Soon the first hint of dawn showed on the eastern horizon, and the vixen didn't relish her pups being exposed to hostile eyes in the daylight hours.  She knew it would be full daylight before they were even half way back to the protective slab pile.
            She began looking for a safe place for the pups to stay in this immediate area.  A quick scouting trip along the edge of the woods and she found where a large red elm tree had been blown over some time ago.  Its prone length was covered with wild grapevines that had climbed to its uppermost branches. Now the tree was dead, laying on the ground but the wild grapevine was in full foliage.  Beneath this vine covered dead tree trunk would offer a temporary sanctuary for the pups.
            Brush showed up late in the day carrying a young white turkey.  The pups made short work of the bird and then they went back under the vine-covered log for the rest of the day.
            Darkness came and the ripe cherries that had fallen during the day were searched out, and then they went to the wild strawberry patch.
            A nest of young cottontails had been born in this field and they were now just big enough to leave the nest and forage for themselves.
            The vixen saw one of the young rabbits hopping among the wild strawberry plants.  She thought this would be a good time to start the pups on hunting and killing on their own.  She called the pups to her and they soon understood they were to catch the small cottontail that she pointed out to them.  Their efforts were almost comical, as the pups were in their clumsy stage of growth.  The young rabbit would dart and turn quickly.  The pursuing pups would fall over each other in their attempt to wheel and turn with the intended victim's dodging among the tall grasses and clumps of bushes in the field.
            Finally the tiring young cottontail was caught by Puff Face and the young rabbit let out a piercing scream.  This startled the young fox so much that she dropped the squealing rabbit and it continued to make good its escape.  White Feet seeing it heading for a clump of elderberry bushes, dashed towards the fleeing rabbit and pounced upon it with both front feet.  His jaws clamped over the head of the squirming victim and put it out of its misery.
            The vixen noted that White Feet handled himself well.  The other pups were not allowed in on the feast of the rabbit.  It belonged to White Feet because this was his first kill unassisted.
            With all these sweet cherries and strawberries nearby, why make the journey back to the slab pile?  The vine covered log was serving their daytime needs very well.
            The third night while in the big strawberry patch, one of the young female foxes strayed away from the rest of the berry picking foxes.  Her nose kept finding ripe berries ahead and always there seemed to be the bigger ones just a few steps ahead.  She heard something move a few yards from here and she raised her head to see which one of her brothers or sisters were there.
            What she saw was something black and white.  She went forward to investigate.  There was a large skunk and four much smaller skunks eating strawberries.  The small back and white striped furry animals fascinated the young fox.
            She moved in closer to investigate them.  All this while, the mother skunk had not noticed the presence of the young red fox.
            The young female fox reached out a black paw to playfully roll one of the white stripers over.  Just then, the mother skunk looked up and saw the red fox attempting to molest one of her offspring.  With her black tail standing erect and all flared out, she rushed at the surprised fox.  The fox jumped back from the charging skunk.
            The large back and white skunk stomped up and down with its short front legs.
            The big skunk turned and proceeded to leave with the young skunks following her in a single file.
            The young red fox rushed at the retreating young skunks.  This sudden act of aggression was too much for the mother skunk.  She wanted to leave peaceably, but this harassing fox must be taught a lesson.
            She rushed at the fox again and let fly with her yellow oily scent.  The spray hit the fox full in the face and it stung the young foxes eyes terribly.  It even stung the inside of her mouth and nose.
            The young fox whined and rubbed its face in the grass and earth by folding her front legs back under her belly and pushing with her back legs.  First she would rub one side of her face in the grass in this manner, then the other side of her face.
            The strong smell of the skunk reached the other berry picking foxes and they came to investigate.  They found the young fox trying to rid herself of the smell.
            The new name for this young female fox would be - Phew.
            The wonderful days of early summer were upon them.  With the cherries and strawberries, the parent foxes didn't have to spend so much time hunting meat for the pups.
            Brush would be gone for several days at a time.  Every few days he would return with an animal or bird for the pups.
            The rest of the young rabbits that roamed in the big strawberry patch were finally caught by the young foxes. 
            The vixen stayed close by, keeping watch, sometimes though she would go on a scouting trip to locate anything hostile that might endanger the pups.
            On one such scouting trip she found a grouse setting on a nest of eggs.  The nest was well camouflaged from overhead predators such as crows, jays and other feathered egg eaters.
            The vixen didn't bother the nesting grouse, but went back to the vine covered elm log.   She gathered the pups together and they went in the direction of the nesting grouse.  The mother fox cautioned the young hunters to be very quiet now as they were approaching close to the grouse with its nest at the edge of a hazelnut patch.  She led her pups as close as she dared.  She instructed the young foxes to wait until she got into position some distance on the other side of the patch of hazelnut bushes before the young foxes were to make their rush.
            The vixen took a roundabout route and positioned herself about fifteen yards from the hazelnut bushes.  Now the grouse was between her and the eager pups.
            The young foxes rushed towards the grouse and it left on whirring wings only to awkwardly land a few yards from the nest dragging one wing.
            The pups saw the brown bird rise from the hidden nest.  They saw it awkwardly land and they were quick to give chase to the seemingly hurt bird.
            The grouse's efforts were to lead any predators away from the precious eggs by putting on the "broken wing act".  The half running and half stumbling bird was leading the four pups away from the nest.
            The vixen had seen it all happening while she lay in the short green foliage and brown leaves of the woods floor.  The grouse would pass within a few feet of the waiting fox.
            The pups were almost certain they could catch the crippled bird.  They were rushing as fast as they could, all the while falling or running into each other and stumbling over sticks and other hindering obstacles in their way.
            The waiting vixen sprang at the "sham-hurt" acting grouse as it came near.
            The grouse sprang into the air with the dragging extended wing suddenly beating in unison with the other wing. The bird rose straight up.  The rushing female jumped as high as she could and got a few feathers for her effort.  The grouse dodged and twisted in its flight among the overhead limbs and it landed about sixty yards away and resumed the broken wing act.   The old female knew it would be useless to try and catch the grouse.
            She led the disheartened pups back to the concealed nest and showed them the eggs.  The pups devoured them all with lip smacking noises.  They even licked the remaining liquid from inside the fragile shells and from where some had spilled on the brown leaves.
            It was a hot summer day and Brush was laying on a breezy shady knoll with the overhead leaves of the aspens quivering on their flat stems in the gentle warm breeze.  This high knoll overlooked a small flat valley with its checkerboard pattern of blue - green oats and wheat with a hint of yellow starting show.  Each field a different color, the deep green of soybeans, the gray green of timothy with the warm breezes making flowing waves across its expanse.  Corn now hid the brown earth beneath its broad green leaves.  The fence rows standing as a dark green border to each field.  In the distance a farm pond was shimmering.
            Higher up on the sides of the hills, the fields were the same colors as those in the valley.  Their only difference was that they followed the contour of the hills and fencerows.
            The yellow sweet clover was in bloom and was infested with nectar gathering bees.  Soon the taller and later blooming white sweet clover should be in bloom and yielding its nectar and pollen to the humming bees.
            The bluish purple top knot of thistles were starting to show here and there.