Gray Eagle (Sass collection)/Thanks to Ringtail
RINGTAIL, the old gray fox, whose plumy brush was strangely barred with black, sat on his haunches just within the thicket's edge and calmly surveyed the situation. He found it not altogether satisfactory. As usual, twenty or thirty buxom white hens were moving about on the lawn in front of the house. But they were all well out in the open, too far away for the fox to attempt a raid. Moreover, on the front steps of the house stood the boy talking with his father; and the boy, clad in khaki shirt and corduroys, held his shotgun in the hollow of his arm. Evidently he was going hunting this morning and was ready for action.
Ringtail had considerable respect for the boy as a hunter and woodsman. He knew Chad Stanton well, having watched him often in the woods; and possibly he was aware—for a fox is often wise as well as cunning—that Chad knew something about him, too, and would welcome a chance to test the thickness of his hide. It was not a fox hunt that the boy was planning, for Ringtail saw no horse and no dogs. Nevertheless, the old fox decided that he had better move along. Plainly, conditions were not favorable just then for another attack on Chad's big white hens.
Ringtail paused long enough to scratch one blacktipped, rusty-red ear with a hind foot. Then he turned and trotted silently away through the cassena thickets. Before long, his thoughts occupied with other matters of more immediate interest, the fox had forgotten the young hunter roaming somewhere in the woods with his gun.
The boy moved softly, slowly, all his senses alert. In that place and at that hour anything might happen. As yet the morning light had barely begun to filter down through the dense evergreen foliage of the pines; but scattered through the pine wood were other trees—oaks and maples and sweet gums—already almost bare of leaves; and wherever one of these trees stood amid the pines, light was let in to illumine the dim interior of the forest. Chad was grateful for this light, yet found it baffling. Three times he halted suddenly, convinced that he had seen some living thing move on the carpet of brown pinestraw far away amid the trees; and three times he owned that his keen, practiced eyes had been deceived.
The thing that he hoped to see was a wild turkey. A visitor, a friend of his father's, was expected at the plantation, and to Chad had fallen the duty of securing a turkey for the occasion. His father would have preferred a pair of wood ducks—summer ducks, as they were called in the plantation country—but a closed period of several years had been granted these birds by law, and Captain Stanton was too good a sportsman to be a law-breaker. Hence, although in the plantation country, with its many rivers and lagoons, wood ducks were still abundant all the year round, the old planter had regretfully reminded his son that they were taboo.
"Try for a turkey," he told the boy, as they stood talking on the front steps early that morning. "The Judge likes summer ducks better and is probably counting on them. But he can't have them this time; and a turkey's the next best thing."
Chad knew even better than his father the places which were most likely to yield the game that he sought. Yet poor luck had attended him so far, and now the early morning, the most favorable time for turkey hunting, had passed. Nevertheless, his hopes were high as he stole with infinite caution and hair-trigger alertness amid the trunks of the great trees deep in the Otter Woods as he called them because once he had watched an otter there for over an hour.
He knew that several turkeys, including one big gobbler, sometimes came to these woods in the early forenoon for a midday siesta. Twice he had startled this gobbler from the same tall pine. He planned now to post himself in ambush near the foot of this pine and wait for the gobbler to come in for its noontide nap; and meanwhile, as he approached the place, he scanned the wood's vistas keenly because more than once he had found amid the pinestraw scratches which proved that turkeys occasionally came there to feed.
Presently, when the gobbler's big tree loomed close in front of him, he found a spot which suited his purpose. Sitting on the pinestraw, his back against the trunk of a young water oak at the edge of a small thicket of gallberry which partly encircled him, he was almost invisible in his dun corduroy and khaki—a soundless, inconspicuous figure, motionless as a stump. Probably a long wait lay ahead of him, but he looked forward to it with satisfaction, even with pleasure.
He knew that the woods, lonely and empty though they seemed, were alive. Softly as he had moved, he was aware that keen ears had heard him, though he could not tell what ears. Keenly as he had scanned the ground and the branches, he was sure that sharp eyes which he had not been able to see had studied him as he made his way amid the tree trunks.
He knew also that the woods' folk as a rule have short memories and that it is movement which attracts and holds their attention. After he had remained for a little while motionless and silent in his ambush, he would be forgotten by some, ignored by others of the lesser forest creatures; and while most of the larger woods' dwellers moved about mainly at night, there was always a chance that some venturesome or unusually hungry prowler would pass nearby.
For a while he saw and heard only the smaller people of the woods—inquisitive ruby-crowned kinglets scolding peevishly and peering at him with round, beady, little eyes; acrobatic tufted tits swinging head downward amid the higher branches; blue-gray, white-breasted nuthatches traveling up and down the tree trunks like deliberate feathered mice and talking incessantly to one another in nasal, unvarying tones. Soon, however, a big, white-nosed, iron-gray fox squirrel showed himself near the top of a pine; and presently, from a small, steep-sided stream which wound through the wood fifty feet in front of his ambush, came a subdued splash which told the boy that some large bird or mammal had moved in the water. He wondered whether another otter had taken up its abode in the Otter Woods, and for some minutes he considered the advisability of creeping forward cautiously to a point whence he could see the surface of the brook. Suddenly, however, a slight movement to his right drove this plan out of his mind.
Crouching close to the ground, a big male gray fox was creeping slowly across the pinestraw carpet. Chad's eyes gleamed as his lips silently framed two words. "Old Ringtail," he whispered under his breath and his hand tightened on the barrel of his gun. Yet, though the fox was within easy range, the boy made no further move.
He owed old Ringtail a grudge. The big gray fox, with the strangely barred tail which was unlike the tail of any other gray fox ever seen in that region, had raided the plantation poultry flock on at least two occasions and had carried off at least two fine hens. But to Chad, Ringtail had long been a sort of hero because of the almost incredible skill which he had shown in baffling the best fox hunters and the best fox dogs of the neighborhood. Many stories were told of his cunning, and at least some of them were true; and the boy, though he himself was an ardent hunter, found a keen pleasure in these accounts of Ringtail's prowess and was conscious of a certain sympathy for the old dog fox who had proved himself more than a match for the finest hunting packs. True, when he had satisfied himself by an examination of certain tell-tale tracks that it was Ringtail who had stolen his hens, Chad had vowed to have revenge. Yet, now that the chance had come, he held his hand.
He waited because he was a woodsman before he was a gunner—because his interest in the ways of the wild folk was stronger than his desire for revenge; and he realized at once that the old fox was planning something, that he was even then preparing some exploit which would be worth watching. Ringtail's whole attitude, his every movement showed that he was deeply absorbed in some important and pressing piece of business; and Chad's eyes searched the woods in front, striving to determine the fox's purpose.
Plainly he had scented game. As he crept forward, very slowly and cautiously, his delicate feet making no sound, at times his pointed nose was raised high, moving from side to side. He was creeping straight toward the little creek winding through the forest behind steep banks which hid the water from view; and Chad, realizing that the wind blew from the creek toward the fox, suddenly remembered the splashing sound which he had heard in the brook a few minutes before.
He watched the fox eagerly, convinced that he had found the key to old Ringtail's strategy, though he was still in the dark as to what creature it was that had made that splash. He reflected, however, that Ringtail knew what he was about; that he was relying not upon sound alone but upon an even surer guide than sound; that his wonderful nose told him precisely what it was that lurked in the creek-bed or on the surface of the water. And, as had happened often in the past, the human hunter felt a thrill of envy as he considered that marvelous power of scent which is of greater value to the four-footed hunters than either sight or hearing—of greater value, even, than strength or speed.
The minutes passed. Still the old fox crept forward, moving more and more slowly as he neared the creek-bank, sometimes almost crawling on the ground; and still Chad waited, tense and motionless, forgetful of the gobbler in search of which he had come to the Otter Woods. Twice Ringtail had changed his direction slightly; and although he had heard no sound from the creek-bed, the boy knew that the creature lurking there had twice moved a little farther up the stream. At last the fox crouched upon the very brink of the bank, just behind a small tuft of yellow, half-dead weeds. There he remained, still as a graven image, ears flattened, head raised an inch or two above the ground and pointing down the stream.
Minute followed minute until it seemed to Chad that fully a quarter of an hour must have passed. Then, just as a dark shadow swept across the ground and a great wide-winged bird swung in above the tree-tops and came to rest in the tallest pine, the boy realized that Ringtail had tightened his muscles for the leap.
Chad made his decision instantly. The big gobbler had come. He stood on the high limb upon which he had just alighted, peering all around him with bright, suspicious eyes. This was the moment for a shot—a shot which would surely bring him down. Again Chad's hand tightened on his gun—and again it rested there inactive, motionless.
Once more the woodsman in him had triumphed over the gunner. The gobbler could wait. Above all else Chad was determined to watch to the end the little drama of the woods which Ringtail was about to bring to a climax.
A moment he saw the fox poise himself on the creek-bank, his ears cocked forward now, his body half-raised on his slim, wiry legs, his furry, faintly barred tail twisted a little to the side. Then, like a flash, he bounded over the rim of the bank and vanished.
Chad heard no splash of water as he had expected. Instead came a whirring tumult of wings, as three wood ducks catapulted upward from the creek and sped away through the trees, crying shrilly. Simultaneously Chad leaped to his feet and whipped his gun to his shoulder, the muzzle pointing upward toward the lofty limb where the gobbler had been perching.
He was too late by a fraction of a second. At the first flurry of the wood ducks' pinions, the gobbler had launched himself from his perch. Chad caught one glimpse of a great wide-winged shape sailing swiftly away amid the tree-tops. Then he lowered his eyes to see Ringtail the fox standing on the creek-bank gazing at him calmly, a male wood duck hanging from his jaws.
For perhaps five seconds the boy and the fox stared at each other without moving. Then, with a sudden swing of his body, Chad leveled his gun. He had watched the woods' drama through to its end; it was now time for action. Ringtail had cost him a fine gobbler. Moreover, wood ducks were favorites of his, and he had learned with angry surprise that among their many enemies was numbered at least one fox.
Chad had never known a fox to prey on wood ducks before; but evidently old Ringtail knew how to catch them, without even getting his feet wet, by stalking them along this narrow woods' creek and pouncing on them when they came out on the sandy margin below the bank. It was time to end the career of this murderer of precious wild fowl and costly thoroughbred hens.
Quickly as these thoughts flashed through the boy's brain, they were no quicker than the old fox whom they so vitally concerned. Suddenly, mysteriously, Ringtail vanished like a ghost, bounding with the swiftness of light down the steep bank just behind him. Chad ran forward, holding his gun ready; but Ringtail had gone, carrying his duck with him.
For at least three years and probably four, Ringtail had lived in the neighborhood of the plantation. Yet Chad, though he spent much time in the woods, had seen him only three times. In his extreme secretiveness the old dog fox was unlike many others of his kind. Sometimes the gray fox seems to take a certain joy in showing himself to man provided the man carries no gun, but old Ringtail was much too wise to indulge in such dangerous foolishness. He had been hunted too often to take chances; for his unusual size and, especially, his unique brush made him the particular object of many a fox hunter's ambition. Having had but three glimpses of the fox in the course of as many years, Chad would have laughed at the notion that he might encounter Ringtail again that very day. Yet so the forest Fates willed it.
By then it was mid-afternoon. Tired, disappointed and a little angry with himself, Chad was making his way homeward. But for his desire to watch Ringtail stalk a victim, he would have bagged the big gobbler which his father expected or at least hoped for. He was deeply chagrined at his failure, which he felt was his own fault; and for some hours after the affair in the Otter Woods he had hunted diligently, hoping that he might still have the luck to "walk up" a feeding or roosting turkey. His search, however, had been fruitless. He had seen no game which would serve his purpose, though once at long range he had glimpsed the white flag of a fine buck which leaped from its bed in the green top of a fallen pine tree. Finally, he had given up his quest, and turned homeward.
A deer path brought him to the woods' edge, and for some distance he followed the margin of the forest. To his left stretched a wide expanse of abandoned ricefield, thickly grown with tall cattails, reeds and water-grasses, yellow and sere now that autumn had come. Beyond the ricefields wound a river; and beyond the river lay a wilderness of marsh and low thick jungle, stretching for miles, an almost impenetrable fastness, the home of many deer and even a few black bear.
Chad watched the open spaces to his left rather than the woods to his right. In the woods, little visible life was stirring; but above the ricefields, above the river and above the jungly wilderness beyond, the air was full of movement. Small platoons of swift-flying mallards winged their way here and there, passing from one ricefield canal to another. Innumerable companies of blackbirds wheeled and maneuvered in the air. Now and again, a flock of doves passed well out of range, their long, pointed wings driving them at high speed. The graceful white herons which abounded on the ricefields in summer had vanished with the advent of cool weather; but in their place had come other birds less beautiful perhaps, but not less interesting—long-tailed marsh harriers quartering the grassy plains; big redtailed hawks, wide-winged and stately; a pair of white-headed eagles soaring grandly in the upper air.
Chad was watching one of the circling redtails when, at a much lower height, three swift-flying birds shot across the field of his vision. He recognized them at once as wood ducks which had come out of the woods to his right; and, following their course, he saw them swing around in a half circle, and then slant down to a spot in the ricefield not far from the woods' edge and perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead. Chad knew that spot well. A pool lay there, just at the head of a small canal—a placid, tiny pond which seemed always to be teeming with life. The wood ducks, he knew, were dabbling about the shallow reed-grown margins of this pond; and he thought with regret of the law which protected them and of his father's warning to leave them alone. But for that law, he might yet carry home some game worth having—indeed, the finest game that the plantation country afforded.
As he neared the pool, he decided that just for the fun of it, he would stalk the ducks; not in order to shoot them, of course, but simply to see how close he could get to them without being discovered. To carry out this purpose, he turned and made his way across the wet ricefield to a low bank thickly grown with reeds, then walked along the bank in the direction of the pool. Close to the little pond this bank joined at right-angles another and larger bank which extended from the woods clear across the ricefield to the river shore; and just at the junction of these two banks, Chad saw a surprising thing.
He saw Ringtail, the fox, standing in the path on the larger bank; and he saw with interest, too, that Ringtail held the body of a male wood duck in his jaws, evidently the same duck that the fox had captured in the Otter Woods that morning. Plainly Ringtail was hot hungry and was saving his game until his appetite returned. But what was he up to now, the boy wondered. Why was he standing motionless on the ricefield bank, his head held high, his sensitive nose testing the air?
Chad, screened by the reeds, stood still as a statue, his gun ready, his eyes studying the fox. Again an odd stroke of fortune had placed Ringtail at his mercy; yet, again, he found himself loath to fire the shot which would end the career of this furry brigand, this wild hunter whose wits had kept him safe so long amid so many dangers. Chad could not help admiring the beauty of the fox as he stood at attention, keenly alert, vividly alive, his thick coat of silver-gray, russet and black shining in the sun. The young woodsman hesitated. Once more he felt sure that Ringtail was planning something, and again he was conscious of a consuming curiosity to learn what that plan was, to watch the execution of the fox's design.
Presently, as the boy waited, Ringtail dropped the dead duck hanging from his jaws, lifted his head still higher and carefully sniffed the breeze, waving his nose from side to side. In a flash, Chad realized the fox's purpose. Evidently he had scented the wood ducks in the pool a little ahead of him up the wind, and although he already had one duck, he was going to try for another.
For a moment Chad, angry at the thought of a second raid on the ducks, was on the point of throwing his gun to his shoulder. Then suddenly an idea came to him. His tightened muscles relaxed; but more eagerly than ever he watched the fox, awaiting his next move.
That move was exactly what Chad expected. After a moment or two, Ringtail seemed completely satisfied with what his nose told him. Leaving his duck lying on the ground, he walked slowly forward along the bank in the direction of the pool, passing out of sight amid the tall reeds and cattails. Chad waited some minutes, then very slowly and cautiously stole forward almost to the intersection of the two paths. There he halted and stood motionless, straining to catch some sound from the direction of the pool.
He could not see the pool, for the reeds hid it from view. But he could imagine what was taking place there—the three wood ducks dabbling in the shallows close to the margin, idling and feeding amid the succulent green water-growths along the edges; the lithe gray hunter creeping nearer and nearer amid the reeds, skilfully utilizing every scrap of cover to screen his slow approach. Chad knew the spot well. He could see it and its surroundings clearly in his mind's eye; and he figured the chances rapidly, deciding that, on the whole, the odds were against the gray hunter. The dry leaves of the frost-killed cattails would crackle at the slightest touch. It seemed to Chad impossible that Ringtail could make his way through them so noiselessly as to get within leaping distance of his prey.
Yet, strange to say, Chad's feeling had undergone a complete reversal. Whereas heretofore his sympathies had been all with the ducks and against their would-be slayer, he now found himself earnestly hoping that Ringtail would succeed. In part, this change of sentiment was due to the admiration which he had conceived for the old fox's sagacity and skill—the admiration which one good woodsman feels for another who has demonstrated his proficiency in the exacting arts of the woods. But in still larger part, the change was due to the idea, the plan, which had been born in Chad's mind a few minutes before. For the success of that plan depended on the outcome of Ringtail's undertaking.
The slow minutes passed. Chad waited as patiently as he could, knowing that the old fox was a careful worker and that this time he had need of especial caution. Yet the boy's patience was almost exhausted when at last he heard the sound for which he had been waiting—a sudden loud splashing, a violent whirring of swiftly-beating wings, followed immediately by the plaintive, discordant cry of a wood duck startled into flight. Chad craned his neck trying to see how many ducks rose from the pool; but the frightened birds flew in the opposite direction, partly hidden by the tall reeds, and he could not make sure whether they were two or three in number.
That, however, mattered little. In a minute or two, he would know. He waited, tense, expectant, his gun half-raised to his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the open space just ahead of him at the intersection of the two paths. Whether Ringtail had failed or succeeded, he would return to get the duck that he had left on the bank. Chad, standing behind the screen of reeds just around the corner where the two paths came together, would not be able to see Ringtail until the fox had reached the opening where he had left the duck. That would be the critical moment. Chad awaited it, every muscle taut, his finger on the trigger.
It burst upon him unexpectedly, seconds sooner than he expected. He had heard not the faintest sound: but, all at once, there in the opening where the two paths joined stood Ringtail, his tall ears pricked, his plumy, faintly-barred brush waving slowly from side to side. He had not failed. In his jaws he held another wood duck, a fine drake; and with a playful flourish of his head, as though rejoicing over his triumph, he dropped this second trophy of his skill beside the other duck lying in the path.
Next moment, as the old fox raised his head, he saw Chad standing not twenty feet from him in the other path, his gun leveled.
For half a second the two looked into each other's eyes. Then the crashing roar of the shotgun shattered the silence.
Chad walked forward briskly, breeching the gun and slipping in another cartridge. His tanned face wore a broad grin. He would never forget the expression on Ringtail's countenance the moment before he had pulled trigger, and he wondered gleefully what the old fox was thinking now. One thing he was sure of: Ringtail was still running and he would continue running for quite a while.
Chad stooped and examined the two wood ducks lying on the ground where Ringtail had placed them. They were in perfect condition, unbruised and showing only a few traces of blood. Then he glanced at the cattails beyond the bank, riddled and torn by the charge of turkey shot which he had fired five feet over the fox's head. Finally, grinning more broadly than ever, he picked up the ducks and started homeward.
Presently he laughed aloud.
"So," he chuckled, "the Judge is counting on summer ducks for dinner to-morrow, is he? Well, he'll have them, and without breaking any law either. But he ought to propose a rising vote of thanks to a certain old friend of mine who goes by the name of Ringtail in these parts."