The Way of the Wild (Hawkes)/The Hunter Hunted
Red Fox is a mighty hunter. For his size and weight, he is probably the most successful hunter in the carnivorous kingdom. There are many reasons for this. In the first place, he is very fleet of foot and has great stealth in stalking quarry. So whether it is a straightaway run for life, or a sudden spring after long waiting, he is equally well equipped. His nose, hearing, and eyesight are of the best, and his wits have no betters in the domain of wild creatures, so all these things help to make Red Fox the mighty hunter.
Then, his kind have been hunters ever since the first fox stalked the first rabbit, so it is bred in the bone. His hunting is also varied.
Some carnivorous animals stick to a few easy victims, but not so with Red Fox hunting.
On moonlight nights, he may be seen in the meadows hunting field-mice.
This is the time when the mice come out of their runways to play and it is also the time for Red Fox's best hunting in the meadows.
When Mr. Fox is desperate, he will dig under two feet of snow, then into the frozen grass roots, and pull the field-mouse out of his hiding-place. I have often seen the dead grass which came from the mouse runway on the top of the snow in winter-time.
Such wary birds as the partridge have to match their wits against those of Red Fox. He will stalk the mother partridge while she broods a bevy of young under the top of a fallen tree and gobble up the whole brood if he can. Or perhaps in winter on a very cold night he will dig the partridge out from under a foot of snow where the poor bird has taken refuge to keep from freezing.
On moonlight nights in midwinter, the rabbits in the rabbit warren like to play tag. They will spend hours chasing one another up and down in the laurel and small spruces. But often while they play a dark sinister form with two yellow eyes stands under a bush watching.
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At just the right moment when the play is at its height, there is a sudden rush and the rabbits flee in every direction. For a few seconds there is a desperate race for life. Out and in they twist, then there is a pathetic cry for all the world like the cry of a baby. This is when Red Fox's deadly jaws close upon the back of the unfortunate cottontail.
One shake of his head and the trick is done. Then he throws the dead rabbit over his back and trots off home to his burrow and perhaps a litter of young foxes.
In the early spring, he may steal down to the edge of a river or lake and swim for twenty rods with the tip of his nose just showing, being careful not to make ripples. At last he reaches his victim and a duck will suddenly disappear under the water. When it comes up it will be dead and firmly held in the jaws of Red Fox.
The hen-coop Red Fox also raids most successfully and this is often the cause of his undoing. The particular Red Fox of my story had made several raids on the hen-coops in the village a mile from the mountain where he lived and this caused the Valley Fox Hunter's Association to swear vengeance against him and to plan a hunt that should bring his red pelt to their club rooms.
So as it often happens, the hunter had to take his turn and be hunted, not by his natural enemies of which he has few, but by man, the most cunning of all the foes of the wild kindred.
It was a clear crisp morning in early November. There was just enough sting in the air to make it as bracing as old wine. Along all the runways beside the streams and in the low places, a hard white frost had gemmed and adorned the weeds and grasses. All this wonderful lace work would disappear as soon as the sun was an hour high, but now it was very beautiful. Red Fox had gone that morning early on a specially daring raid in the village. The Valley Fox Club had cut in behind him quite by accident and put the pack upon his fresh track. Not that they knew he was in the village, for it was a mere coincidence. Just a bit of hard luck on the part of Red Fox that any good hunter is liable to experience. So it happened that when Red Fox started to back track to his lair on the mountainside, he met the pack in full cry.
He at once knew what this meant. He had watched too many fox hunts from his lookout at the mountain-top not to understand. He knew full well that along the road between himself and the mountain and in all the likely runways men were posted with their deadly thunder-sticks. Dogs he did not much fear, but the men with these deadly weapons were different. He knew if he was to keep his hide that day he must not try to double back to the mountain at that stage of the game. Instead, he must lead the pack far across the country away from the mountain. Then the men would follow, hoping to get a shot at him on some of the crossroads. Hours later, it might be safe for him to try to double back to the mountain.
So Red Fox turned reluctantly, for he hated the idea of this long, hard chase and led the pack at his best pace further and further from his native lair, where he knew was the only lasting safety.
It was a thrilling sight to the fox hunters as they sighted the chase on several occasions too far away for a shot; the Red Fox, his brush held high, belly to earth, galloping easily across the open country, the deep-throated pack in full cry a score of rods behind.
But Red Fox did not intend to use only his fleet legs. He also used his fox cunning. Once he stopped on a cliff and made a figure 8 of his track. ITe then jumped six or eight feet to a shelf and left the ledge by a series of great jumps. It was a maze of fox cunning that would have puzzled many a pack. It would have puzzled this pack also, had it not been for old Bugler, the leader. When this veteran hound ran into the tangle as he led the pack, he ranged a minute this way and that, then held his head high for a few moments and simply by his great nose and his knowledge of fox cunning took the trail above the ledge and all of Red Fox's planning went for naught. When the hunters next sighted the chase Red Fox was only fifteen rods ahead.
He then tried running in a brook for a score of rods, but this merely served to wet his coat, while old Bugler picked up the fresh trail on the other side without the slightest difficulty. From this futile attempt to discomfort the pack, he tried the railroad track, running for several rods upon a rail where he would leave little scent, and then springing into some bushes down a steep bank, but this also gained him little advantage.
For another hour, the chase led across the open country, but it was getting more desperate with each mile passed. Red Fox was lolling, his tongue out, although the chase was only two hours old, and his brush had begun to droop, a sure sign that he was tired.
This open country running was clearly not his kind of a game, especially with old Bugler leading the pack, so he took to cover whenever it offered. This would have worked out well and might have given him some advantage, had he not been playing in bad luck. Once he doubled back on the opposite edge of the woods from that in which he entered. The last dog in the pack saw him as he came out of the woods on the other side and sounded the alarm, so the entire pack turned, left the trail and cut across his large loop and were off for another straightaway with the fox leading by only eight rods. This so encouraged the pack that they redoubled their efforts and Red Fox had a hard time of it to beat them to the next cover barely five rods ahead. Here he was more successful and he emerged ten rods ahead, but this advantage was overcome as he was getting tired and they were soon upon his heels again, not over a hundred feet away. Something must be done and that quickly. In spite of himself, Red Fox had been heading gradually back toward his beloved mountain. He might meet a man with his thunder-stick any minute. They would hear the pack and know he was just ahead of them. They were all converging upon him. His case was desperate. At this point in the chase, a clump of spruce half a mile away was sighted. There might even be a hunter waiting in that woods for him but it was his only chance, so he took it. Just as he entered the cover, a bright idea came to him. If he could jump his enemy Black Blanket, another Red Fox, he might double-cross him and put the pack on his trail. He owed Black Blanket many a grudge and this might be a way to pay him off. Red Fox knew that his enemy often lay in this cover during the forenoon. He even knew the spot where he usually was to be found, so he headed straight for it.
It was a very dense clump of low spruces, almost impenetrable. To his great joy, Red Fox scented his enemy as he neared the lair. He sprang straight into it and with an angry snarl at his adversary, crossed Black Blanket's own trail which he had just made. This strategy gave Red Fox new courage so he sprinted away at a good pace. There was now just an even chance that the pack would take his enemy's trail in place of his own. A few minutes later to his great joy, he heard the pack in full cry on the trail of Black Blanket. His yellow eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he heard the pack in full cry after his enemy.
But the entire pack was not fooled. Old Bugler did not even notice the other track. He was after Red Fox and he knew his trail from that of all other foxes, so he took the track at the X and came after Red Fox at full cry.
As soon as Red Fox saw this, he knew that his doom was sealed. He had played his last and highest card and had lost. Bugler would catch him within a mile or two and then it would be a broken back for him. But he was a red fox and he would die game. No red fox ever gave up as long as he had the breath of life in him lie would even fight the great fox hound. He would at least leave his mark on the hound's hide. They should have something to remember him by. Just at that moment, he crossed the railroad track again and then like a flash remembered the deep cut. He had nearly been caught there himself one day by a passing train, and he had saved himself by springing to a shelf on one side in the middle of the cut. He could see the smoke from the Great Thunderer far across the plains. If he could reach the cut and get upon that shelf, the Great Thunderer might save him. He put the last ounce of his strength into the race and reached the cut three rods ahead of the hound. Down the cut he raced straight toward the oncoming train. He could hear it thundering and rumbling. If he was not in time, it would crush him. He had seen one of his brothers horribly mangled by a train. But what did it matter? That would be no worse than old Bugler's deadly jaws, so he raced on. The train was barely three hundred feet away. It was thundering, snorting and hissing, the very demon of death.
Bugler was crying the cry of the pack at his heels. He gathered all his remaining strength and reached the ledge. Once he sj'rang and missed but he was up and tried again. The second time he missed, but still another spring he had left in him. This time with all the strength of desperation, he sprang and reached the ledge and safety, just as the train thundered by.
He lay down on the ledge panting and sobbing from exhaustion. The monster roared by, then when the smoke had cleared. Red Fox raised his head and looked anxiously for his pursuer.
At first he could not discover him, but he finally made out his head fifty feet away and further on, his mangled body.
Red Fox sprang lightly down from his ledge and warily approached the dead hound. For several seconds he stood looking at him. Then with a yawn of great weariness and perhaps also of satisfaction, he trotted away through the cut toward his beloved mountain.
He had beaten Valley Fox Club at their own game and was well content.