The young foxes were unaware of the threat above them. Yet some instinct within Vulpes struck a warning note. He crouched along a greenbrier thicket. In a moment he would have rejoined his venturesome brother who had the turtle on its back. But in that moment the owl struck!
Like a bolt of feathered lightning, Bubo dove past Vulpes. His venturesome brother took the full impact of the attack. A brief, silent struggle followed the dull thud of the strike. Vulpes recoiled into the thicket.
There was a sharp snap of teeth, as Bubo rose heavily with the little fox. With a snarl, Vulpes’ mother had flashed to the scene and had leapt at the owl to save her son. An instant too late, her teeth closed on the empty air. Tense and trembling she watched Bubo lift his burden low over the tree tops and disappear.
Sadly she turned to the whimpering Vulpes. She looked long at her frightened son. The great tragedy struck her heart and she called sadly into the night. She turned once more to look at the trees over which Bubo had flown. Then she nudged Vulpes and he scampered out of the greenbrier patch and up the slope to the den. The little fox darted into the dark tunnel without looking back. The five other puppies followed him in when they sensed the fear and grief in their mother’s anxious movements.
Over the hill Vulpes heard his father growl at the unseen dangers that forever lurked in the woods.
CHAPTER THREE
MAY CAME TO THE Maryland woods and opened the purple blossoms of the pawpaw. The May-apples bloomed under their green umbrellas, and the Jack-in-the-pulpits stood straight and tall in their green parishes. The floor of the woods was splashed with spring flowers and the warblers flew in from the South. Some stayed to nest, others paused briefly during the day, then resumed their flight northward with the setting of the sun.
The woods along the river were filled with birds. Vulpes felt the happiness of their brilliant songs and rollicked and played in the fresh spring air.
With the coming of June the pups were about half grown. They still lacked the red luster of their parents’ coats, but Vulpes could feel a growing strength in his body. As each day passed, he gained more of the smooth easy grace of his mother and father. He liked to run over the rocks and stretch his young, lithe legs in a race with his brothers and sisters. His explorations became wider and wider until he knew who was nesting in the honeysuckle thickets and who was nesting in the redbud trees all around the den.
More and more of late his father had been dropping mice in the woods near the den. Earlier his father had brought mice right up to their home. But now he was encouraging his young family to seek them in the woods. In this way the little foxes were taught to hunt their food.
One evening Vulpes climbed up to the grassy knoll where the woodcock danced earlier in the spring. He had learned that this was where his father liked to rest. He sat down on a flat rock much as his father had done. From the rock he could see over the canal bank and out to the gorge of the Potomac River. He could look up and down the tow-path. He could look through the open woods and see the shrubby fence rows of the farmlands in the distance. The fence rows were twisted with honeysuckle vines that filled the air with a heavy sweet scent.
As he glanced about, Vulpes caught a blur of movement in the woods below him. He studied the movement carefully. Then he wagged his tail, for he saw it was his father. The old dog fox came up to the clearing and gazed at his son. He was surprised to find him there on his high rock. For a moment he stood and looked at him proudly, then he trotted off to join his mate at the den.
Vulpes thought his father might have hidden a mouse while he paused at the edge of the clearing. So he dashed over to the spot. He sniffed the air, and sure enough, he caught the scent of a mouse. Instinctively he hunted. The scent seemed to be coming from a dense clump of grass. He pounced upon it. Quickly he bit down into the tangled mat. At the same time he heard a squeak. Vulpes had caught his first mouse alone!
It was the best mouse he had ever eaten. As he finished he looked up to see his father standing beside him. The old fox was there on his first triumph.
With the coming of July, Vulpes had learned to hunt quite well. July along the Potomac was hot and moist and the little foxes stayed in the cool den during the day. Outside they could hear the heavy drone of insects in the hot summer sun. The birds seldom sang during the day. Only the monotonous call of the vireos and the flycatchers sounded through the woods.
In the cool of the evening Vulpes wandered off through the woods. The summer foliage made heavy shadows along his favorite trail that led to the crest of the hill. He had grown confident—perhaps too confident of his ability as a hunter.
This evening he was out to hunt. He trotted to the grassy knoll where he had caught his first mouse. Often he had caught crickets there and chased rabbits. As he came up over the ridge of the hill he sniffed the air. He smelt nothing in the hot summer evening. He crouched and listened.
Except for the crickets, the hill was silent. This evening he found the crickets of little interest so he trotted over to the fence row that bordered the farmlands. He knew that the shrubby fence rows where the woods met the fields were used as pathways for larger game.
Vulpes looked at the old weathered chestnut rails. They were wound with trumpet vines and honeysuckle that had grown up during the years. Twisted thickets of greenbrier and blackberries stretched along the woodland border. The wildlife found these fences to their liking. There was an abundance of food and at the same time there were many excellent hiding places near-by. They could scurry to cover at the threat of danger.
So it was that these places were used as woodland avenues. Here the quail moved from one feeding patch to another; coons followed the paths to woodland streams; opossums and rabbits, chipmunks and squirrels constantly passed along them.
Vulpes crept through the trumpet vines and honeysuckle and crouched under a fence rail where he could watch the avenues. Presently he saw a rabbit hopping along slowly. Its small nose wriggled as it smelt the new leaves and chewed the tender clover. Vulpes balanced himself for a spring. He scarcely stirred a leaf. When the rabbit was within reach, the little fox flashed out of his hiding place under the rail. He had misjudged. The rabbit burst into a gallop, with Vulpes after him losing ground rapidly. He was no match for the cottontail. But he enjoyed the chase, and followed him out through the field, over the hills and back to the woods.
It wasn’t long before the rabbit was out of sight. Now Vulpes was following him by scent alone. Gradually the trail became weaker and weaker. Then he lost it.
Vulpes sat down and scratched his head with his hind foot. He sniffed the air. Presently he saw what his nose had been expecting. A chipmunk was scurrying down the side of a gnarled ironwood tree.
The chipmunk looked up from his busy work and glanced at Vulpes. He came lower and flicked his tail, teasing the little fox into a chase. Vulpes sensed his play and turned his nose away, ignoring him. But Tamias, the chipmunk, was not to be brushed off when he felt in a frivolous mood. He ran down the ironwood trunk to a crotch about three feet above the ground. He fussed noisily at the fox. Vulpes looked up at the evening sky. Tamias flew down the side of the tree and skidded over to a near-by oak. He buzzed gleefully at the little fox.
This began to excite Vulpes. He waited for the next move that Tamias should make. Presently, the noisy chipmunk came down the oak to make a dash for the ironwood again. Vulpes pretended he didn’t see him. He looked at an oak leaf twisting in the light wind. Tamias whizzed by. Vulpes leapt after him. There was no squeal. Only the scratch of little feet on the ironwood and then a mad chatter from the limb of the tree where Tamias sat in safety.
Vulpes lifted his head into the air and trotted off toward the hill that overlooked the river. Maybe he didn’t catch the rabbit, maybe he didn’t catch the chipmunk, but he knew where some good crickets and grasshoppers were and he would show them what a fine hunter he was.
Early one morning while Vulpes slept in the den with his nose at the tunnel, he smelt some
men coming down the tow-path. His curiosity was aroused and he crept to the end of the tunnel to watch them. They were talking and laughing and their voices rang out clearly in the cool air of the summer morning. Vulpes looked back at his brothers and sisters. They were curled in tight, ruddy balls with their now rather pretentious tails swirled up to their noses. They were almost too big for the den, but they still came back to it to sleep and rest. It was a haven for the little foxes although they were almost full grown. Vulpes’ parents rarely slept with the cubs now. They would go out on a bare rock and sleep during the warm daylight hours. However, they were always near-by.
Vulpes saw that everyone was sleeping, but decided he would follow the men. He wanted to discover for himself what made them his greatest enemy. His curiosity was still unsatisfied.
The men had passed the den and were well up the path. Vulpes stepped lightly over the rocks and glided down into the grassy bottom of the canal. The summer had filled the canal with reeds and weeds. The water ran only in a trickle down the bed. The frogs made less noise these hot days, and only occasionally on a cool night did Vulpes hear Hyla.
As he crossed the canal bed and darted up the bank on the other side, a cloud of butterflies flew up before him and scattered like leaves over the water. When Vulpes had passed they settled back to the muddy pools.
As the fox came up on the tow-path he saw that the men had turned off the canal and were following a foot trail down through the woods toward the river. Clinging to the foliage that now almost overgrew the path, Vulpes followed them silently.
He turned down the trail where the men had gone, and followed them just on the other side of a low ridge. They strode through the woods fearlessly and came out to the river at the gorge. From a safe distance Vulpes could watch them. They had no sharp fangs or claws. There was nothing about these smooth, hairless animals that aroused any respect in the little fox. He crept closer, clinging low to the ground and barely turning a twig. He was not afraid, yet he naturally followed the instincts of the wild within him. He remained hidden.
There were three men. They all carried rifles. One of the men raised his gun to his shoulder and pointed it at a log floating in the river. The sharp report surprised the fox. He drew back. His muscles tensed and his ears shot forward. For a moment he felt real fear. The log that the man had shot bobbed in the river. A spray of water burst into the air around it.
Vulpes was about to run, when he saw a second man pointing his gun at a starling. It was digging in a pile of rubbish and driftwood at the water’s edge. He sensed the meaning of this and poised alert. The rifle cracked. A wisp of smoke rose from the barrel. Vulpes saw the starling flutter and fall. It was all over in an instant. As the man ran to the spot where the bird lay, the young fox caught the smell of the burnt gunpowder. Vulpes watched another minute, then turned and silently slipped back through the woods. He understood.
As he sped up the hill to the den, he saw his father sleeping on his favorite rock on the knoll. Vulpes paused and looked at him. The old fox lifted his head and exchanged a knowing glance with his son. Vulpes could smell his father’s fresh trail that led to the hill. His father had not been there long. He had followed Vulpes to the edge of the gorge and had seen his son and the men.
The old fox flicked his tail. His son had learned one of the most important lessons of his life. He knew how man hunted.
The sun was getting high and the heat was making it uncomfortable to be about. Vulpes climbed to a rock above the den and curled up to sleep for the first time in the open.
As he dozed off, he could hear a red-headed woodpecker pounding at a dead tree above his head. The steady rat-a-tat-tat echoed around the hills of the canal. At first he liked the monotonous hammering. Then he became aware of little pieces of bark dropping around him. He opened one eye. His handsome coat of which he was growing so proud, was peppered with sawdust from the woodpecker’s work. Vulpes was annoyed that his first sleep in the open should be marred by this bird. He got up and shook himself. He scowled at the bird in the dead hickory above him. Then he walked down to the den door.
He did not look back to see what his father was doing. He knew that the old fox was watching him in amusement. He crawled down the dark tunnel and fell asleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
WITH THE FIRST FROST the woods slowly took on their autumn coloring. The summer green faded out of the leaves and left them gold and red and brown and purple. They decorated the hills along the Potomac and trimmed the fence rows with brilliance. The hickory nuts ripened and fell to the ground. The hazel nuts burst their leafy hulls and popped to the woodland floor. The persimmons ripened and swung like gold bells from the bare limbs of the trees.
Vulpes liked to watch the leaves twist on the twigs, hesitate a moment and then sail off into the wind. When the wind was brisk it sent them cascading down the tow-path in racing swirls.
Tamias, the chipmunk, was busy gathering nuts and acorns for the winter. He would stuff two or more in his cheek pouches until they were bigger than his head. Then he would race off to underground storage bins near his burrow. The leaves flew behind his feet as he scampered wildly through the autumn leaves.
Down in the canal bottom Vulpes saw the turtles and frogs digging into the mud to sleep away the winter. Above them, the brown cattails had burst into clusters of creamy white seeds that floated along the bottomlands.
Vulpes was a handsome fox. He was taking on the bright burnt-orange luster which gave him the name, Vulpes, the Red Fox. He had few friends. He was not loved by the woodland creatures. Now that he was full grown, he was more than a match for any of the inhabitants of the Maryland woods. He walked alone.
Vulpes seldom saw his parents now. The old foxes had done their job and were encouraging the young foxes to make their way on their own. They had schooled them in hunting and in wariness and had found them apt pupils. Soon they would sever forever the loose family ties that still held them together.
Already the family had traveled great distances from home. Nevertheless they still liked the river bottoms with their abandoned farms and woodlands. Though they might travel many miles in one day, they were never more than several hours from the den.
On one of his travels Vulpes went to Muddy Branch, a stream about six miles up the canal. He had taken a trail up the river to this wild area along the Potomac. He had crossed over the old canal locks that were rotting in the water. At Great Falls he had listened to the roar of the Potomac River as it rolled over the steep drop in its course. He had passed unpainted and weathered houses where fishermen lived. At last he came to Muddy Branch. The feeder stream had cut a deep and fertile valley as it took its course to the Potomac. On the floor of the valley giant oaks and beech trees spread their ancient limbs over the glossy laurel thickets. This lovely wilderness was the home of many animals. Here there were places where they could find shelter and an abundance of food.
Just above Muddy Branch, at the bottom of a rolling hill, stood a small farm. Woods surrounded it on three sides, and a narrow rutted road led into it. Corduroy patches along the road marked the springs that opened on the hill and ran down into the wet bottomland below the farm. The bottomland reached out to the river and was tangled with blackberry bushes, greenbrier and honeysuckle. Above the wet thickets rose tall oaks, maples, the river birch and beech trees.
This was the home of old Buck Queen, the fox-hunter. In the backyard stood a model-T Ford. When he wanted to use it he would push it out of the old barn, get in and let it roll down the hill. With a chug, chug, chug of the motor and a couple of bangs, Buck Queen would be bouncing down the rutted road to the main pike.
On Buck Queen’s farm there were apples, pears, chickens and turkeys that tempted Vulpes; but there were also dogs. In the kennels which stretched around the house over to the barn and circled the chicken pen were many hunting dogs. These were no pampered house dogs. These were dogs of the fields and streams. There were swift, high-spirited bird dogs, pointers and setters.
There were pedigreed champions and blue ribbon winners, dogs that carried away the honors year after year at the field trials. And there were fox hounds.
The fox hounds were smaller and chunkier than the streamlined bird dogs. Though Vulpes did not know it, these hounds had been bred through the years for the specific purpose of hunting him and his kind. Long ago the sportsmen had found that the hounds used for the English fox were far too slow for the swift-footed American fox.
Vulpes had hunted late this night. The eastern sky was growing lighter and long shadows were appearing behind the trees when he curled up on a big stump in a thicket and went to sleep. He was still hungry, for his was a young and ravenous appetite that was hard to satisfy. He thought of the apples in Buck Queen’s yard, but remembered the hounds. After the sun was up a few hours, the far off cry of Brownie, the Red Bone hound, roused him from his light slumber. Vulpes was not the only one to hear the hound. Old Buck Queen was standing along the road below his farm, listening carefully. At times Buck could spot the hound as he trailed through the wooded bottomlands. The woodsman didn’t even have a gun with him this morning. He was just warming up the hounds for the opening hunting season. His old brown coat was open to the sharp weather, and his warm felt hat was pushed back from his forehead. He still held Joe, the Blue Tick hound, on his leash. He was waiting for Brownie to hit a hot trail before he turned the other dog free.
Buck Queen knew his hounds. The young Red Bone would hunt the bottoms close to home. Not flashy, and lacking the initial burst of speed of the Blue Tick hound, Brownie nevertheless had great endurance. He had been known to carry a chase for two days. He never gave up a trail as long as there was one to follow.