Fox Tracks

CHAPTER 12

Reflected on the snow, the last rivulets of the setting sun changed from gold to pink to scarlet to purple. The colors announced a harsh winter’s night ahead, a contrast before darkness, a brief blood-red splash in a cold world of white, beige, and gray. Winter’s limited palette had the compensating grace of allowing one to see the true lay of the land.

Uncle Yancey, an older red fox, casually walked on top of the snow, the crust supporting his impressive thirteen pounds. This winter, he’d dropped, not significantly, only a pound so far, but by February pickings were getting slim. Much as he tried to fatten up in those rich months of autumn, he would lose that insurance fat by February. Up until now, the mild winter favored him, but his senses told him winter wasn’t over yet.

Lifting his chiseled head, the setting rays turning his fur molten copper, he sniffed deeply. The odor of an old deer carcass greeted him. In another mile he’d arrive at the large heavy wooden feeding station built by the Jefferson Hunt Club. Why bother with an old carcass when good food could be found?

Uncle Yancey loved Sister’s boxes. They had an entrance and an exit. He could slip in, eat, and even curl up if he wanted to. Years ago he’d gobbled himself insensate and fell asleep only to be startled awake by Sister Jane herself lifting the heavy lid. He froze. So did she. Then he finally scooted out an exit, but he didn’t run. He maintained his dignity while she hoisted a fifty-pound bag of kibble, pouring it into the feeder.

Sister fed the foxes the same as she fed the hounds, changing the protein and fat content with the season. Before breeding began, usually in mid-December, she also drizzled wormer over the kibble. Uncle Yancey could always taste it, but he’d tasted worse. That wormer was one of the reasons he kept weight on as long as he did. His coat, two layers thick, caused humans to gasp when they spotted him during a hunt. He was handsome enough, maybe not as handsome as some of the younger boys, but still.

Passing the old family graveyard at the Lorillard place, the fox noticed Sam’s battered heap and Gray’s Land Cruiser. Uncle Yancey thought that even without proper claws if humans walked on all fours they’d keep their balance better. Resting underneath the Lorillard porch, he had overheard conversations where the two brothers decried the expense of gas, running trucks and cars.

“Poor people,” he thought to himself as he trotted off in the sheer relief he was a superior creature.

When the hunt was on, the Lorillard place and After All, the big Bancroft estate next to it, along with Roughneck Farm, meant close to two thousand acres to run. When on a cracking long run while being chased by hounds, horses, and humans, Uncle Yancey could go to Roughneck, using thick woods, rock outcroppings, and the creek, to slow the field, and then he’d fly up to Hangman’s Ridge. The ghosts up there upset him, but not as much as the hounds on his trail. Arduous as that run was, he was fit and enjoyed fooling them. When he was in his prime, three to five years old, he could run all the way west, turn, and come back to the Lorillard place, where he kept a den.

His mate, Aunt Netty, had her den at Pattypan Forge. She drove him out last year when she saw how nice Pattypan was. She had previously thrown him out of their joint den because he was a slob, then she moved into Pattypan where she ran him crazy with her incessant demands. She rarely had a good word to say about him, even though he shared his food. The old girl was turning into a first-class nag. Yap Yap Yap. Drove him crazy. So what if chicken bones were on the floor of the den? He moved back to his old home place, his childhood den, which rested under old boxwoods where once a cabin must have been, before the Lorillards had the money to build the clapboard four-over-four Virginia farmhouse. No frills, clean lines, big porch, as many windows as they could afford back then, the old house was inviting for human and foxes. For safety’s sake, Uncle Yancey also had a den in the graveyard itself, as well as another under the Lorillards’ front porch. The humans could smell him under the porch, but they didn’t bother him. As for the graveyard, it too was inviting, though he’d regularly have to run off invasive skunks and groundhogs—mostly skunks, never a pleasant exchange. The two human brothers often fell behind in sprucing up the graveyard, which only encouraged wildlife to inhabit it. They’d get to it at least once a year and, as the brothers foxhunted, they left his den undisturbed.

The smells from the house enticed him. Often on warm nights, he’d prowl around the back door. You never knew what they’d drop or throw out. Over his lifetime he’d noticed how inattentive humans could be. While walking, they might juggle a cup and a plate of food, their toe hits a rock and some food falls off! Other times, the two fellows rocked on the front porch chairs, unaware Uncle Yancey was sitting below, listening in.

Humans fascinated Uncle Yancey. He liked to listen to the sounds they’d make. Their vocal range from high to low, interested him. He especially liked to hear them sing. Each voice sounded different. He liked it best when men and women sang together, but at the Lorillard place it was mostly the two brothers singing spirituals their mother had taught them.

Now that he was closer to the old abandoned farm road, the deer carcass smell hit him again. He detected something else: an old tang, something different.

Curiosity got the better of him. He took a slight detour from his direct route to the feeder a quarter mile away, following his nose.

Turning north on the abandoned road, packed hard with snow, he trotted along, soon finding the deer remains. She must have been shot in late November. Little was left of the doe except skin and fur. This infuriated Uncle Yancey. If a human kills an animal, they should haul it off and eat it. Then again, many humans weren’t good shots. They’d wound a deer, try to track it, lose it. The suffering animal would then die a protracted painful death. Much as he liked to eat fresh deer meat, Uncle Yancey believed in a swift death. When his time came, he hoped it was mercifully fast. Most of all, he hoped to outlive his nagging spouse.

He noticed another jawbone protruding through the collapsed rib cage. Uncle Yancey reached over to push it. The whole jaw was now exposed, the bottom of the teeth away from him. He pulled his paw back. This was a human skull. Wisps of red hair were now visible.

Uncle Yancey claimed no expertise on studying humans, but he knew they killed one another, whereas foxes rarely do. If a fox kills another fox, it’s usually while still in the den before they emerge as adults. The parents allow their cubs to kill any diseased or weak ones, then haul the dead kit out.

The four in Uncle Yancey’s birth litter survived this early time, as they were strong, healthy little things. Later, one brother, fully adult, was killed on Soldier Road, distracted by mating season. Uncle Yancey’s other two brothers moved far from the home territory. Being the strongest, Uncle Yancey claimed this area for his own, although he had to get away from his father once he was half grown. Not that his father would kill him, but the message had been clear: You’re on your own, son.

That was most of what the clever old fox knew about interspecies murder. Humans excelled at it. But he also knew they generally buried or hid the body. This human must have been killed about the same time as the doe. They may even have been killed together. The killer didn’t have the time or inclination to better dispose of the corpse. Hiding it under a deer during deer season showed some thought.

He left the sorry tattered remains of two creatures, heading back toward the feeder box. Once there, he easily slid inside, sat down, and enjoyed the kibble.

A noise outside stopped him mid-chew. He heard a side-to-side walk on top, then a familiar voice.

“Throw some out,” St. Just, the crow, demanded in his horrid voice.

As the crow and the fox hated each other, this request surprised Uncle Yancey. The bird must be hungry indeed.

“I’ll push some out, but first you have to tell me what you know about the deer carcass with the dead human underneath maybe a fourth or a third of a mile, a touch more, from the Lorillard place.”

The large blue-black bird hopped onto the ground so he could peer inside—not so close that Uncle Yancey could snag him. He knew how quick foxes were.

“I don’t know anything.”

“But you know they’re there.”

“Sure.”

“How long have you known?”

The crow cocked his head from one side to the other, “Mmm, second generation of maggots.”

“Long time back. Did you ever see a human go back to check?”

“No. You know as well as I do that road isn’t used much. It’s a good place to dump trash. Okay, I told you what you wanted to know, push out some food.”

“You did and I will, but before I do: Did you get a look at the dead human while the face was still distinguishable?”

“No, he was under the deer. The only reason I knew he was there is human carrion smells different. Okay? Food.”

Uncle Yancey threw out enough kibble to satisfy the bird. “Food supply down?”

“Yes, it is,” the bird said dropping a piece out of his beak, which he then quickly scooped back up. “Usually people put out plenty of food for us, but this winter has been different—even worse than last year’s. It’s milder, but not much food.”

“Hard times. For them, I mean.”

“Uncle Yancey, bird food can’t cost much.”

“Most of them are trying to save every penny. I hear the brothers talking.”

“Plenty of food in these boxes,” said the crow.

“Sister never forgets us. I don’t understand money, do you?”

“No. If you can’t eat it, build with it, or hatch it, it’s not real.”

“Pretty much, I agree,” said Uncle Yancey. “Do you need more? It’s half full. Sister will fill everything back up soon. It’s a big job. You know she has these at her farm and at After All? And other foxes have told me wherever the hunt goes, boxes follow.”

“You’re lucky.”

“Know what I’m going to do?”

“I have no idea,” St. Just replied with a hint of sarcasm.

“On the next hunt, I’m going to run right by those bodies. When I hear the horn, I’m going to show myself, get them all excited, and run the whole pack, human and hounds, over there.”

“There will be hell to pay.” St. Just half fluttered back onto the top of the box.

Uncle Yancey emerged. The crow, no fool, flew onto a bare branch overhead. “Not for us.”