Outfoxed

CHAPTER 11

The rain finally stopped Sunday night. The grays emerged from their den, making straight for the cornfield on the east side of Hangman’s Ridge. The year, rich in gleanings, kept everyone happy.

In a few weeks the young would disperse to find their own territory, their own mates. Males might travel as far as 150 miles. Females usually remained closer to their place of birth.

Butch and Mary Vey had a small litter this year, only four. One little gray male had been carried away by a large hawk its first time out of the den. The other was sickly and died. Inky and Comet, half-grown, stayed healthy. Both parents taught them how to hunt, what to hunt, how to dump hounds, how to cross the road. In preparation for leaving home they now hunted on their own.

Inky traveled to the edge of the cornfield. She’d eaten so much corn, she sat down. A rustling through the corn, not the light wind, made her crouch low.

A huge male red fox appeared, saw Inky, and said, “Oh, it’s you.” Without further conversation he moved on.

Inky sat up and blinked. The red fox, Vulpes vulpes, as he preferred to be called, felt the gray inferior. This particular male, Target, had an especially splashy white tip on his tail. He was easily recognizable to humans, too. He’d been around for years.

Target’s entire family, four kits, also half-grown, were out hunting, as well as his mate, his sister, and her mate. The reds—a numerous, querulous clan—kept themselves busy, so they rarely spoke to anyone else. They feared no one, not even the bobcats, mountain lions, and bears, quite numerous in central Virginia, since the Blue Ridge Mountains provided food and safety.

As to foxhunters and their hounds, not only did the reds have no fear, they delighted in exhausting and then maiming their foe. Few sounds were as lovely to a red’s ears as the sound of a human breaking bones.

If the hounds picked up a gray fox, the reds generally ignored the chase, concentrating on sunning themselves or going into their den and sleeping.

The grays could take care of themselves. They ran in smaller circles than the reds, some of whom might run straight for miles. Grays also perfected a figure eight, a maneuver incorporating sharp turns and practiced dives into other creatures’ dens. This confused the hounds and infuriated the animal receiving the unexpected caller. However, there was little choice but to entertain the gray until the hounds were called off by the huntsman and cast in another direction. Since the grays were smaller than the red fox, they could squeeze into all manner of hiding places. They also climbed trees, a trick the reds thought much too catlike. Reds intensely disliked cats, who competed for the same game but who also sassed them.

The grays weren’t overfond of cats but a feline insult was shrugged off. The reds, proud of their position, felt most animals owed them obeisance.

Inky learned these things from her parents and from experience. She looked overhead as Athena, the large owl, silently glided by. Athena, a deadly hunter, would swoop down, talons outstretched, before her prey knew what hit them.

Inky didn’t fear Athena. The owl was civil. Since the fox, red and gray, has no natural enemies, they didn’t need to worry about anyone wishing to eat them. Only the small kits were game, and that was usually for hawks or vultures. In droughts or hard times the vultures became aggressive, even attacking newborn calves.

Athena’s nemesis was St. Just, the king of the crows. They rarely saw one another, since the crow was a daytime creature, but if he caught sight of Athena, St. Just would harass her even though she was four times his size.

The person St. Just hated above all others was Target. The big red had killed St. Just’s mate, eating her with a flourish.

Inky sat there, the moist earth filled with enticing messages. October kept all creatures busy. The bears would soon hibernate, so they were eating everything they could. The squirrels gathered more and more nuts, often forgetting where they stashed them. Everyone prepared for winter. Even the humans cut firewood, put up storm windows, and changed the antifreeze in their cars.

Although it was early, Inky considered going home to sleep. However, she thought an apple might be nice for dessert even though she was full. She nosed out of the corn, sniffed the wind, then headed at a ground-eating trot up to the top of Hangman’s Ridge. From this spot she could see most of the valley. Even Whiskey Ridge, running parallel to the north, was a bit lower. The criminals hanged from the oak tree could have been seen from below. This must have proved a potent warning. The last hanging occurred in 1875, when Gilliam Norris was strung up. He’d killed his entire family—mother, father, two sisters, and a brother—with a service revolver. When the sheriff came to arrest him, Gilliam shot him, too. Took fifteen men, including the sheriff from the next county, to bring Gilliam in. People said he’d lost his mind in the war.

Inky heard that story, passed from generation to generation. The first victim of the tree was Lawrence Pollard in 1702. An intrepid man, an explorer and founder of towns, Lawrence indulged in land speculation, as did many colonists. He was selling acreage in the Shenandoah Valley, the deal went bust, and Lawrence’s investors strung him up without judge or jury.

From her vantage point Inky could see the Arnold farm, the barn and kennels and the understated two-story brick house painted white with Charleston-green shutters surrounded by oaks and maples of enormous size. At the edge of the expansive lawn was a small apple orchard. Peach and pear trees were around the house for decoration as much as for fruit. The orchard, though, was laid out in neat rows.

Inky swooped down the ridge, ran across a downed log over Broad Creek, and was happily in the middle of the orchard in fifteen minutes.

Raleigh, whom she knew by sight, was in the house. Golliwog, however, was in the orchard.

“I’ll tell the hounds you’re here.”

“They can’t get out,” Inky replied.

“They can make a helluva racket. The humans will get up.”

“I’ll be gone by that time, they’ll be in a bad mood, and you’re the one that has to listen to them,” Inky sensibly said. “I only want one apple. I’m not going to poach your game.”

Golly arched her long eyebrows. “How can you eat fruit?”

“It’s good.”

The cat shook herself. “Well, get your apple and get out.”

Inky snatched a small, sweet apple that had just fallen, then darted out of the orchard, passing the kennel on her way home. The hounds were snoring.

She stopped, apple in her mouth. She put the apple down for a moment and turned. Golly had climbed up into one of the apple trees at the edge of the orchard. She’d heard that the house cat was smart and no friend to foxes. Figuring she was ahead of the game and not wishing further to irritate the calico, Inky picked up the apple. As she walked by the separate runs, Diana, sleeping outside since the rain had stopped, opened one eye, then both eyes, sitting up with a start.

She opened her mouth, but Inky dropped her apple and quickly pleaded, “Don’t. It will set everyone crazy.”

Diana walked to the fence. “You’re the black fox—“

“You stuck your nose into my den. I’ve come for an apple and I’ll be on my way. I didn’t even go near the chicken coop. All’s well.”

“You know if I were out of here I’d chase you to the James River,” Diana bragged.

“Ha. I’d run circles around you and you wouldn’t even know it.”

Diana cocked her head to one side. “I love the chase. Do you?”

“For about fifteen minutes. Then I have better things to do. The reds like it more than we grays, I think.”

“This is my first season. I guess I’ll find that out.” Diana blinked and lowered her head to be closer to the fox. “I’ve been doing okay with cubbing, though, and last year, when I was a puppy, Shaker and Sister walked us every day and sometimes they laid down scent to help us. I think I know what to do if I can concentrate. I lose my concentration sometimes.”

“This is my first year, too, so I only know what my parents have told me and cubbing . . . I like cubbing. It was funny when you stuck your nose in the den. My brother wanted to bite you. He’s like that.” Inky giggled.

“Glad he didn’t. My nose is very sensitive.”

Golly backed down the apple tree. She sauntered toward the kennel.

“I’d better go. She gave me a fair warning.”

Diana pricked up her ears. “Golliwog can be very fierce. She scares me.”

“You know we will all be leaving our dens in a few weeks. Right about the time of opening hunt. There will be good runs then. You’ll have fun. My dad says opening hunt is like a three-ring circus. I’m going to climb a tree and watch.”

“Where will you go?”

“Already found my place. On the other side of Broad Creek. There’s so much corn and game, my father said it’s all right to live close. He said if hard times come then I might have to push on.”

“I’m nervous about opening hunt,” Diana confessed.

“Stay away from the people. And if you’re on Target, the huge red with lots of white tip, be real careful. He’s very smart. My father says he’s incredibly smart but cruel. Target will try to lead you to your death. His son, Reynard, can be cruel, too.” Diana shuddered so Inky added, “Stick to a hound that knows what she’s doing. You’ll be safe then.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll wave if you go by.” Inky giggled again, then picked up her apple and skedaddled, for Golly was bearing down on her, picking up speed.

The imposing calico stopped. “Diana, you’re loose as ashes. You can’t believe one word from a fox’s mouth.”

Diana dropped her head. “Yes, ma’am.”

Satisfied that she had imparted wisdom as well as put that lower life-form, the hound, in her place, Golly strolled, tail swaying to and fro, back to the main house. The night was too damp for her. She was going in the house to snuggle up next to Sister, who was sound asleep. She might clean off her muddy paws and then again she might not. Walking across the old Persian carpets so prized by Sister would get the mud off fast enough.