Outfoxed

CHAPTER 48

Word of Peter Wheeler’s death splashed over the county like a winter squall. The animals spread the word, too.

Inky, on her way back from a night’s successful hunt, was told by her brother.

“I relied on his chickens,” Comet mournfully said.

A harsh caw overhead silenced them. St. Just landed on a blue spruce branch, his weight dipping the branch downward. He hopped to a larger limb, cocked his head to one side, and sneered, “The only thing more worthless than a gray fox is a red fox.”

“You’ll make a mistake someday. We’ll be waiting,” Comet challenged him.

“Reynard thought the same thing.” St. Just’s feathers gleamed blue-black; his long beak shone like patent leather. “I led the human to his den. I’ll see every one of Target’s family killed and I’ll get Target, too. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t cooperate with them.”

“Which human?” Inky asked.

“I’ll never tell.” He tantalizingly dropped to a lower branch almost within reach. “Wouldn’t you just like to break my neck?”

Comet inched forward; Inky stayed put.

St. Just waited until Comet was within striking distance. Then he lifted off, swooped low over the fox’s head, and taunted, “Death to foxes.”

“There’s been enough talk of death.” Inky shook herself. “Archie was killed.”

“Heard.” He watched St. Just disappear to the east. “No raven or blackbird is a friend to foxes but he’s evil. I’d enjoy hearing his neck snap.”

“He’s smart.” She thought a moment. “Do you think whoever killed Reynard and Fontaine was smart?”

“No, and we’d be a lot better off if he was. Dumb people are dangerous. Much more dangerous than smart ones.”