“The ideal country for a fox,” Cy Cummings put in, “is a land where you have farms and woods both. Farms where they can hunt, and woods where they can seek shelter and raise their young.”
“They’re a great sport to hunt!” Will Stacks said as he shifted his position on the couch.
“ ’Deed they are,” Cy Cummings agreed. “One time when I was down in Virginia we went on a fox hunt that I’ll never forget. An old red fox that lived in the hills was known to be smarter than a book. We thought we’d get him. Well, sir, about fifteen of us started out after that fox on horses with a pack of good hounds. We rode all day, from early morning, on his trail. We changed horses three times. Most of the men dropped out by night and all the hounds but two. Three of us decided to see it out, so we rested during the night while the dogs and fox carried on the hunt. Next morning we picked up the chase. By noon we ended the hunt. The hounds just gave out. That fox had broken a whole pack, wore out three relays of horses and nearly finished us. He was a wonderful animal.”
“There is a fox right around here that’s no fool,” said Will. “Folks that know him call him Vulpes. He got out of one of my traps last winter, and you know, that fox won’t even come near a trap that I’ve set since. He knows what I’m up to.”
“Believe I’ve hunted that fox,” said Buck. “Like to get him, too. Great, big, noble dog-fox, just a beautiful thing with the fullest fur I’ve ever seen. I saw him in Brushy Valley one time. He eluded the hounds that day by going down a creek bed. I think he was a first year fox, new to hunting when I saw him, but he’s wise now. He learned enough on that first hunt to hold him over for a lifetime. Brownie gets his trail a lot but he has never run him in. The fox is too smart for that.”
Gordon was listening to the men with great interest when a low slurring yap sounded through the night.
“Sounds like Vulpes,” said Buck, listening. “He calls to the dogs for a chase now and then.”
“You mean he wants to be hunted?” asked Gordon.
“Yes, indeed, they’ll challenge those dogs to a race. They absolutely will. Those foxes love a hunt and they aren’t afraid of any dog. I’ve even seen and heard them bark on a chase. Now, lots of old timers say the dogs won’t run a barking fox, but they will; I’ve seen them do it. Take a fox in good condition, give him a fair race, and he’ll absolutely outrun them. Now, maybe if he’s old, or a little sick, or he’s just had a big meal, they might catch him, but even then he has to be in strange ground or he’ll den. But not if he’s in good condition, Mr. Gordon.
“He’s not worried about those dogs as long as he has them behind him. You go out here anywhere after a light snow and you can find fox tracks within fifty yards of the house. Now, I’ve got a lot of hounds around here, and if he was really worried about those dogs—if they were going to catch him or anything—he’d leave here. Goes to show you a fox doesn’t worry much about dogs.
“But,” the old hunter went on, “if there is a whole lot of noise and people in the woods, and the fox knows there are a lot of hounds all scattered and running through the hills, that fox is going to leave. Doesn’t worry about those dogs, but he wants them behind him, not in front.
“I remember one time out in the woods I saw two foxes. One of the few times in my life I could have got a double shot at foxes. It was early March; their scent was very strong that day. Instead of going down the path, I was going through the woods. A fellow up here had some mean dogs and his place was posted. A man doesn’t like to go on someone else’s place and herd a dog with a stick or something, so I circled on through the woods around his land and came to a stream. I was just out listening to my hounds; I love to hear them run. I noticed a movement in the laurel. I saw it was a fox.
“The fox smelt and looked around, went down the stream and sat on a log. Another fox went over and curled up on a log and sniffed around, went down to get a drink of water, and came on back and curled up on the log. Curled up loose-like, like he wasn’t going to sleep. He was only there a few minutes, then he got up and listened to the hounds. They were chasing still a third fox. When the hounds got close, those two foxes just moved over to the left in the ivy. The hounds passed within fifteen yards of where these foxes had been, chasing the other fox. Hounds went right on to Muddy Branch. After the dogs had passed, the two foxes came right back to the log just as if they were used to such things—unconcerned as anything. Just got out of the way, and then came right on back.”
“You mean they just went up into the laurel thicket and came right on back and didn’t see you?”
“Sure. Course I had to be very quiet. A fox will trust his nose more than his ears or eyes. Take those two foxes I just told you about, they paid no attention to me even though I was in plain sight. But if they had caught just one whiff of my scent, they would have left there right pronto. I guess a fox doesn’t reason like a man does, and if you stand real still and don’t make any noise he figures you’re just a part of the woods. The same thing is true for the gray fox. Last November I was out with Brownie and Joe. We were running that big red up on the hill, the same fox that Will was talking about, Vulpes. Well, sir, a gray fox came walking through the woods and crossed the trail right in front of me. He stood in the center of the trail listening to the hounds and never paid any attention to me.”
“That’s right, Buck,” said Will Stacks. “Sometimes you can call a fox right over to you. I remember one time I was resting along the fence in the southwest corner of Charlie’s pasture. I caught a glimpse of something moving through the laps lying in the woods just beyond the fence. It looked like a red fox, so I squeaked like a mouse to see what would happen. That fox turned and came bounding through the fence. I stayed very quiet. About fifty feet away the fox stopped and stood up on his hind feet to look over the tall grasses. Then I squeaked again and he ran closer. When he was only a few feet away, he watched me very carefully but didn’t seem to be too scared. A gust of wind carried my scent to him and he got out of there in one big hurry.” Old Will Stacks chuckled as he relived the incident.
Buck and the others laughed with him and for a moment the room was filled with their deep chuckles.
“They certainly can travel, can’t they, Will, when they set their mind to it?” Buck said. “I can’t help admiring them when I see them gliding through the woods just as smooth as can be. And then in a little while you see your hounds come scrambling through the woods chasing them, and those dogs are really working hard. Their legs are flying in all directions and they’re huffing and puffing and look like they’re going like the wind, but that old fox is way out ahead of them. I remember one time I brought one down as he was going across River Road. That fox didn’t look like he was hurrying at all, but he was covering more than thirty feet with each bound. I fired when he was in the center of the road. There was a light snow on the ground and when I walked over to pick him up I found that he had never touched the road. He had taken off from one bank and even though I shot when he was midway across, he didn’t come down until he was on the other side.”
“I figure they can make nigh onto thirty miles an hour,” added Charlie Craggett, “and that’s good time for a horse.”
“Yes it is, Charlie, but they can do it,” said Cy.
“I clocked a red fox when he ran down River Road ahead of my car one night, and he was doing better than twenty-eight miles an hour.”
“A red fox can do it, but a gray fox can’t,” said Buck. “Put the dogs on the trail of a gray fox and, given a fair chance, they will absolutely run him down.”
“Is there that much difference between a gray and a red fox?” asked Gordon.
“Two different animals, Mr. Gordon. I’d like to take you on a few fox hunts. Maybe we could get in a couple of good solid races, and then you’d see the difference between running a red and running a gray. For one thing, a red doesn’t den much whereas a gray takes to a den or tree within a few hours.”
“Why is that?”
“Doe
sn’t have the speed and endurance of the red,” answered Buck. “A red fox is way out ahead of those hounds, maybe a half mile or more, all the time. He’s more cunning than a gray, but he doesn’t cut capers until the dogs have run him awhile. On the other hand, the gray isn’t so far ahead and he’s doing everything he can to slow those dogs. If you follow his trail you can see that he runs for a dense thicket. This checks the hounds. When he leaves the thicket he might run along a log. Then he drops to the ground and starts running the laps. This breaks up his trail and makes it hard for the dogs to follow.”
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘running the laps’,” said Gordon.
“Well, sir,” said Buck, “by laps I mean the tops of trees that are left lying in the woods when the trees are chopped down. Around these parts only the trunk of the tree is hauled away. The gray fox runs along these cut treetops, goes out on a big long limb, drops to the ground and then runs over to another lap and does the same thing all over again. A dog can’t make any time following a trail like that. If he could he’d run that fox down in short order. As it is, they usually den or tree a gray if he doesn’t get too far ahead of them.”
“I didn’t know they could climb trees.”
“I’ve never seen a gray go up a big straight tree but I’ve found a good many that have gone up leaning trees. Yes, they can climb, but if they’re hard pressed they usually den.
“There’s an old woodchuck hole not a hundred yards away from the house right up there on the hill where I denned a gray fox just the other day. It was not a regular fox den but the dogs were right behind him and he had to take shelter.”
“There certainly is a lot to learn in the woods. And right around here too, not thirty miles from Washington,” reflected Gordon.
“To get all there is out of the woods you have to go out time after time,” mused Buck. “You might think an animal never does a certain thing until one time you are right there, and you see him do it. Then you know he does it. Somebody else who has not seen what you have might doubt you but you know what you’ve seen.”
“I suppose so,” said Gordon, digging into his pocket for his knife. “You’ve probably seen things out here that few people have.” Pulling at the blade he opened his knife and began to whittle on a stray stick.
Charlie Craggett and Will Stacks were half listening to Buck and half dreaming. Will was thinking about the things he had seen in the woods that no one would believe. Strange happenings among the animals that he had never told to anyone because he knew they would not take him seriously. He well knew what Buck meant, and he also knew that Gordon would never understand.
“Why is it that three times out of five, on the average,” Buck was saying to the young man, “a man will knock down a fox and cripple him bad and the dogs will fail to run him from there?” Will Stacks pieced together the conversation he had missed while dreaming and concluded that Buck must be telling Gordon about some of the mysteries of the wild.
“That’s what I want to know,” said Buck, scratching his forehead. “As well as I know dogs, I can’t unriddle that. I’ve tried my best. I’ve had it happen time and time again. Joe out there stopped a chase one day after I had wounded a fox, and just wouldn’t go on. I told him to hunt him up … but nothing doing. He just turned around and went home. I searched that place till I liked to wear it out and came back the next day to search again. I hunted and hunted and hunted, but I never did find that fox. On the other hand, I’ve had the dogs run ’em down in a hundred yards.”
For a moment there was a silence among all the men. Stacks was staring at the flickering coal oil flame, and Buck was shaking his head slowly, thinking over the many, many incidents that had filled his life along the river.
May Queen came into the room with a hot drink and asked the men if they would have some.
“Brownie is pretty restless tonight,” she said to Buck. “I believe that old Vulpes has been out there on the hill this evening.”
“Should leave a pretty fresh trail out there,” said Will.
“Probably be playing around on the hill all night,” said Buck. “Old Vulpes loves that hill. Comes back time and time again. Joe or Brownie will pick up his trail in the bottoms and zoommm … they’ll go right up the hill after him.”
“Do you think we could get him, if we went out?” asked Jim enthusiastically.
“Maybe in the morning,” said Buck. “Not tonight.”
The men sipped their hot drink in silence. Buck was blowing on the brew and thinking about Vulpes.
Stacks swallowed loudly: “There’s not much chance of my getting him. He’s wise to me.”
“Mr. Queen was telling me one day that you lure foxes with a brew you make,” said Gordon. “Is it difficult to mix?”
Old Will smiled and put the chipped cup down on his saucer.
“Sure is, young man, sure is.”
“Well, how is it done, Mr. Stacks?”
“Now, that is something I wouldn’t even tell old Buck over here. It’s a secret. The only real secret I have. If I let that out I sure would have everyone taking my livelihood away from me.” The man laughed softly and looked at the smooth face of young Gordon. “That I cannot tell you. But I could tell you some other things like tanning or where and how to trap. Anything else, Mr. Gordon, anything else but that.”
Gordon looked at the man. He suddenly realized that he was not talking to an ignorant old river dweller. Here were men who were experts at their trade. For a moment the young man was embarrassed. There was much that he would never know. These men were craftsmen. In a sense they had their own patents. The knowledge they had gathered and the exact methods by which they applied it had become an art. Gordon felt only great respect.
Jim Gordon looked at their tanned faces and sensed their robust independence. Here were men who punched no time clock, who reported to work only at the dictation of the sun and rain. The work they did was a way of life they enjoyed. Gordon thought for a moment of how he worked all year to spend a vacation at his farm on the Potomac River. These men spent their lives at what he called a vacation. He turned to look at Will Stacks.
“How do you handle your trapped animals, Mr. Stacks?” he heard himself saying.
Stacks rubbed his hands together and looked at the man.
“When I take a fox from a trap, I do it as quick as I can and use gloves so that my own scent won’t linger around the site. If I do it right, that trap is better than ever. The scent of the fox around the spot helps to attract other foxes. Sometimes I’ve caught several foxes the same night in one set.
“I usually skin them right out in the woods so I won’t have to carry them home. When I get all the flesh removed from the hide, I take the pelt and put it on a drying board. That’s about all I do. Sell them just that way. Round here you might get anywhere from five to ten dollars for a pelt—good prime pelt.
“Now, if I were to want a pelt for myself I would have to tan it. The hide is very thin on a fox so it tans easily. I soak it thoroughly in water and then I wash it well in soapy water with maybe a little soda or borax in it. Make sure it’s good and clean. If it’s still a little greasy I rinse it in gasoline.
“There are a couple of methods of tanning. I usually take about a quart of table salt, some sulphuric acid and mix it in a bucket of water. Put the pelt in that a few days. Then take it out. Rinse it in a bucket of water and soda. This gets all the acid out of it and makes it clean. After that I work it dry.” Stacks demonstrated with his big hands how he pulled the pelt apart, stretched and crumpled it.
“Tack it on a board to dry and work a little Neatsfoot oil into it when it is nearly dry. And that is all there is to it. It’s not hard to tan a hide, Mr. Gordon.”
Gordon was not convinced.
“I would like to see you do that sometime,” he said finally, after thinking it over.
“Come by any time in the fall,” said Stacks, “and I’ll be glad to show you.”
“The missus sure likes that
fur you tanned for her, Will,” said Cy. “It’s a fox that came down to my chicken pen years ago before I cooped them all up,” he explained to Gordon.
“Do these foxes get a lot of your chickens?” asked Gordon. “That’s the only thing I’ve heard they eat.”
Charlie Craggett, who had been sitting quietly, answered the question.
“Sure, they’ll take chickens, especially in the spring when the vixens are nursing. But they don’t get them if you coop them up. However, if you let them run around all night, like some of those squatters do along River Road, ’course they’d get a few. But they don’t get any if you take care of them right.”
“That’s just the way I feel about it, Charlie,” said Buck. “A fox’ll eat what he can get. I guess about the easiest and most abundant food around here would be mice of one sort or another. I figure mice and rabbits is what a fox lives on. ’Course he might take a quail now and then, especially if there are a lot of them around. And he eats insects, grasshoppers and crickets. He’ll even eat fruit like apples and cherries and blackberries. He eats a surprising amount of fruit. But a fox is primarily a meat-eating animal, and he can’t get along without it.”
The hours had passed rapidly without the men realizing it. Gordon looked at his watch and decided he had better get along home.
“I tell you what, Mr. Gordon,” Buck said. “If you would like to go on a fox hunt, I think it’ll be pretty good tomorrow.”
The young man looked up, beaming.
“I’d like that, Mr. Queen,” he agreed eagerly.
“Let’s try that old Vulpes,” said Stacks.
“He makes a good chase,” Cy Cummings added.
“Well,” said Buck Queen, “we can try. But you’re sure picking a hard one if you want to run him.”
“He sounds wonderful,” Gordon said, smiling broadly. “What time shall I be here?”
Vulpes, the Red Fox Page 9
