The Fox and the Hound

by Daniel P. Mannix

  Copper's great voice boomed out, and they were off. The scent leaped from the ground and rushed at him. There was no need for him to lower his head as he ran shouting for the Master to follow. Ahead he could just make out the white tip of the brush drifting over the fields while he plunged after it, more slowly than the fugitive but with a powerful drive. He pressed hard, for the sun was rising fast and it would burn out the scent.

  Away they went, and soon Copper stopped baying to save his breath; furthermore, the scent was so strong there was no need to tell that he was carrying it. Once he was sure of the fox's drift, he even avoided using his nose, taking only an occasional sniff, as the scent was so strong it would fill his nasal passages and tire them. The fox followed a line of bluffs to a river, turned and ran along the bank. Then he made a sharp turn into a cornfield. Copper was forced to drop his head, and as he worked out the line he heard the raging cries of crows as they dived into the corn ahead. Copper knew they were screaming at the fox, and he raced ahead, picking an occasional wisp of scent from the cornstalks as he passed.

  Outside the field, the fox had doubled and run back on his own trail. As Copper followed, he heard the blast of the Master's shotgun. Wild with hope, Copper dashed on. He found the Master staring into some woods, and as soon as the hound appeared the man pointed and cheered him on. Copper swerved and hit the scent almost immediately; it was stained with the odor of panic, but there was no blood. While backtracking, the fox had run into the Man following the hound, but the Master had missed. Ah, well, it was still early.

  Ahead was a little field entirely surrounded by a stone wall. Copper knew the place well. Inside were a number of thin, flat polished stones standing erect, each with a small mound before it on which were often vases with flowers. The upright stones made excellent scent posts, and Copper had often used them for this purpose. His nose told him the fox had jumped on the wall and run along it. A common trick. Copper sprang heavily to the top of the wall and followed him, watching for the spot where the fox had jumped off. He went completely around the field and back to his original starting point; being hot on the line, he continued to run around another time before he realized what he was doing.

  Annoyed, Copper jumped off and tried the ground both inside and outside the graveyard. The Master came up and spoke to him in low, encouraging tones, but Copper was baffled. The fox had clearly sprung on the wall and run around it several times, jumping over the small entrance opening as he passed it, but how had he gotten off the wall again? The most scrupulous checking gave him no trace of scent on either side of the wall, and finally Copper was forced to give up.

  There was a halloo from the road. A farmer came up and talked to the Master, making motions with his hands, and pointing. The Master listened, then called Copper and took him to where the fox had first run into the wall and ordered him to backtrack the animal. Copper looked up reproachfully - all his training was against running heel, but he reluctantly obeyed. He had gone only a few feet along the old trail when the suspicion grew in him that there was a fresh trail laid over the old - and the fresh trail was not going to the wall but away from it. Yes, that was it. The fox had run to the wall, jumped on top of it, run around it a few times, and then jumped off on his old line and backtracked it. Furious, Copper gave tongue in indignation. Another few feet and he found where the fox had turned off from his old line. They were off again.

  The fox had swum a pond, but Copper was able to pick up the scent along the edge where it had been blown in From the surface of the water by the fresh breeze, and followed it around the pond to the place where the dripping fox had emerged. The shock of the cold water kept the scent glands in the fox's pads from functioning for a while, so Copper followed the wet trail across the grass, guided by the dampness rather than by an odor until the glands began giving off scent again. Being cold and faint, it was quite different from the fox's former scent, and the hound was forced to stop and sniff loudly to adjust his sense of smell to the altered odor before going on.

  The sun was high now, cooking out the scent in the open, but vestiges still clung to the sides of mounds or in the shade of hollows. The scent was no longer rising, but among the dead leaves and damp grass it was holding well. Copper's long, bagging lips sucked it up from the earth; he could not have told if he were scenting or tasting it.

  Only twice during that long afternoon was Copper seriously at fault. Once was when the fox crossed a burned field where no scent would lie and the ashes got into Copper's nose, making him sneeze and gag. Even so the hound was able to follow by catching traces of scent from tufts of dried grass that the fox had touched in crossing. The second was in a firelane where the trees had been felled, and there Copper had a hard time, for the fox had jumped from one to the other of the trunks as lightly as a cat, while the heavy hound had to blunder through them. He might have lost the fox for good that time had not the Master come up and, by staring at the soft ground along the borders of the flashing, been able to put him on the line again. Shortly before sunset a thunderstorm had come up, and at the first peal the scent had dropped so sharply that Copper thought it was gone for good. But the storm had passed away to the west, and the scent had come back.

  When night came, Copper was still on the trail. It mattered little to him whether it was dark or light, for he put small reliance on his shortsighted eyes. It was the scent that mattered to the half-bloodhound: how it grew faint or clear, rose above the ground or clung to it, the quality of its texture - if it showed fright, weakening, or strength - if it were consistent or spotty. During the day, Copper knew from the scent that the fox was suffering more than he from the heat of the sun. Now that it was cool, the quarry's odor did not have the hot, thick quality of an overheated, exhausted animal. On the other hand, in the cool of the night the scent was stronger, and Copper could follow it more easily.

  Several times the fox had tried to double back toward his old range, but each time something had frustrated him. Copper came to one place where he had tried four times to cross a highway, each time to be turned back by the traffic. Another time he had found himself in a new development and been chased by dogs. The shock had killed his scent, and it was more by sheer good luck than skill that Copper had been able to pick up the trail again. The quarry had tried to cross a bridge over the river, only to find people parked there in cars. At last the fox had given up trying to return to his home range, and cut straight across country.

  Copper could soon tell that the fox was now in unfamiliar territory, and running aimlessly, Before, the fox had always had some definite goal - a certain crossing, a fence or wall he could run, or as a last resource a hole where he could hide. Now the fox was plunging blindly ahead through brambles, across streams, over walls, and forcing his way through fields of tall grass that delayed him far more than the long-legged hound. When dawn came, Copper was still doggedly following, while the fox was noticeably weakening every hour.

  The old hound was near the point of exhaustion himself. His pads were worn off his feet, and he left dabs of blood. His hindquarters wavered as he ran. But now he was getting scent from the fox's breath as well as from his pads and body odor. As the fox gasped for air the hound could smell the spots where his breath had caught among the vines and bushes. The fox could not be far ahead now. The hound raised his tired head to look, but there was still no sign of the white-tipped brush.

  Far away, he heard the sound of the Master blowing across the opened barrels of the shotgun. Copper bayed in reply, tired as he was. The call was repeated, closer this time. Again Copper summoned up enough breath for a feeble call that was more howl than bay, for not only his feet but his lungs were torturing him.

  The trail led through a mass of briers, and Copper could hear the fox ahead of him. He struggled on. Still again came the call on the shotgun barrels, and Copper managed to give a weak and faltering reply. Then he broke out of the briers and saw the fox ahead of him.

  The fox's head was down, his back arched; he was
panting and his tongue hung out, greatly swollen and almost black. His brush was covered with mud, and dragged. Ahead of him was a fallen tree trunk. The dying animal made an effort to climb over it, and fell back. At the sight, Copper gave a clear, long-drawn out cry of triumph, and staggered toward him. The fox made a last effort to mount the log, and then fell to the ground, limp and motionless. Copper reeled forward, fell, got up, and managed to reach the fox. He gave the body a feeble shake and then collapsed on top of the corpse.

  Copper was scarcely conscious of hearing the Master's call or of being lifted and carried to the car. Back in the cabin, he felt a sting of alcohol in his lips that made him choke, strangle, and struggle feebly. Only vaguely he knew that people were crowding into the tiny room, shouting and laughing. He felt the Master massaging his legs and chest. Then came the sting of the alcohol again, and more massaging. At long last, he was able to lift his head, although his vision was still blurred.

  He was shown the dead fox, but Copper was too tired even to sniff at it. While the Master held the fox, men pointed boxes at him and lights flashed again and again. When they finally left him in peace, Copper sank back and slept as though he were dead.

  Slowly the Master nursed him back to health, Many times a day people came to pat and talk to him, and there were more of the Hashing boxes. The fox was skinned and the pelt hung with a skinning board in it, just as in the old days. Gradually Copper regained his strength until he could walk again with the Master.

  He was blissfully happy now. Everyone liked him and liked the Master. The Master's voice was always cheerful, and when he was cheerful, Copper was cheerful. He even learned to tolerate the strangers with their never-ending pawings and strange talk.

  Gradually Copper was conscious of a change. Fewer and fewer people came. The Master grew increasingly silent and began to drink again, more heavily than ever. He seldom took Copper for walks now, and the old hound lay on his pile of sacks, puzzled and disappointed. He tried his poor best to make the Master happy again, clumsily trying to play, licking his hand, running to the door to show he was all ready to go hunting again - if there was anything left to hunt. Nothing he did won even a smile or a caress from the Master.

  Then one day the nasty sour-smelling men from the great, somber place where dogs were not allowed came back. With him were the leather-smelling men, but now they were not friendly. There were some other people too, people who had exclaimed over Copper and patted him when he and the Master came back with the last fox, but now their voices were angry and they pushed him aside. They talked and talked to the Master, while Copper listened in dumb misery.

  He heard a sound he had never heard before. The Master was crying. He sat on the edge of the bed, sobbing, and tears came through his fingers. Copper forced his way through the people and anxiously licked the Master's hands, asking to help. The Master stroked his head just as he had in the old days, and Copper wriggled joyfully.

  The Master went to the wall, took down the gun, and loaded it. Copper barked and cavorted happily. They were going hunting again, and surely the Master would take him? Yes, the Master called to him and, leaving the people, they went outside.

  The Master led him a little way from the cabin and, sitting down beside him, stroked his head. Copper licked his face, and whined. They had killed the great fox, the fox that had eluded them for so many years. Now they were together again, and happy, for nothing could separate them.

  The Master made him lie down, and then held one hand over his eyes. Copper lay trustingly and contentedly. The Master knew best. Did he recall the many good times they had had together and this last great run - a day and a night and part of another day? Of course he did. Copper gave the Master's hand one last lick. He did not care what happened as long as he would never be separated from the Master, for he had killed the great fox, and in this miserable, fouled land there was no longer any place for fox, hound, or human being.