Run with the Wind (9 page)

‘If the fun dogs are not to follow us, then we must leave no trail,’ said Hop-along. ‘And the only way we can do that is by using the river.’

‘That’s what I was thinking,’ said Black Tip. ‘The answer must be in the river.’

‘Very well then,’ said Old Sage Brush, ‘Think about it. As your minds are in agreement, the answer will be easier to find.’

It was coming on towards evening when a soft whistle from the undergrowth announced the arrival of Whiskers. The mink was on its way to the pheasant farm, he told them. By this time the swelling on Hop-along’s leg had gone down, and he felt much stronger. So much so that he was able to go out with Black Tip and Whiskers to the same spot overlooking the farm where they could watch the mink.

It wasn’t long before they spotted the little animal. It had dark brown fur and, the foxes thought, was rather like an
otter, only smaller. Running along the outside of the fence, it stopped now and then to rise up and look in over the sheets of tin that edged the wire. On reaching the stream, it dived in and a few moments later popped up in the pond on the inside. So quietly did it make its way up along the pen, that many of the pheasants didn’t even notice it.

‘What do you think?’ asked Whiskers. ‘Can you do it without being caught yourselves?’

‘We were thinking that the only way to leave no trail is to use the river,’ said Hop-along.

‘Or perhaps the stream,’ said Black Tip.

‘That’s it,’ said Hop-along. ‘We could walk along it and leave no trail for the fun dogs to follow.’

‘Good,’ smiled Whiskers. ‘And I’m almost through the dam.’

Because of the mink’s raid on the farm, there was now the real danger that the men might come looking for foxes again. So when Black Tip and Hop-along returned to the others, it was decided to put the plan into operation as soon as possible. The vixens wanted to take part, but it was also decided not to put them and their unborn cubs at risk. Consequently, it was agreed that Old Sage Brush and the vixens would wait at the bend on the river below the pheasant farm, and the younger dogs would take care of the mink.

Before dawn, Old Sage Brush and the vixens left. Black Tip went with them part of the way, then veered off to find
out how Whiskers was getting on. From the vantage point overlooking the farm, he could see that the otter was busy working on the far side of the dam. Everything was going according to plan. Later, Hop-along, Fang and Skulking Dog joined him, and they settled down to wait for the mink’s return, knowing that greed would bring it back again that night.

As the light began to fade, the four dog foxes made their way down along the deep gully carrying the stream until they were almost beside the pond, and concealed themselves under the bank. Whiskers darted up around from the river to tell them he was all set. They waited. A short time later they spotted the furtive movement of the brown furry mink making its way along the bottom of the fence towards them. Unaware that it was being watched, it dived under the wire and made its way up through the pen. At the same time the foxes could see a small whirlpool forming at the far end of the pond as the water began to swirl out. Whiskers had broken through.

‘Now Hop-along,’ whispered Black Tip. ‘Now.’

One by one they followed Hop-along up out of the stream. He and Black Tip went one way, Fang and Skulking Dog the other. Running around the fence, they stopped now and then to jump up against the wire and bark at the pheasants. Immediately the birds in the enclosed pens scattered in panic and finding no way of escape, flapped furiously against
the wire, while those in the open pens rose into the air with loud screeches and flew down the river.

The mink stopped what it was doing and looked up to see what all the commotion was about. The men and their dogs ran from the house, knowing they had an intruder. Hidden from sight, first by the sheets of tin along the bottom of the fence, and then by the steep sides of the gully, the foxes quickly made their way back up into the undergrowth.

When the mink returned to the pond, it was as if someone had pulled the plug from a bath. Only a trickle of water remained. It darted across the mud and out under the wire. This time, however, the dogs could not only see it getting out, they could follow it. They were close on its tail, and as the foxes left the stream and ran away through the bushes, they could hear from the excited barking down at the farm, that the mink was cornered. Pausing briefly to look back, they saw that it had scaled one of the high wooden poles, curled itself around the top, and was snarling viciously down at the dogs and the men who had now joined them.

Whiskers had already floated down the river and was with Old Sage Brush and the vixens when the others arrived. He sat up on his hind legs and gave a long low whistle of delight. The foxes smiled. From the direction of the pheasant farm, they could still hear the fun dogs barking, and in the gloom they could just make out the shape of the mink curled around the top of the pole. The plan had worked well.
Very soon, they knew, the mink would be back in the mink farm. With it out of the way, Whiskers would have the river to himself, and some day perhaps, other foxes would come and live in the valley again. In the meantime, as Skulking Dog reminded them, there were pheasants to be found in the undergrowth.

Ten

Facing the Fun Dogs

A
faint scattering of yellow blossoms now sparkled on the gorse like stardust. New daisies, small and streaked with pink, pushed their heads up into the cold spring air. Here and there, dark green circles of fresh grass ringed the spot where last year the cattle had manured the fields. In the hedgerows, the sight of small buds brought a hopeful note from the pink-breasted bullfinch.

The raid on the pheasant farm, and the defeat of the mink, had gladdened the hearts of the foxes considerably, especially Hop-along. By including him in the plan and getting him to lead the way, Old Sage Brush and Black Tip had succeeded in giving him the encouragement he needed to continue. He was also well rested now, and his foreleg was much stronger. The others could see that Old Sage Brush
was feeling stronger too.

Their meeting with Whiskers, the otter, had been a most enjoyable experience. As a creature who was also hunted by man and his dogs, they had found they had much in common with him. They had also come to admire the skill with which he hunted, both in and out of the water, and before leaving him on the bend of the river, had thanked him in a way that showed they regarded him as an equal. For his part, Whiskers wished them well in their search for the secret of survival, before sliding silently into the water to return to his old haunts.

Leaving the pheasant farm behind, they had followed the brush farther north, and as they rested up during the day they became aware of more signs of spring than they had seen for a long time. Of all these, the most meaningful to them was the sprinkling of yellow blossoms on the gorse. When the bushes were in full bloom, they knew the time would have come for the vixens to give birth to their cubs. That was still some while away, but the yellowing of the gorse was enough to make Black Tip uneasy about the vixens, especially Vickey.

‘There are always some blossoms on the gorse,’ said Old Sage Brush when they told him. ‘Are you sure these are new?’

‘I’m sure,’ Black Tip replied.

‘He’s right,’ said Hop-along. ‘It’s only a matter of time now before Vickey and She-la become heavy with cubs, and when that happens we must settle them in a safe earth.’

Fang agreed. He was the only dog, apart from Old Sage Brush, of course, not to have taken a mate. But he fully understood.

‘Then we must do what my eyes tell me to do,’ Old Sage Brush announced. ‘We must return to Beech Paw.’

‘And what about the secret of survival?’ asked Skulking Dog.

‘Who knows what secrets we have learned?’ replied the old fox. ‘Come, we must tell the vixens.’

Old Sage Brush was now anxious that they should be on their way as soon as possible. From what Black Tip had told him, the weather looked as if it might change. He wanted to cover as much ground as they could while the brush could still be seen, so as soon as the running fox climbed into the sky, they turned their backs to it and set off.

Black Tip, however, had read the signs well for his old leader. After a short time the clouds closed in, obscuring the moon and the stars, and it started to rain. They were all aware of the danger of travelling without either the light of gloomglow or the brush to guide them. However, the breeding instinct was now uppermost in their minds, and it told them that whatever the dangers, they must press on. Soon they found themselves in hill country. None of them could recall having come through these hills on the way from Beech Paw, but it was only because they couldn’t see the brush that they wondered if they were on the right track.

Making their way up the side of a hill covered with bracken and patches of gorse, they came across a fox path, and in the hope that whatever fox had used it might be able to tell them where they were, they decided to follow it. There was no fresh scent on the path, but it was clearly still in use. Less clear was the choking hedge-trap it led to.

As usual Black Tip was in the lead just ahead of Old Sage Brush. Following the path through a hole in a hawthorn hedge, he suddenly found himself yanked off his feet. Realising he was the victim of a choking hedge-trap, he made a desperate effort to squirm free. The more he struggled, the tighter the wire closed around his neck, choking him. Vickey and Sinnéad were at his side in an instant.

‘Don’t move,’ whispered Sinnéad in his ear. ‘The more you struggle, the worse you’ll make it.’

‘Sinnéad’s right,’ said Vickey. ‘She knows what these things are like. Just lie still and we’ll try and get you out.’ Vickey was very upset by the plight of her mate. Indeed, they were all upset to see one so brave as Black Tip held tight in the grip of an enemy he could not fight.

‘Let’s not panic,’ Old Sage Brush spoke firmly. ‘Black Tip, can you hear me?’

Black Tip could hear the voice of his old master, but only vaguely, as if in a dream. The wire of the snare was cutting into his throat, choking him, and squeezing his eyes until he couldn’t see.

‘He can hear you all right,’ said Vickey, ‘but he cannot answer. Tell me what you want, and I will be your eyes until we set him free.’

‘Describe it to me,’ said Old Sage Brush, ‘so that I may see it in my mind’s eye.’

The darkness was now giving way to a dull grey dawn, and they knew that they must act quickly. There was no scent of man in the vicinity of the trap. If that meant it was just one a trapper had set and then forgotten, they were all right, but it could also mean it was being left until the scent of man had disappeared, in which case it would be checked soon.

Unlike a rabbit snare, which is usually made of a thin copper wire tied to a short wooden stake driven into the ground, this was a much sturdier trap. It was made of a fairly heavy chain about a foot long, and two strong wires that were twisted around each other for added strength.

Where the wire joined the chain there was a swivel, so no matter how much a fox might twist and turn, the snare would not break, but merely turn with it. Furthermore, whoever had put it in the hedge, had secured it to the sturdy stump of a hawthorn bush, knowing well that a fox would be able to pull a wooden stake from the ground.

With the help of the others, especially Sinnéad, Vickey gave the old fox this picture of the choking hedge-trap that had snared her mate, and when they had finished he told them: ‘If we can’t get it off his neck, then we’ll have to bite
through whatever it’s tied to.’

They could all see for themselves now this was the only way, so while Vickey tried to get her teeth under the wire around Black Tip’s neck, the others took turns at gnawing the hawthorn stump. It was difficult. They had to work in the middle of the hedge and there wasn’t much room. Black Tip’s head wasn’t far from the stump, and Vickey was in there too trying to loosen the snare. This meant that they could only chew at the stump one at a time.

Anxiously Old Sage Brush lay and listened. He could tell from the sound of their exertions that they were working feverishly. At the same time, he knew from what they were saying to each other that they weren’t making much progress, either with the stump or the snare. Black Tip was also listening. Having calmed himself, he could feel the blood flowing more freely through his veins again, and there was less pressure on his eyes. Even so, the wire was still cutting deeply into his neck, and he knew Vickey just couldn’t get her teeth under it.

Daylight came. Under the hedge, the flattened grass showed how hard the foxes had wrestled to free their friend. They had succeeded in tearing good-sized strips off the hawthorn stump, yet in spite of all their efforts it still stood, tough and unyielding, stubbornly refusing to give up its prisoner. Black Tip had sufficiently recovered now to lie and watch them. Tired as they were, he could see they had no thought of
giving up. He knew, however, what they were not prepared to admit. They were wasting their time.

‘Vickey,’ he whispered at long last.

Vickey lowered her head so that she could hear him. ‘Yes, Black Tip.’

‘You must go now. Soon man will come, and his fun dogs. You must go.’

‘We won’t leave you,’ Vickey told him. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll soon have you free.’

‘Tell Old Sage Brush I want to speak to him.’

Vickey brought the old fox over.

‘Sage Brush,’ croaked Black Tip. ‘You must take Vickey and the others and go now.’

‘I cannot travel without my eyes,’ said Old Sage Brush.

‘If you stay here we will all die,’ replied Black Tip.

Old Sage Brush nodded. He knew Black Tip was right. From the time they had set out from Beech Paw, they had planned everything in such a way that some of them at least would survive. That was still the most important thing.

‘Take the vixens on to Beech Paw,’ Black Tip urged him. ‘Fang and Skulking Dog can help me. We’ll catch up with you.’

Vickey thought desperately. She couldn’t abandon Black Tip to man and his fun dogs. Yet what could she do? If only she could get her teeth under the wire that held him so tightly by the neck. She thought of the day when Fang lay
wounded in the hollow beside the frozen steam and how water from Black Tip’s mouth had released him from death’s grip. Suddenly, as she thought of the water dripping on to the powerful fangs that had fought so bravely for her, she had an idea.

‘Fang,’ she said. ‘Fang can do it.’

‘Don’t waste any more time,’ said Black Tip.

Vickey appealed to Old Sage Brush. ‘It’s worth a try,’ she pleaded. ‘Fang has longer teeth than any of us.’

Hearing Vickey speak his name, Fang was by their side in an instant.

‘Well, Fang,’ asked Old Sage Brush. ‘Can your teeth find the wire?’

Fang lay down beside the young dog who had fought him, then given him back his life; the young dog he had since come to admire so much. Could he do the same for him? Gently he started probing for the choking wire. It was buried deep in the fur and flesh of Black Tip’s neck. The others stood around, waiting anxiously. Fang put his head to one side. He could just feel the wire. Curling his lip back to get as much length on his teeth as possible, he pressed down as far as he could. Black Tip twitched and braced himself against the pain.

‘Go on Fang,’ Vickey urged. ‘You can do it.’

Fang eased his long front teeth a little lower, then lower still. Black Tip flinched again.

‘Hold on,’ whispered Vickey. ‘I think he has it.’

Fang turned his head slightly, and he could feel one of his fangs sliding under the wire. Gently he tried to ease it back. It didn’t move. He pulled on it again. This time it opened up a little, then a little more. Now Vickey was able to get her teeth under the wire, and together they opened the snare. Black Tip squirmed back out of it. He was free.

They all turned and ran up the hill to the cover of some gorse. The reappearance of the choking hedge-traps had taken them by surprise. It was the last thing they had expected, as the traps had disappeared after they had left Running Fox in the Land of the Howling Dogs. The question was, why had they come back to the hedgerows now?

It was a question that worried Old Sage Brush, and he asked Fang and Skulking Dog to scout around and see what they could find out. While they were away, Vickey could tend to Black Tip’s wounded throat, and with luck he would be sufficiently recovered by gloomglow to continue.

Fang and Skulking Dog set off in a wide circle. They found they were in the country of the hill sheep, a country that was wild and rugged and suitable for nothing else. Hill sheep have their lambs later than those on low-lying farms and the presence of hooded crows in unusual numbers suggested it was either lambing time here, or there were sheep in trouble. In fact, it turned out to be both. They soon came across some pregnant ewes entangled in thorn hedges and
barbed wire fences, and in one field hooded crows scattered from the carcases of two dead sheep. The sheep had been torn open, and they knew immediately this was the work of marauding dogs.

Like the hooded crows, foxes are also carrion eaters, of course, and while Fang and Skulking Dog recognised the danger of delaying, it was not in their nature to forego such an opportunity to eat. They had worked long and hard during the night to free Black Tip, and they were hungry. There was plenty of meat on the dead sheep, and they couldn’t believe their good fortune in having found food so easily.

What Fang and Skulking Dog didn’t realise was that they had also found the reason for the reappearance of the choking hedge-traps. A pack of marauding dogs had been causing much trouble in the area. Such dogs are a danger to sheep at any time of year, but when they kill pregnant ewes, the farmers are at the loss of the lambs too. The hill farmers also knew that foxes were likely to appear at lambing time. So, while the men who trapped for furs had taken in their snares, the farmers had put out theirs. Furthermore, some of them had now taken to carrying their shotguns in the hope that they would come across the dogs that were causing all the trouble.

The first Fang and Skulking Dog knew that a farmer had spotted them at the dead sheep, was when shotgun pellets whined over their heads. The hooded crows which had been waiting and watching like vultures on a nearby fence,
wheeled away out of range. Fang and Skulking Dog sprang to life and raced for cover. Quickly the farmer reloaded and fired again as they streaked through the nearest hedge. Fortunately, he too had been taken by surprise, and his aim wasn’t good. Both escaped without so much as one pellet in their pelt. Realising how lucky they had been, they circled widely again and returned to the others.