The Fox and the Hound

by Daniel P. Mannix

  Mice were his staple. Even with snow on the ground, he could scent a mouse tunnel, and would plunge his long nose into the snow to check. At first he dug up the tunnels, hoping to find the mice, but he soon found this was a waste of time. He could hear mice running through the tunnels several feet away, and he would give a great bound, land with his forefeet pressing down the tunnel on either side of the quarry, and bite between his paws blindly. Sometimes he got only a mouthful of leaves or snow, but often he got a mouse. Not only could he hear very faint sounds a surprising distance; he could also pinpoint the exact location of a nearby sound in an instant, but if a sound came from far away, he had considerable trouble locating the source, and was more inclined to depend on his nose than on his ears in such cases, by swinging downward to smell what was making the disturbance.

  Rabbits were his favorite quarry. Mice he could swallow at a gulp, and there was really no great fun in capturing them. Rabbits were bigger, smarter, and gave him a real run. He liked the flesh better, and there was more of it. One rabbit would last him two or three days, yet he hunted them for the sport quite as much as for food.

  One of his favorite rabbit grounds was an orchard where the rabbits came to strip the young trees when there was snow on the ground and other herbage was covered. Tod had first gone to the orchard looking for half-frozen windfalls, and discovered the rabbits by accident. Once he was aware of their presence, he took to circling the orchard first to get downwind and then coming in cautiously, often crawling catlike on his belly. On a straightaway the rabbits could outrun him; however, they usually tried to dodge around the trees, and Tod could turn faster than they could. The rabbits had burrows along the edge of the orchard, and this was another advantage for Tod. When a rabbit went down a hole, he had to hesitate for a split second at the mouth to get his way clear, and in this second Tod could often grab him. It was safer for a rabbit to plunge into a brier patch, for he could hit the brambles at any angle.

  One afternoon when Tod was loping along his usual path that paralleled a fence, he saw cattle in the field, Tod stopped short to stare at them. The cattle had been in the barn most of the winter, and this was as the first time he had seen them. Curious as ever, Tod trotted over to investigate. The cons raised their heads to look at him. Tod, uncertain of his reception, ran from side to side, trying to make them panic as he had done the sheep. Instead, two heifers charged him. Their attack was so unexpected, Tod was nearly caught, and only by rapid clodging was he

  able to escape. Even so, he returned again, fascinated by the huge creatures. He soon found that by moving slowly and keeping close to the ground he could pass right through the herd without the cattle paying any particular attention to him. He also found that even though the creatures were dangerous, they charged in a straight line and could be easily avoided. From then on, Tod frequently turned aside from his regular route to torment the cattle, dodging around them, snapping at their legs, and making them chase him. Then, merely to show his mastery of the dull brutes, he would stop, let them quiet down, and deliberately slink through the herd, pausing to lie down in the middle of them, and finally trotting off, his mouth open in his distinctive foxy grin of triumph.

  That spring Tod also encountered dogs. They were farm dogs, mongrels without especially good noses, who liked to go hunting in the fields and woods, The first time Tod heard one of them on his trail he stopped, puzzled, and even waited for the animal; but one look at the oncoming dog speedily convinced him this baying creature meant him no good. He ran, mad with panic; and the dog, scenting the odor of fear when he came to the place in the trail where Tod had turned, burst into excited cries.

  Tod followed his standard route automatically, even running along a fence rail at a spot where he usually jumped on top of the fence to look out across the valley. He did not stop to look today, racing along two sections of fence before dropping down to continue his wild flight. He started to pant and unconsciously slowed his gait. Then he realized the dog was no longer giving tongue. Tod stopped and, making a circle, cautiously swung around to study his back trail. He found the bewildered dog running up and clown the fence line, trying to pick up the broken trail. Tod lay silently watching him for a long time. The dog's behavior was sufficiently similar to his own actions when trying to find a lost line so that he realized what the dog was doing, just as he had been able to recognize gestures of friendship or play on the part of the terrier because they were basically the gestures a fox would use under the same circumstances. When the dog finally gave up, Tod trotted off thoughtfully. He knew now that the dog had been following him by his scent, as he followed the scent of a rabbit, and that by fence-running, he could throw the animal off. From then on, whenever he was chased by a dog he would follow his usual route to the fence, run along the top rails, and drop off. It did not immediately occur to him that any fence would do as well - he always went to the same spot - but slowly he picked up a repertoire of tricks to throw off dogs. Most of these tricks he learned by sheer chance, like the fence-running. Whenever the dog was at a loss, Tod memorized that particular spot and what he had done. He was not analytical. Once he threw off two dogs by running across a newly plowed field, and from then on he always cut across that field when chased. He could not understand why when wheat started to come up in the field the trick no longer worked and the dogs could follow him easily. However, he still continued to run the field because of the original success.

  Tod was not entirely incapable of associating ideas. Once when a dog was after him Tod saw the cattle in the field and had an idea. He knew that the dog was comparatively clumsy, as the little terrier had been, and that the cattle would attack any large animal running carelessly among them. Tod turned off his usual route and ran across the field toward the cattle. When he drew close to them, he dropped and slunk forward among the grazing cons, worming his way into the middle of the herd. Then he turned so as to be able to watch his back track, and waited. In a few minutes the dog came racing along in full cry. Intent on the trail, he never lifted his head, and charged blindly toward the cattle. The cows bawled and turned toward him with lowered horns; nevertheless the dog kept on, A cow charged him, The startled dog was barely able to avoid her horns, and as he sprang aside another cow caught him and rushed him against the fence. Tod, sitting up to see better, watched the dog go flying into the air, yelping with pain and fright. Another cow caught the dog as he tried desperately to escape along the fence line. He finally managed to get away, and departed crying with pain while Tod bounded in the air to watch, dancing with delight and grinning until his jaws nearly met at the back of his neck. He was perfectly safe, for the cattle were watching the dog. Tod was so proud of himself and in such ecstasy at the success of his trick that he deliberately went looking for dogs thereafter to lure them into the field. He kept it up until every farm dog in the neighborhood learned to avoid the herd, to Tod's great disappointment.

  Tod followed his beat with such regularity a man could almost have set a watch by observing when the fox passed a certain point. Part of his run was along an embankment where a train ran twice a day. Tod had originally climbed the embankment because it was high and gave him a better view. He soon learned to trot along one of the rails, for the cinders hurt his pads, and he would run the rail for a few hundred yards before turning off to take a footpath through a juniper tangle that, in turn, led him to a culvert under the highway and thence up a hill to the fallen pine under which he usually denned for the day. He always reached the embankment an hour before dawn, but one morning he was late, having been delayed by an opossum that played dead so successfully that even Tod with his educated eyes and nose had been fooled. As he trotted along the rail shortly after sunup, he heard the whistle of an oncoming train.

  Tod paid no attention to the sound, and kept on. He felt the rail vibrating under his pads, and stopped to stare down at it in wonder. Then he heard the train itself and, looking over his shoulder, saw the monster racing down on him.

  Tod
ran for his life along the rail, but the train was faster, It never occurred to Tod to leave the rail until he came to his familiar turning-off place at the juniper thicket. The cowcatcher was almost touching his brush when he reached the place and made a hysterical hound off the embankment. flitting the ground with all four feet, he continued racing along the path, positive that the train was after him. Gradually he realized the monster was still on the embankment, rushing by. Tod stopped and stood watching it, gasping for breath. A week or so later, the fox was again delayed and again heard the whistle and felt the vibration while running the rail. This time he was prepared. He started running instantly and reached the jump-off spot in plenty of time. After a few more such experiences, he learned that the monster always continued in a straight line, not unlike the cattle when they charged, and therefore could be easily dodged. He even made a game of the business - as he slid of everything - and would deliberately jump on a rail and race ahead of the engine, jumping off whenever it got dangerously close.

  Autumn was a great time for Tod. Food was plentiful, and there was enough of a snap in the air to give him added vigor. He was bored, for hunting was easy and he had no friends. He left his usual range and roamed field with memories of the vixen in his head. On one of these trips he passed a cabin on the slope of a hill, and smelled dogs.

  It was just before dawn, and Tod hesitated. Curiously he circled the hill and then crept closer. To see what would happen, he gave an experimental bark. Instantly dogs burst from their barrel kennels, screaming with rage. Tod turned to run and then saw the dogs were chained. He had been chained himself, and understood the situation perfectly. He loped off, grinning to himself at the animals’ rage.

  A few nights biter, he passed the same spot. This time Tod slunk over to the nearest barrel, taking care to stop just outside the circle of hard-packed earth that showed the limits of the captive's chain. Then he began barking. He was rewarded by seeing a big hound burst out and ran at him. The other dogs instantly erupted from their kennels, and Tod sat in the midst of his hereditary enemies, enjoying their futile fury. Then the headlights of two cars swept the hill, and he hurried away.

  It was nearly two months later when Tod again happened to pass the hill shortly before daylight. He stopped in front of another kennel and barked tauntingly. The results were gratifyingly predictable. The hound burst out, standing on his hind legs as he forced himself against the collar, and within seconds the whole hillside was a madhouse of raging, thwarted dogs.

  The cabin door was thrown open, and a man came out. Tod instantly whirled to run. At the sight of his fleeing figure, the pack really went frantic. Tod had almost reached the cover when he heard the cry of the hound he had been goading take on a note of triumph, and sound nearer. Tod glanced back. To his horror, he saw that the hound had broken his collar and was after him.

  Tod sped for the woods, confident he could easily outdistance the hound as he had the farm dogs. To his growing alarm he heard the savage, eager baying rapidly getting closer. Out of the corner of his eye Tod say that the hound was gaining on him. He turned loose his top burst of speed. As he did so he heard the man shouting, “Chief! Come back here!” The hound paid no attention to the voice, and as Tod dived into the woods the hound was right behind him.

  Once in the woods the hound could no longer see him and was brought to his nose. Tod headed straight for the familiar home range where he knew the country so intimately. He expected the hound to drop far behind him like the farm dogs, but the haying continued steadily. The hound was not gaining, but neither was Tod lengthening the distance between them. This was not good, not good at all. Tod decided not to play with this animal, but get rid of him as fast as possible.

  He had reached his home range now, and thankfully Tod bounded up the slope of the well-known embankment. The dawn was coming up, and he heard the whistle of the train at a distant crossing. The sound gave Tod an inspiration. The train behaved like the cattle, just as the cattle had behaved like the sheep. He had gotten rid of the farm dog by taking him in front of the cattle. He could get rid of this animal in the same way. Tod looked back and saw the hound struggling up the embankment. The scent was poor on the rail, and the hound was at a loss, so Tod slowed down to wait for him. The hound finally picked up the line and loped along between the rails, checking with his nose at intervals to make sure his quarry had not jumped off. Tod felt the tingling of the rail under his pads. The train was coming.

  The hound checked the scent again and as he lifted his head from the rail he saw the fox running ahead. At once he burst into the cry that meant "In sight! In sight!" From somewhere there came the bleat of a hunting horn, blowing demandingly and insistently, but with the quarry in view the hound disregarded it. He tore along the ties and Tod had to stretch himself to keep ahead.

  The pulsation of the rail increased. The train was bearing down on them. Tod could see that the hound was right behind him. He waited as long as he dared, and then flung himself off the rail and down the embankment. As he did so he heard the desperate call of the horn, the frenzied whistle of the train, and then a single scream of agony from the hound. The train swept past while the panting fox made his way to the juniper tangle and dropped, dead beat.

  Silently he watched while a man came along the tracks with a big hound on a lead. The man stopped and stood looking at the dead hound a long time. Then he knelt and gently lifted the body. Tod heard him make a peculiar sobbing noise he had never heard before, and cocked his ears to listen.

  The man turned and looked out over the cover while Tod froze, afraid that he would be observed. The man held up the dead hound and shouted at the top of his voice. Tod could tell by the man's tone that he was filled with hatred and making some threat, much as Tod could tell that the vicious barking of a dog constituted a threat. Slowly the man turned and started back, carrying the dead hound while the hound on the lead followed him. When they were well gone, Tod rose stiffly and walked along the footpath, crawled through the culvert, and went up the hill to his pine-tree den. For once in his energetic life, he had had enough. He hoped never to see the man or any of his dogs again as long as he lived.

  3

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  The First Hunt - Shooting at a Crossing

  For the next few clays, Copper was supremely happy. His hated rival, Chief, was dead, and every time a current of air brought him the stale whiff of the Trigg's scent from the empty kennel, Copper knew a thrill of satisfaction. Yet this was only part of his joy. Every day now the Master came up the hill and picked him - and him alone - to go out. The other hounds screamed their frustration and jealousy, but little did Copper care. He was again top dog and the Master's chosen companion.

  True, he could have wished that the Master would do some real hunting rather than the boring, routine work required of him. The same day that Chief was killed and the Master had buried him in the dog graveyard up in the woods behind the cabin, the Master had gotten Copper and taken him back to the railroad tracks where the fox had jumped off. Although the scent was now cold, Copper had had no trouble following it through the junipers and to the culvert. Copper's educated nose told him the fox was not in the drain, so they had crossed the road to the other side. Here Copper had gotten a distinct air-borne scent from the hillside ahead. The fox was lying up on the slope, probably watching them at that very minute. He had promptly thrown his deep voice and strained at the lead, but the Master was strangely obtuse and held him back. Instead, the Master had studied the hillside carefully for some time and then dragged the reluctant Copper back to the car.

  From then on, the Master had picked up Copper every morning at sunrise, put him in the car, and they had driven for hours over the rough back roads. From time to time, the Master would stop the car so suddenly that Copper was nearly thrown from his rack behind the front seat. Then the Master would get out and stare at the road, sometimes walking back and forth slowly and sometimes bending over to stare at marks in the soft dust that apparently told him
something, although Copper could not imagine what. Then they would go on, only to repeat the process again and again.

  But sometimes after such a study the Master would call Copper out of the car, snap on the lead, and take him over the fields to a point where two fence lines crossed, a fallen log over a stream, or a gap in the hedgerow. If the ground was muddy, the Master was content with his own observations, but if it was hard or there was grass, he would call on Copper. Copper would apply his marvelous nose to the place indicated, and if a fox had passed that way within the last twenty-four hours, he would throw his tongue.

  In such cases, the Master would let him follow the line to a soft place where there were marks. Then the Master after examining them would often pull him off, saying, "No!" For a long time, Copper could not understand the difficulty. He had long ago learned not to speak on the trail of a gray fox. For some reason, grays were useless to the Master. Copper never smelled their hides with the stretching boards inside hanging on the side of the cabin, anti so he was scrupulously careful to make sure the scent was that of a red before giving tongue. Even so, for some time the Master clearly did not find what he was seeking. Copper was eager to help, and felt that somehow he was being remiss in his duties, yet he had no idea what was the matter.

  Then one morning where a power line ran between a multi-flora hedge and a wire fence covered with honeysuckle, Copper hit a fox scent he remembered. It was the fox who had run the rails and had been lying up on the hill that day. Copper spoke on the line without much enthusiasm, as he was now convinced that everything he did was wrong. As usual, he was ordered to track, and he followed the line to the hanks of a little creek where the fox had trotted across fresh mud to drink. As soon as the Master had examined the mud, his whole attitude changed. Copper sensed the excitement in his voice as he ordered, "Go get 'em, boy!" Copper wagged his thin tail, expecting to have the lead unsnapped, but the Master repeated the order and the astonished hound realized he was supposed to track while still on the lead. Disappointed but obedient, he set off. He was still tracking when night came and the scent grew no warmer, but the Master seemed pleased.