Copper had never been a fighter, leaving that to the catch dogs, but in his indignation he turned on the two curs with a fury that caused them to withdraw, fighting on their home ground though they were. Copper tried to go on, but as soon as he turned the farm dogs rushed in again, snapping and snarling, their crests raised, their lips curled back to show the white teeth, their tails high. Copper was forced to defend himself, and the three furious animals spun around in a circle, rearing up as each dog tried to get higher than the other for the back-of-the-neck grip, and then falling to roll together on the grass.
Copper did his best, but he soon realized he was outmatched. Disengaging himself, he ran with the curs barking victoriously on his tail. They chased him across the field and under a barbed- wire fence. This was the limit of the farm, their home range, so they stopped at the fence, barking as loudly as possible and threatening all sorts of punishments if the hound ever dared return. Finally they trotted off toward the barn, shoulder to shoulder, feeling very proud of themselves and extremely companionable as brothers-in-arms.
Copper had not been seriously mauled, but he felt stiff and shaken as he went on. It took him some time to recover from the shock of the unexpected assault and get his mind back on the business at hand. He finally managed to orient himself, and returned to where the fox's line paralleled the hedge. Then he went on.
As he approached the crossing, he winded the gunner in the sassafras. That he could do so worried him, for it meant the wind had shifted slightly during the morning and the fox could do the same. Copper dropped his nose to the trail and followed it with a sinking heart. His worst suspicions were confirmed. Yes, here the fox had come to a sudden stop and there had been a slight spurt of urine. Then the fox had turned off sharply. Copper followed the line with scarcely enough enthusiasm to bay. The fox had avoided the crossing and gone over the road a quarter of a mile farther down. If only those damn curs had not interfered and Copper had been able to press him hard at this critical point, the hound would be worrying the body right now.
There was nothing for it but to keep on and hope for the best. After all, there were two more posted crossings, and at one the Master was sure to be waiting. The thought gave Copper confidence, and his baying rang out clear and true.
Copper knew from experience that from now on the fox would be doubly cautious at all crossings, determined to lose him, so the hound followed the line with meticulous care, alert for tricks. At first, there seemed to be nothing to worry about. The fox returned to his regular route as soon as possible and kept to it. Here the route led across some open fields, going from rise to rise in typical fox fashion, and although the strong light of the noonday sun was beginning to kill the scent in the open - as strong sunlight always did - enough of it lay in the shaded sides of the mounds to enable the hound to press on at a fast lope. There was also a little breeze here that made the scent swirl so it was more readily detected.
Copper came to a circular mound some fifty feet across with a deep depression in the center. The fox had run up the side of the mound, but here the scent ended. There was limestone under the grass, which always killed scent, and the rim of the mound was all in the full glare of the sun. Copper circled the mound, working the lip carefully to find where the fox had left it, but his nose told him nothing. He then made another cast, going over every foot of the outside slope. Poor as the scent was, he could not believe that the fox could have run down the mound again without leaving some trace. The fox must still be there somewhere, possibly in a hole.
Copper returned to the lip of the crater and then worked out the inside slope as systematically as he had the outer incline. Again he drew a blank. Copper was baffled. There were some outcroppings of limestone in the crater, and Copper wondered if he could pick up some scent in the shadow of one of these. He started to check them one after another.
Nothing - nothing - nothing. Copper was getting discouraged. Looking around with his nearsighted eyes, he saw one last rock lying in the bottom of the hollow. Without hope, and merely as a routine, final gesture he walked over to it and extended his muzzle.
To his astonishment, the rock suddenly darted away. Copper was so surprised he jumped back with a growl. Then the odor of fox hit him. Bellowing with excitement, he rushed forward, but not until he passed the spot where the fox had been lying did he realize that the fox had been crouched there curled up like a ball all the time he was casting to and fro in the crater, often not ten feet from the motionless animal, When he lay still the fox gave off virtually no odor, and to the color-blind hound the grayish limestone rocks were the same color as the fox.
They were off again. The fox was running through a hollow now, and the soil was moist. In spite of the sun, the grass was damp, and the scent from the fox's pads spread so rapidly the hound no longer had to follow the tracks themselves but a scent path several feet wide. Ahead lay a plowed field, and the fox cut across it. Copper approached the dark-colored earth apprehensively, but to his gratification the scent held well. The dark earth absorbed the warmth of the sun so the ground was warmer than the air and the scent rose, hanging an inch or so above the furrows. At dawn, at sunset, or on a warm day, scenting conditions here would have been impossible but now they were just right.
On the far side, the fox returned to his regular route, and now Copper sensed a subtle change in the scent. It was weakening. For a moment he thought the fox had speeded up for another crossing, but the scent was not stale. Nor were scenting conditions bad, for they were in the shadow of a line of maples. Copper felt a thrill of exultation. The fox was weakening and scent fades with a fading fox. Heretofore his baying had been low in the scale, and prolonged. Now it increased in tempo, key, and volume.
The fox ran along a snake fence, which bothered Copper not at all, tried his backtracking trick again, and then put on speed. As he ran, Copper began to note familiar landmarks, although he had been over this portion of the route only once before. Copper had a remarkable memory for certain details, and he began to recognize the touch of a pokeweed stalk that brushed his shoulder at a certain angle when he had run this way earlier, the smell of an individual rusty iron post and the clear, moist odor of flowing water ahead. They were coming to the log over the stream crossing where the second gunner had been posted. This was a "low" crossing in the bottom of a little valley, and scent would be bad. Copper increased his pace to keep the scent as fresh as possible, as well as to push the fox,
Here the fox's route crossed the stream twice: first across some stones in the creek, then along a line of scrub willows, and then back across the log. Copper threw his voice, but the scenting grew so bad that he was forced to concentrate on the line. He came to the creek where the fox had bounded nimbly from stone to stone without wetting his feet, The heavy, tired hound floundered through the water and up the other side. Here the scent stopped. Copper searched the clay bank in vain. He wondered if the fox could have turned and waded down or up the stream - foxes often did. He must be sure.
He turned and ran upstream, forded the creek again and tried the other bank. Scent would not lie on the running water, he knew, but if the fox had waded... bits of scent were often carried by the stream into little bays and backwaters. Copper checked them all and then tried downstream. Nothing there. He returned to the stepping-stones, went up the bank, and worked out a line of willows. At long last he found the line again. Baying loudly, Copper tore on.
There was the log, and the trail ran straight for it. Copper had almost reached it when he saw the gunner stand up from his ambush with the gun in his hand. Copper's nose told him the fox had already passed - why hadn't the man shot him? After several hours of his lonely vigil in the intense cold, the man must have relaxed to stretch, yawn, or scratch himself. He had taken his eyes off the log for a moment, and of course it was in that instant that the fox had slipped past. Copper had been too busy working out the line to warn him by baying. Raging, the hound crossed the log and kept on.
Well, there wa
s still the Master. Copper knew the Master would not relax even for a second with a fox running. And he never missed. Copper had no idea at which of the remaining crossings the Master had posted himself, but he would be somewhere; that the old hound never doubted. Then all his efforts would be rewarded.
They were on good humus and the scent was clear although fading. The fox must be weakening, and Copper deliberately held back, for he did not want the fox to go to ground. The fox took advantage of the lead to make for a swamp, and there he left another maze of trails. This was more of a problem than the other tangles had been, for the swamp was too big for Copper to circle it and pick up the trail where the fox had emerged. He had to work it out. The job was not as hard as he had feared, for the sun had melted the frozen mud and there were puddles of water that held the scent beautifully after the fox had splashed through them. The fox had also jumped from hummock to hummock, and the dry swamp grass held his body scent. He had doubled in and out, crossing his own trail constantly; but Copper could perfectly well tell the difference between a trail made a minute before and one made two minutes before, and he was never confused. The fox would have to come out sometime, and come out he did, Copper even got a glimpse of the gray shape drifting across a meadow as he emerged from the rushes, and for a few wonderful seconds the hound was running by sight, telling the whole world of his triumph.
Now the fox tried what were obviously his last tricks. He ran along the bank of the stream for some distance and then down into the water. Copper needed to go only a few yards to be sure the fox had not gone downstream. A dam of driftwood had formed that the fox would have had to cross, and there was no scent on the dam. Upstream, then, it had to be, Copper waded up the stream, smelling each rock and watersoaked log in case the fox had rubbed against them, but he found nothing. Then he tried the banks. Still nothing. This was a puzzler. Copper begrudged every second these casts cost him, for any delay made the fading scent grow still colder and also gave the fox a chance to rest.
As usual in such a situation, Copper returned to the last place he had a sure scent: the spot where the fox had gone down into the stream. Yes, although the scent was now dead the quarry had certainly run along the bank and then gone down the bank. But wait a minute. There was something peculiar about the scent. Could it be - yes, it was double! The fox had run down to the stream and then backtracked. But where had he then left the trail? Copper had been conscientious about checking for jump-offs to one side or the other ever since the fox had started his series of tricks.
The hound backtracked along the trail. He went some distance before the double trail stopped, but the fax had not jumped to either side. Ah, the stream! He could reach that. For the second time Copper waded into the stream, but now below the dam, and began checking The creek was so fast-flowing there were no little backwaters that might hold the wash from the fox’s body, but mulberries overhung the stream and from their trailing limbs Copper was able to pick up the scent he sought. Yes, the fox had come this way. Copper followed him from the twigs until he came to where the fox had left the stream and resumed his run.
This had been a long check and the scent was growing cold, so Copper hurried on. He came to where the fox had run a hard-topped road - a common trick and annoying rather than puzzling. Unlike moist grass, the scent from the pads would not spread on the hard asphalt, but remained in little patches that made tracking difficult. Still, the fox had to leave the road somewhere, and Copper followed until he found the place. Several times he was nearly hit by passing cars, but Copper remained indifferent to them in his concentration on the elusive line, merely regarding the vehicles as a nuisance because their exhaust fumes and stinking tires further confused the line.
The fox cut through some woods where the scenting was easy and then down a long slope covered with orchard grass where the scent was even better. For the first time since the log crossing, Copper threw his voice in the full, rich bay of a tracking hound, and galloped on eagerly. There was something about this place he remembered. Yes, there was the cherry with the rotten limb lying beside the trunk. Yes, there was the patch of mint, and here was the stone wall covered with poison ivy and wild roses. They were coming to another crossing. Copper felt a sudden surge of confidence that here the Master would be waiting. It was a "high" crossing; if possible the fox always crossed a road where it ran over a little ridge. The fox liked high crossings as he could see in all directions and get the wind blowing straight across the valley unhampered by hills. There was, however, a good sumac tangle here that made a perfect ambush. Right in front of it ran the rutted dirt road and from the tangle the Master would have a perfect shot at the fox as he crossed. Once before in this same place the Master had shot a fox running before Copper inhaled the fading scent and knew the fox was putting on his usual burst of speed before a crossing. Baying with the full force of his great lungs, Copper threw all his powers into catching up and preventing the quarry from hesitating at the road.
Men had been timbering, and the hauled logs had pressed down a long , wide swathe in the tall grass. As he rounded a bend in the wall, Copper saw ahead of him in the lithe form of the fox speeding toward the road. Instantly he broke into his viewing cry that meant the quarry was in sight. The Master waiting would know what the change in pitch meant. The fox could not turn or stop now with the hound only yards from his brush. The Master would not be scratching or yawning, but waiting with his gun trained on the open patch of road that the fox must cross. Already Copper could feel the taste of soft fur in his mouth and the stench of the body as he worried it. The fox had almost reached the road now.
Down the road came an ancient, rattling farm truck, its driver indifferent to the baying hound or the fleeing scud of the fox. Copper saw the fox hesitate. For an instant he thought the animal would dodge in front of the truck and continue on his route, but instead the fox swung off to one side.
Bang! The half-frozen ground shuddered as a charge of shot struck under the white-tipped brush. The fox leaped convulsive]y, his hindquarters twisting at right angles, his brush shooting out sideways to act as a counterbalance as he swerved. Then the brush spun around and around, as though giving him momentum, and he was off. Until now, the fox had not been running; only keeping ahead of the hound. He ran now. The slim form seemed to shoot over the ground without touching it. In seconds, he was out of Copper’s sight.
Laboring hard, Copper plunged after him. If only he had been hit! He smelled the tom earth and the odor of the shot mingled with the spurt scent of urine and fear. No blood, but there might still be some. Copper kept wildly on. It was useless. The sudden fright had scared the scent from the fox, the shock temporarily paralyzing the scent glands so they were inoperational. One drop of blood - just one little drop every few feet and Copper could still trail that fox across a desert, but there was no blood. Tracking was impossible, and Copper turned sadly back.
On the road, the Master had stopped the truck, and Copper could hear him yelling at the driver. Copper could not understand the words but he recognized the tone. On a few occasions the Master had spoken to him like that, so he knew how the driver must feel. The thought gave him some slight satisfaction.
4
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The Second Hunt - Jug Hunting
Tod learned three valuable lessons from that terrible day which had climaxed with a sting of shot in his hide that itched him for a long time afterward. First, he made it a point never to use the same lying-up place twice in succession so his enemies would not know where to find him. Second, especially when being chased by a slow hound who made no attempt to press him, he took care never to cross at a crossing; instead he made a detour around such places. Last, unless so hard pressed he was forced to take the easiest and therefore most familiar route, he did not stay on his regular run when hounds were on his trail, and made it his business to learn a number of alternate runs he could use when hunted. When hunting himself, he generally stayed on his regular route because the run had been laid out
to enable him to visit the best game areas where mice, rabbits, and other quarry lived; but at the first cry of hounds he switched over to one of his secondary routes as quickly as possible, usually alternating between them, particularly if the hounds were forcing him to run downwind.
Tod had not acquired the bag of tricks he had played on Copper simply by being chased by farm dogs, and even less through any process of abstract reasoning. For several months before that well-nigh fatal day, he had been chased, often three or four times a week, by packs of experienced and determined hounds. These hunts always took place at night, and followed a predetermined pattern that Tod had learned to expect.
The first time Tod heard the pack on his trail, he stopped to listen in astonishment, for he had no idea what the sound was. He even turned and trotted back toward the cry, a victim of his all-consuming curiosity. Still, bewildered, he waited until he caught sight of the hounds - huge, bounding ominous shapes in the darkness - and heard their cry grow shriller and more blood- thirsty as the night breeze carried his body scent directly to them. Now at long last Tod realized that these creatures were deadly enemies. Not only were they terrible to see but the tone of their voices was clearly aggressive. Tod turned and ran for his life.
He kept to his regular route from habit, and luckily for him, within a few yards his route took him under a gate. The hounds were too big to squeeze under the bars, and lost time finding an opening in the hedge through which they could force their way. This gave Tod a few precious yards' lead, but unaware that he had temporarily lost the hounds, he continued running wildly. When he realized that the pack was no longer speaking on his line, he slowed, but when the strike-hounds found the trail again and threw their voices, he continued his panicky flight. Coming to a road, he was turned back by the sight of some cars whose owners on hearing the pack had stopped with lights on and engines running. Spinning around, Tod ran back over his own track and then turned off to one side, making a long leap to avoid a muddy ditch. Still running, he heard the pack come roaring along and cross the road at full speed. Here their voices soon died away. Thoroughly winded, Tod crouched in a patch of bunchgrass and listened. He heard the hounds coming back along his old trail, whimpering with frustration in their efforts to find where he had turned off. They passed the spot where he had made his sideways jump over the ditch and continued on. He heard no more from them that night.
The Fox and the Hound Page 7