Percy’s anger at Dinsmore and this whole brutal business grew swiftly. He knew there was little he could do, but at least he might provide some moral support for the harried fox.
TURNING swiftly, he dashed into the forest and raced ahead on a course that would intercept the fox. He covered the half mile or so in slightly more than a minute and came to a stop in a tiny clearing. His ears told him the fox was approaching, and they also told him that the hounds were converging swiftly on this place.
The fox, a beautiful, tiny, but harried-looking animal, shot into the clearing in a matter of seconds. He slid to a surprised and desperate stop when he saw Percy.
“Relax, I’m a friend,” Percy said. His barks were meaningless to him, but obviously they got his point across. The fox trotted toward him warily. He barked sharply, and Percy got his message; “Where in hell did you come from?”
“Never mind that. Let’s shake those dogs.”
“I’m all for it. You got any ideas?”
“No.”
“Then follow me.”
The fox dashed across the clearing and into the woods, with Percy at his tail. They ran to the stream and followed it for several hundred yards, splashing through the shallow water near the bank. The fox swam across the stream at its widest point, and Percy joined him as swiftly as he could. They shook the water from their fur, and plunged into the trees again.
“That’ll slow ’em down,” the fox barked over his shoulder. “Bunch of dim-witted dogs if I ever saw one. They couldn’t find me in their own kennels.”
But his optimism wasn’t justified by the events of the next hour. Urged on by Dinsmore the hounds kept on their trail, driving them through the forest, across meadows, up and down hills, until they were both panting with exhaustion.
The fox was brilliant and clever, Percy realized, but at the moment it didn’t seem that his wits would be enough to save them. They toiled up a steep hill and below them in the fields, the hounds and hunters raced along their trail, barking and yelling with the expectation of the kill.
The fox paused wearily at the crest of the hill, his flanks heaving with exertion.
“I’m all done,” he said, with a gasping bark. “What do them dogs get out of this anyway? Why don’t they let me alone?”
“We can’t give up yet,” Percy said. He looked ahead and saw that their present course would lead them into a narrow canyon.
“Any way out of there?” he asked. The fox leaped into the air with sudden excitement. “I’m getting soft in the head!” he cried. “There’s a tiny tunnel at the end of the canyon. I can get through but the dogs can’t. Come on!”
“Hey, wait a minute. What about me?”
The fox paused, studying Percy’s huge size. “No, I guess that’s out. You’d never make it.”
“Well, you go ahead.”
“No, we’re in this together,” the fox said unhappily.
Percy stared at the canyon, and its sweeping walls for a few seconds, and suddenly an idea hit him with the force of a loaded club.
“I got it, I got it!” he cried. “You lead the pack into the canyon. Never mind about me. I’ll fix ’em all right if you can get them into that draw.”
“That’s easy. I’ll wait here a few more minutes until they’re sure to see me. What are you going to do?”
“‘Never mind. You just get them into that canyon.”
PERCY ran off, grinning happily.
He skirted the mouth of the canyon and scrambled up to a point where he was overlooking its narrow entrance. From here he could see the fox, a tiny figure on the table before the, canyon, and below him the noisy hounds and hunters charging up the hill.
The fox pranced about impudently in full sight of the onrushing pack, and then when they had been inflamed to a frenzy by this sight of their quarry, he wheeled and raced into the canyon. Soon the first of the hounds crested the hills and bounded on into the canyon, baying madly. Others followed. Then came the horsemen.
Percy saw Dwight Dinsmore urging his horse brutally. He raised himself in his stirrups and waved an encouraging arm to the other hunters.
“We’ve got him penned in here,” he bawled at the top of his voice. That delighted him, obviously; his voice dripped with passion and excitement.
Dinsmore dashed into the canyon after the hounds, and the remaining horsemen followed him at the same break-neck speed. Percy saw Cynthia in the rear group. She was having a fine time too, he decided. Her lips were flattened over her teeth, and the expression on her face was cruel and triumphant.
“Now let’s see how you enjoy a taste of the same medicine,” Percy thought with pleasure.
He trotted to the edge of the precipice overlooking the canyon and peered down. The hounds and hunters were several hundred yards into the narrow chasm, and ahead of them he saw the fox hurtling along like a red streak.
Percy turned about and began to scratch furiously at the rocky ground with his hind paws. A trickle of pebbles cascaded over the edge and bounded down the side of the canyon. They dislodged larger pebbles and stones, which in turn joined the growing stream falling and sliding into the canyon.
Percy redoubled his efforts. Stones and rocks flew out from beneath his churning paws, and suddenly he heard a loud ominous roar. Turning he peered into the canyon and saw that a large boulder had broken from the sidewall and was crashing into the mouth of the canyon. Another followed, and then, before Percy’s delighted eyes, several tons of dirt and rock slid away and dropped into the canyon with the cannonading roar of artillery. That was the start. For the next two minutes earth and rock plunged downward in a very impressive landslide, and when the dust eventually began to settle, the entrance to the narrow canyon was plugged with a small mountain of boulders.
Pleased by his work, Percy trotted along the rim of the canyon and studied the reaction of the hounds and hunters trapped by the avalanche. The hounds were taking it pretty well, he saw. There was no sign of the fox, and they were circling anxiously and baying in confusion. The hunters were considerably more perturbed.
Their voices floated up to Percy.
“There’s been a landslide!”
“We’re trapped!”
“Don’t lose your heads. I’ve been through worse things than this and come out top-hole.” (That was Dinsmore playing the man of action to the hilt, Percy thought.)
Percy barked triumphantly. He was answered by a shriller but equally happy bark, and, turning, he saw the fox trotting toward him with a wide grin on his face.
“Well, it worked like a charm,” the fox said. “That’s a neat trick, if I ever saw one. Most wolves are pretty dull, but you’re different, my friend.”
“Well, thanks.”
They studied the trapped pack for the next fifteen minutes, laughing heartily over their explanations of how the landslide had occurred and sneering at their attempts to rescue themselves.
Finally the fox tired of such sport. He thanked Percy profusely for his help, promised to do him a good turn if the chance occurred, and trotted off, tail set at a cocky angle.
Percy went slowly back toward the van Rensaler home. There was no reason for him to choose that as a destination, but it was as good a place as another. He paused at the stream that ran through their property and drank thirstily, his face plunged deeply into the cold clear water. When he had his fill he smacked his lips, and opened his eyes.
And got a shock!
Staring at him from the water was the pale serious face of Percy Pettibone!
Yes, it had happened again, he realized. He was back in the old body. Standing, he peered at his arms and legs, flexed his fingers, and scratched his head. Yes, everything was okay. But this was getting tiresome. Now a wolf, now a man! It just wasn’t natural. Percy wondered gloomily why he had been chosen for this on-again-off-again comedy of mutation. He had a strong feeling now that the sinister young man he’d met at the bar could answer that question.
He trudged the remaining mile to the va
n Rensaler’s in a dispirited frame of mind.
CHAPTER IV
THE PLACE was deserted except for servants. Percy went up to his room, showered and changed because he’d had an exhausting morning, and then went down to the dining room where an elaborate hunt breakfast was laid out on sideboards.
Percy was keenly hungry, and there was enough food around to take care of a famished battalion. Kippered herring, livers in wine and butter sauce, bacon, sausage, eggs, and mounds of toast and biscuits were stacked invitingly on all sides of the room, and three impassive, white-jacketed servants stood ready to serve.
“Was it a good hunt, sir?” one of them asked Percy respectfully,
“Not bad at all,” Percy said, helping himself to another egg.
“Did you trap the quarry?” the servant asked, with a subservient twinkle in his eye.
“Oh yes, we trapped them all right.” Percy smiled and nibbled at a chicken liver.
“ ‘Them’ sir? Was there more than one?”
“Oh, yes indeed. There was quite a pack.”
“I say, that must have been exciting, sir. Are the others coming in soon?”
“That’s hard to say,” Percy said reflectively. “They were talking about it when I left them I”
“I daresay they’ll be along shortly.”
“Well, you never can tell,” Percy said. “Hunting’s a precarious business.” He winked cheerfully at the servant and went on with his breakfast.
Afterward he strolled outside. Aimlessly he wandered through the gardens. He heard the murmur of the stream and turned in that direction. When he got to the bank he realized that he had unconsciously made an excellent decision, for Elma Wilson was sitting there on a stool and applying paint to a canvas tacked to a three-legged easel.
“Hello there,” he said. “‘Not intruding, am I?”
“Oh, hello. No, not at all. How was the hunt?”
“Not quite what I expected,” Percy said truthfully. “Mind if I watch you work?”
“Of course not.”
PERCY sat down with his back to a tree and lit his pipe. It was peaceful and quiet along the stream. Sunlight fell in dappled patterns through the leaves and there was a pleasant smell of earth and water in the air.
Elma Wilson frowned hard as she painted. She was doing a view of the bend of the stream, and it wasn’t bad. It was simple and unpretentious, aspiring to nothing more nor less than was in the subject.
She wore a white linen dress and moccasins. Her arms and legs were bare, brown and slimly graceful.
They talked as she worked—idle, non-demanding talk—and Percy found himself relaxing from the tensions that had beset him the past few days. He wished he could tell her about the amazing transformations that had been coming over him, but he dreaded disrupting this peaceful and delightful interlude. He felt she would understand what had happened to him and would listen to him intelligently. She was a tolerant, sympathetic person, he knew.
A sketch pad was beside him on the ground, so he picked it up, took a broad pencil from his pocket and began making a picture of her. When he finished he found somewhat to his confusion that she was watching him with a little smile.
“How did I turn out?” she said. “I’m sorry. I should have asked your permission first.”
“Nonsense. There’s, a sort of exchange privilege among artists. May I see it?”
“You mightn’t like it.”
“Well, I’ll say so if I don’t,” she said, smiling.
She studied the sketch for a few moments. Her expression was thoughtful. Finally she looked at him and said, “You’re an artist, of course. I mean a real one.”
“Thank you,” Percy said, flushing with pleasure.
“I don’t quite understand you,” she said. “This is wonderful work, I know. But you’re in the advertising business, I understand.”
“Well, there’s not too much market for art today,” Percy said. “I have to eat.”
“And go fox hunting?”
“You’re right, of course. I just don’t have the courage to chuck everything and paint. I’d like to, but—”
“It’s not my affair. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
She turned to her easel and began folding the legs. Percy moved to help her and their hands brushed together lightly. For an instant they looked at each other, and then Elma colored and turned away from him.
They walked back to the house in self-conscious silence.
THE hunters showed up at two-thirty in the afternoon. They were tired, crabby and hungry. The horses were still penned up in the canyon, and grooms were dispatched with picks and shovels to clear the entrance.
Cynthia was in a simmering rage. Her lips tightened when she saw Percy and Elma.
“Where were you this morning?” she demanded of Percy. “Why did you run out on the hunting?”
“Well, it wasn’t a bad idea, it seems, considering all the trouble you people got into,” Percy said. For some reason he felt more confident in his attitude toward his wife. This didn’t escape Cynthia. She looked quickly from Percy to Elma, and made a shrewd guess as to the source of his new strength.
Dwight Dinsmore approached them, drink in hand. He was tired, sweaty and confused. “I’ll get that wolf if I have to spend the rest of my life here,” he bellowed. “Hear about the wolf, Pettibone?” he said, turning to Percy. “Biggest damn animal ever seen in these parts.”
“My, my,” Percy said. “And he got away?”
“Yes,” but I have a feeling he’s nearby.”
“You may be quite right.”
“I’d have dropped him if I had a gun with me,” Dinsmore said. “Tomorrow will be another story, believe me.”
“I want to help you,” Cynthia said grimly.
“Good girl!” Dinsmore said, patting her shoulder. “You’ve got the killer instinct, all right.” It was his highest compliment.
Later, when they had gone to their room, Cynthia lit a cigarette and said casually to Percy: “You aren’t carrying on with that washed-out Wilson girl, are you?”
“That’s a ridiculous thing to say.”
“You never can tell.” Cynthia smiled and blew a languid plume of smoke in the air. “You’ve never shown any interest in that direction before, but there’s always a first time.”
“You’re a fine one to be talking.” Percy said, suddenly defiant. “How about you and that roaring ass. Dinsmore?”
“Well, how about us?” Cynthia said, and laughed lightly. “Your suspicions, I am pleased to tell you, are thoroughly justified. This isn’t the first time by any means.”
“I’m not very surprised,” Percy said.
“But I don’t intend to let you get out of hand, my dear. You see a stable, outwardly serene marriage, is very important to me. It makes me much more attractive to men. It provides a very safe framework within which to operate. So don’t make any more calf-eyes at that Wilson creature. I’ll be forced to embarrass her quite ruthlessly, if you do. After all, the injured wife always gets a great deal of sympathy, you know.”
“You leave her alone,” Percy said, trembling with a strange anger.
“I will if you do,” Cynthia said sweetly. “Now, you must excuse me. I have a date with Dwight.”
SHE left the room and Percy slumped into a chair, exhausted and distressed. He knew that Cynthia was perfectly capable of putting her threat into action, which meant he mustn’t see Elma Wilson at all for the rest of their stay here. He couldn’t stand the thought of dragging her into an embarrassing mess.
Harassed and troubled to the point of desperation, Percy fell into fitful sleep. He dreamed a series of wild dreams, and woke finally, cold and trembling.
He got to his feet and headed for the bathroom with the thought of splashing cold water over his face.
And then he realized that he was trotting!
He whirled about in a circle, his claws digging into the thick pile of the rug, and saw his ropy tail waving like a banner. His hea
rt was hammering with terror. He was caught, trapped! The welcome fastness of the fields and forests were far away. He would be shot down like a dog. No, like a wolf.
He ran to the windows and stood on his hind legs to peer out. It was a long sheer drop to the ground, and anyway, the windows were closed tight. His paws would be unable to open them. He dropped back to the floor and, turning, saw that the door was open. Cynthia hadn’t closed it firmly as she left. A ray of hope broke through his gloom. He was out the door in a flash and loping down the hallway to the stairs. Pausing at the head of the stairs he peered into the foyer and saw that it was empty. But the great front door was securely closed.
Have to find another exit, he thought. He scampered down the steps and slid crazily as his paws struck the marble floor. Getting up, he looked about hopelessly and helplessly, and then slunk down the wide corridor that led to the dining room. He could hear voices coming from there. The hunters were having their long deferred breakfast, obviously.
Percy peered in at them. There were sixteen or eighteen persons in the long dining room. Dinsmore was helping Cynthia to kippered herring, Percy saw, and his host and hostess, the van Rensalers, were quarreling about something or other in bored voices.
Dinsmore was saying heartily, “I tell you, my dear, if I saw that wolf I’d strangle it with my bare hands.”
And just at that moment a blonde girl saw Percy. She dropped her plate and began screaming. Heads turned and instantly the room was in bedlam.
Percy had no choice but to chance a wild and bold breakthrough. He dashed into the room, leaped a serving table and headed for the open French doors. Dwight Dinsmore, he saw from a corner of his eye, was leaping for a rifle that was leaning against the wall.
Percy ran down the porch steps and streaked through the rear gardens, past the kennels, where the dogs immediately set up a frantic howling, past the stables, and finally hit the broad open meadows that surrounded the van Rensaler home.
A GLANCE over his shoulder showed him that Dinsmore was running toward the stables with the rifle in his hands, and after him came Cynthia. Percy redoubled his speed. He had to make the woods before Dinsmore had a shot at him; but his luck was running out. Dinsmore was already in the saddle and plunging across the meadow to intercept him before he could get to the woods. Percy was forced to give up the attempt to reach the forest. He cut off on a right angle and dashed for hilly country.
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 281