UNDER ALIEN SKIES
Securely wrapped up in the oat-sack, with just the black tip of his nose
sticking out, Red Fox showed never a sign of life during that
interminable journey to the home of the Boy. Tucked under the Boy’s
sturdy young arm he endured the painful grip with unwavering heroism, and
never stiffened or twitched a muscle. But if the elated victors had taken
it into their heads to peer suddenly into the end of the roll of sacking,
past the black nose-tip, they would have caught a shrewd and watchful eye
wide open. The captive was not going to lose any point unnecessarily; and
peering out into the flooding moonlight he marked well where his captors
were carrying him. Bitterness was in his heart as he watched the silvered
trees and fields and fences go by,—bitterness, and humiliation, and rage,
and fear, but by no manner of means despair. Helpless as he was for the
moment, he knew that he could not be carried in that way for ever. There
must come some change. He was full of devices. And he had no idea of
counting the great game lost.
When the Boy had unrolled him, and chained him to a staple in the corner
of a spacious box-stall in the barn, and undone the bonds that fettered
his legs, Red Fox still lay limp, so utterly slack in every sinew that
the backwoodsman was more than ever assured that he was dead. To all
jibes, however, the Boy answered, merely, “Come back in the morning and
see!” And soon, after having wearied of admiring the rich fur and
congratulating themselves on their speedy triumph, the victors went away,
fastening the barn door behind them.
From a small window the moonlight came pouring in, lighting the centre of
the stall brilliantly and leaving the corners in deep shadow. The moment
he knew he was alone the limp shape on the floor awoke to eager life,
with a sharp leap that tested the soundness of the chain. Red Fox felt
himself violently jerked backwards and thrown off his feet, which
sufficed to convince him that the chain was strong. Having assured
himself as to its strength, and also as to its length (which was about
six feet), he now began to test it minutely with nose and teeth, holding
it down between his fore paws and going over every link right up to the
staple in the wall. Finding no flaw or weakness anywhere in the cold
steel which hurt his teeth, he next set himself to the task of pulling
the collar over his head. Backing away he strained and tugged with all
his mind, but only succeeded in choking himself till his eyes and tongue
stuck out. Upon this a memory of the great lynx strangling in the snare
came over him, and he stopped abruptly, panting and gasping. As soon as
he had recovered from this touch of panic and fully regained his breath,
he was seized with a new idea. In the corner of the stall was a heap of
chaff and fine straw with a wisp or two of hay. In this he carefully
buried a slack section of the chain; and when the work was done he crept
away furtively, trusting to leave his obstinate tormentor behind. But
when he saw the snaky thing emerge inexorably from its hiding, and felt
it once more tug peremptorily at his neck, he seemed to realize the folly
of his choice. For a few minutes he sat up on his haunches, and pondered.
Then, seeing that for the time there was nothing else to be done, he
curled himself up in a corner and resolutely went to sleep.
When, somewhat early in the morning, the Boy came to the stall with a
dish of water and a tempting piece of ruddy fresh meat, Red Fox gave him
one long look of implacable disdain, retreated with dignity to his
corner, and ignored the visit resolutely. He was hungry, and very
thirsty; but in the visitor’s hated presence he scorned to show either of
these needs. When the Boy approached him too closely he would show his
white teeth, and a deep, lambent green colour would come into his eyes,
almost opaque and seeming like a film drawn over the whole iris. This was
a signal meaning “keep off!” and the Boy, understanding it very well,
obeyed. As soon as he was gone, Red Fox lapped up the water greedily, and
fell upon the raw beef. He had no intention of starving himself, but he
was not going to give the Boy the satisfaction of watching him eat.
And now began for the unhappy captive four weeks of monotonous vain
longing. Twice a day, in the early morning and in the first of the
twilight, he would go through his efforts to escape, testing the chain
link by link, and then hopefully burying it in the chaff. Only the
attempt to pull the collar over his head he never repeated, so great was
his horror of strangling. Meanwhile the Boy was unremitting in his
efforts to win the confidence of the splendid captive. Dainties to eat,
fresh water twice a day, gentle conversation, quiet, gradual advances,
all were faithfully and discreetly tried, but all in vain. At the end of
the month the scorn in Red Fox’s eyes was as clear and uncompromising as
ever, his glare as greenly menacing and his teeth as implacably
displayed, whenever his gaoler came too near. Then, reluctantly, but on
his father’s advice, the Boy made up his mind that the tameless captive
must be sold.
About this time—for the fame of Red Fox and the story of his capture had
spread far beyond the Ringwaak neighbourhoods—a well-dressed stranger
appeared at the settlement and asked to see the illustrious fox. The Boy
proudly did the honours, and with regret acknowledged his failure to tame
the beautiful and sagacious beast. The visitor presently made an offer to
buy.
“What do you want him for?” asked the Boy, doubtfully.
The stranger eyed him with care before replying, and understood something
of his attitude.
“To sell to some big zoological gardens,” he replied, easily, “where
he’ll be thoroughly appreciated.”
Much relieved, the Boy agreed at once, and pocketed a price beyond his
wildest hopes. Had he known, however, the purchaser’s real purpose, he
would have rejected any price with indignation, and even counted upon
Jabe Smith’s backing in the matter. Red Fox was destined, not for a
brilliant “zoo,” where he would be a prisoner, indeed, but pampered and
admired, but for the depleted coverts of a Hunt Club in one of the great
States farther south, where his strength and cunning might be expected to
give phenomenal sport before the hounds should finally tear him to
pieces. The backwoodsman as well as the Boy had a kind of primitive
horror of the formal sport of fox-hunting, which seemed to them a
regulated and long-drawn cruelty. It is probable, however, that if they
had consulted the wishes of Red Fox himself, that self-confident and
indomitable animal would have elected to go with the stranger, choosing
the alien coverts with all their loud and appalling perils rather than
the hopeless security of the “zoo.”
As it was, however, every one was pleased. The Boy and Jabe had their
money; and Red Fox, in his openwork, strong-barred crate, was glad of any
change that meant getting away from the gloomy box-stall in the barn.
Where there was change there might come opportunity; and at least he was
once more moving in the moving sun and air.
The journey from Ringwaak settlements to the nearest railway station was
some fifteen miles of rough going in an open express wagon which carried
the mails. The crate containing Red Fox and his misfortunes was lashed
securely on the top of some heavy boxes, so he could command a view of
the bright-coloured, russet and crimson world which he was leaving.
Curled up on the bottom of the crate, his watchful eyes stared forth
intelligently through the bars, missing nothing, but revealing nothing of
the emotions astir behind their clear depths. For a little while the road
led through familiar woods and fields. Then these grew strange, but the
rampiked, ridgy summit of old Ringwaak, his landmark all his life,
remained in view. Then the wagon topped a range of steep uplands and
dipped into the rugged wilderness valley of the Ottanoonsis, and Ringwaak
was hidden from view. Now, for the first time, Red Fox felt himself an
alien and an exile utterly. As the granite rocks, and scraggy white
birches, and black patches of hemlock, and naked, bleak, dead trunks
closed in about the narrow road, the captive felt for the first time that
the old range, and the den on the hillside, and his slim red mate, were
lost. For a time his faith in his own wits failed him, and he sank his
nose between his paws in despair.
After what seemed to the captive, and hardly less to the well-dressed
stranger on the seat beside the driver, an interminable age of jolting,
the lonely little backwoods station, a mere red-washed shanty, with a
tall water-tank near by, was reached. Here the stranger gave Red Fox a
drink, and a liberal chunk of fresh meat to amuse himself with, but made
no attempt to cultivate his good-will. Unlike the Boy, he had no wish to
conciliate or subdue the captive’s wildness. At last, after an hour’s
wait, the train came roaring and clattering down the rails; and Red Fox,
in his crate on the platform, shrank back against the bars with starting
eyeballs, imagining that the end of all things had come upon the world.
When the loud monster had passed him and come to a stop, and he found
himself still alive, he was trembling so that he could scarcely stand up;
and it seemed a matter of small importance when his crate was thrust into
what was evidently a part of the monster, and he was whirled away with
sickening motion and bewildering tumult. Not till he had been travelling
for nearly a day could he bring himself to eat or drink. Then, little by
little, seeing that men lived and were content about him, seeming to have
no dread whatever of the monster, he recovered his equanimity and resumed
his wonted courage. The process, however, took him another good
twenty-four hours, and then, just as he was finding himself master of the
situation, the train came to a long stop, and his crate was lifted from
the car. Once more he was put into a wagon, and taken for a drive,—first
through a wilderness of crowding houses set thick together like trees,
then through a pleasant country of gardens diffusing into farms, and at
last into a rougher region of pasture fields, and swamps, and
thick-wooded knolls. Presently the wagon stopped in front of a low,
wide-winged, imposing red structure, where men lounged on the spacious
porch, and saddled horses stood before the steps. Here the crate was
lifted down, and the stranger began enthusiastically pointing out Red
Fox’s beauties and distinctions to a knot of men who had come forward to
inspect the heralded prize. Their admiration was unstinted.
“If he’s got bottom to match his beauty,” said one, “he’ll give us the
neatest run the ‘Merrybrooks’ have ever had.”
“Look at that cool and cunning eye!” said another. “He’s got brains.
He’ll give us more than one run, I’m thinking, before that mighty brush
hangs on the wall!”
“I could find it in my heart to wish he might fool us altogether!” cried
a third. But this foolishly amiable sentiment aroused such a chorus of
protest that he hastened to add: “I mean, of course, that it would be a
great thing for our strain of foxes, and therefore for the club, and
therefore for sport in general, if this husky Kanuck could have a fair
chance to disseminate his breed.”
The suggestion caught several supporters, who proposed that Red Fox
should be kept for breeding; but there being a great meet planned for the
following Tuesday, just four days ahead, the majority were determined to
let the future take care of itself. The last run of the Merrybrook hounds
had been something of a fizzle, and now they were not sure there was a
fox left in their coverts. They wanted one good run, anyway; and plainly
this was the beast to give it to them.
In the middle of the lawn before the club-house the crate was set on its
side and the cover removed. On the very instant, as if shot out by a
spring, Red Fox leaped forth. Straight before him was a stretch of smooth
meadow, leading to a grove of maples and chestnuts. But on the way up the
road, on the other side of the club-house, Red Fox had noted a stretch of
wild land, wooded and brushy. In the too obvious path to freedom he
suspected a snare. The moment his feet touched solid earth he doubled
straight back toward the spectators, darted fairly between the legs of
one, under the belly of the nearest horse, behind a massive clump of
rhododendrons across the road,—and vanished before any one had time to
more than look around.
The stranger, who had brought Red Fox so far, glowed with pride.
“Did you ever see such speed?” cried one.
“And such nerve?” cried another.
“He’s all right, Mack!” exclaimed several at once.
“If he has any sort of luck,” remarked his first champion, dryly, “our
breed of foxes may get improved, after all!”
[Illustration: “BEHIND A MASSIVE CLUMP OF RHODODENDRONS.”]