“Then, where did she put the leftovers?”
The foxes looked at one another in puzzlement.
“I guess we don’t know,” Nimble said with a shrug. “She just did what she did.”
“Do you think she could have stored them somewhere?” Ereth asked. “She ever mention having still another den? You know, an emergency storehouse?”
“She never said,” Flip replied.
A frustrated Ereth turned to look over the field. If there was a storage den stuffed with food it would make all the difference in the world. The problem was, such a place was likely to be well hidden. It could be anywhere.
He turned back to the waiting kits. “There must be one. I think we’d better go look for it,” he said. “The point is, I can’t teach you anything about hunting. But you need food. So think hard. Did your mother even hint about another place?”
“Nope,” Nimble said.
“Okay,” Ereth said. “Then here’s what we’re going to do. We’ve got those trails you’ve made. Instead of looking for traps, go back along them. Keep your noses to the ground. Sniff. Smell. See if you can find a storehouse. But, whatever you do, don’t go off the safe trails! If you think you smell something, come back and we’ll investigate together.”
The kits needed no further encouragement. They bounded off, each one going in a different direction.
As he waited, Ereth scrutinized the field, trying to guess where, if he were to build a secret storehouse, he might put it.
Then he craned around to look behind him, at the crest of the bluff in particular, which rose up some five feet over his head. He doubted if the kits would even think of looking there. A shrewd mother like Leaper, knowing that, might well put a storehouse in just such an out-of-the-way spot.
Ereth eyed the area carefully, trying to figure out a way he could haul himself to the top. It was steep. But as he looked around he noted that not very far from where he sat was a natural cleft worn into the face of the bluff. If he could work his way up that cleft, he should be able to get beyond the bluff.
Still he hesitated. What about traps? There were still six to be uncovered. So far, however, they had all been found along the base of the bluff, in the forest, or out in the field. That suggested they wouldn’t be beyond the bluff. Maybe.
Ereth looked over the field. The kits remained hard at work. Should he tell them what he was doing? No. It would take too long. Besides, it would be a lot more enjoyable to greet them with news of his discovery—if he made one.
Ereth headed for the cleft, working his way across the bluff. It was not easy to reach. First there was snow with which to contend. Then too, the face of the bluff was studded with rocks and boulders, all of which slowed him down. More than once Ereth needed to stop and rest.
Once he reached the lower end of the cleft, he started up, clawing and scratching at the loose gravel and snow. Twice he had to stop, panting heavily. But when he pulled himself over the final bit, he faced a stand of pine trees. His heart skipped a beat. Food! Trailing drools of spit and ignoring all caution, he ran right toward the trees.
Upon reaching the pines he attacked them with nothing less than savagery, ripping away the outer layers of bark to get at and gnaw at the sweet under-bark.
After twenty minutes of nonstop eating, Ereth felt so stuffed, so crammed full of food, he had to rest and allow himself to digest his meal. Then, with a start, he recalled his original mission: food for the kits.
He sat up and looked about. The first thing he realized was that there were enough trees in the area to keep him satisfied for a long time. That is to say, his food problem had been solved.
But where, he asked himself again, if he were a fox, would he place a secret den?
Ereth searched among the trees. The ground was hard, frozen in spots, though without many rocks. The snow was sparse here, and he was able to make his way with relative ease. Still, there didn’t seem to be any logical place for a secret den.
Then he noticed, within a tightly woven grove of trees, a large pile of rocks. He lumbered over to it and eyed it with care, searching for a hole or anything to suggest an entry to an inner cache of food. But though he walked completely around the pile, he saw nothing that even hinted at it.
He was about to move on when he decided he should climb atop the pile. Perhaps—though he doubted it—he might see something more from up there.
He clambered up the rocks. It was not easy, and he kept swearing to himself. Then, as he climbed higher, he began to detect the smell of something distinctly unpleasant.
Ereth reached the top of the pile, and suddenly the smell of meat was much more pungent. Poking about the top, he found a hole. It was not a very large hole, but when he put his nose to it he had to jump back, so repellent was the stench. It was the stink of meat. A lot of meat.
Excited now, Ereth scratched about the hole, trying to enlarge it. The edges gave way quickly, as if they had been but loosely packed in the first place.
Very soon Ereth was able to poke his head down into a bigger hole. What Ereth saw in the dim light made him blink. The pile of rocks enclosed an entire storeroom of food: partially eaten rabbits, voles, chipmunks, and even, to his horror, mice. All were frozen.
It was as he had guessed and hoped: Leaper had carefully provided emergency rations for her family to last for a good part of the winter. No one would starve.
Caught between total revulsion and complete glee, Ereth wheeled about and dashed back toward the bluff and the foxes. “Bouncing bear burps!” he cried. “I’ve found it. We’re saved.” He was so excited he hardly noticed he was using the word “we.”
CHAPTER 20
Bounder
TOWARD THE OTHER END of Dimwood Forest was a small, shallow glen. All but circular in shape, the hollow was surrounded by tall ponderosa pines, their heavy limbs bent with snow. Near the center of the place—like the hub of a wheel—was a rock. Atop the rock, bathing in the warm sun beneath the blue sky, was a large, handsome fox. It was Bounder, the father of the three kits.
Head high, majestic tail curled about his body, Bounder was in perfect repose. His coat of ruby red fur was as thick as summer grass. His paws were powerful. His noble face, long and pointed, bore deepset eyes and sharp whiskers.
Indeed, he was quite prepared to believe that the rock upon which he rested and even the sun in the sky were there for him, so as to show him at best advantage. All that was missing was a pool of water in which he might admire his own image.
A few days ago Bounder had heard a rumor that the humans at New Farm—at the eastern end of Dimwood Forest—had built a brand-new chicken coop. The coop was full of plump chickens—or so the fox had been informed. With visions of many tasty meals in his future, the fox was determined to visit the coop. Just thinking about it made him lick his lips in anticipation. For Bounder did what he wanted, how he wanted, when he wanted. It was only the snowstorm that had interrupted his journey.
Though the storm was now over and he was still planning to go, the soothing sun upon his back detained him. The warmth provided such sweet contentment, he had shut his eyes and given himself over to random thoughts.
Even as the fox’s eyes were shut, his ears were working, listening to the sounds of the forest, on guard for the slightest hint of any disturbance to which he should attend.
As time went by he caught the sound of a mouse burrowing under the snow. Bounder decided the mouse was not big enough for him to bother with.
Not long after that, he was certain a baby rabbit was hopping by the rock. Though the fox knew the rabbit was easy prey, once again he decided that the animal’s small size did not justify making any effort to catch it.
It was his awareness of the young rabbit, however, that caused him to think—momentarily—about his wife, Leaper, and his three kits, Nimble, Tumble, and Flip.
Regarding Leaper, Bounder had no great depth of feeling. When he thought of her, it was to acknowledge that she was a good mother to these kits
of his. That, as far as he was concerned, was the only thing important about her. For Leaper’s good mothering meant that he, Bounder, did not have to concern himself very much about his youngsters. That in turn allowed him to go about his business freely without the least hindrance. And so he did.
As for the kits, he did care for them, but on his own terms. He enjoyed visiting them from time to time. He liked to bring them special treats, like a freshly killed chicken—something their mother would not risk providing. He also enjoyed engaging the kits in a bit of rough play—just enough to let them experience his strength.
But what Bounder liked most, in regard to his kits, was to allow his children to gaze upon him with adoring eyes. Once that was accomplished, he would go off again on his private business.
All that, in Bounder’s opinion, was the proper life for a father fox.
So it was that as the fox continued to lie beneath the warm sun, he deliberately dismissed thoughts of home and family. Life was too good for him to be disturbed by such things.
But then Bounder heard the sound of something much larger than a baby rabbit. Opening his orange eyes a little, he sought out who it might be. There, on a branch on one of the trees overlooking the glen, was Marty the Fisher.
As soon as the fox realized it was Marty, he shut his eyes again. Bounder did not like Marty. As far as the fox was concerned, the fisher was an unpleasant creature: sly, secretive, not always to be trusted.
“Hello, Bounder,” Marty called out. “Do you know what is happening?”
The fox said nothing.
“Well, then,” the fisher said, “my guess is that you don’t want to know what’s happened to your wife, Leaper, and those three kits of yours who go by the names Tumble, Nimble, and Flip.”
Bounder felt uneasy. By stating the fox’s family’s names, Marty had aroused his curiosity. Still, the last thing the fox wanted to do was ask for the story. That would put someone else in control, a thing Bounder did not like to happen. He preferred to be in charge.
When the fox neither moved or replied, Marty called, “It’s a pretty tragic tale, Bounder. I don’t blame you for not wanting to know.”
Bounder continued to act with indifference.
“But then,” Marty continued loudly, “since everyone else knows what happened, I suppose you do too. Yes, I’d guess you were the first one to hear. Well, Bounder, you do have my sympathy.”
Bounder, no longer able to resist, turned to the fisher. “I beg your pardon. Were you talking to me?” He was very vexed, but worked hard to avoid showing it.
“Of course I was talking to you,” Marty cried. “And you heard everything I said, didn’t you? You foxes have a great reputation for listening. I suppose you’re as good as most. Better, maybe.”
Bounder sniffed loudly a few times. “Listening?” he said. “Actually, my hearing hasn’t been very good lately. A kind of cold or . . . something. The snowstorm, I suspect. Even so, if you have something to say to me, I’d be happy to make an effort to hear it.”
Marty studied Bounder intently with his dark, emotionless eyes, trying to make up his mind if the fox was telling the truth or not. He decided he was not. And that annoyed him. “It’s your wife, Leaper,” he called bluntly. “She’s been killed.”
“Killed!” Bounder cried, taken aback, but under such self-control that he remained in place. “You’re lying!”
“No. It’s true. By a hunter’s steel trap. Near the cabin at Long Lake. It happened just yesterday, during the snowstorm.”
“What about my kits? Were they hurt?”
“Oh, no. They weren’t with her.”
“Do they know about her?”
“I’m not sure.”
Now Bounder was concerned. “Tell me everything you know.”
“All I know is that an old porcupine who goes by the name Ereth is staying with your kits!”
“Ereth!”
“That’s him. He seems to have moved into your den.”
“In my den!” Bounder cried. “With my kits?”
“I think so.”
Bounder knew all about Ereth. If anything, he knew him too well. Little more than a year ago he had been chasing a mouse through the forest when she ran into a hollow log to escape. The log proved to be Ereth’s home. Though all Bounder had wanted to do was to eat the mouse—porcupines, he knew, were not meat eaters—Ereth had slapped him with his tail, giving him a nose full of painful quills. So, yes, Bounder knew all about Ereth. He disliked him intensely.
“Those are my kits,” the fox growled. “That porcupine has no business with them, none. What’s he doing there?”
“I think . . .” Marty the Fisher said, “he’s pretending to be their . . . father.”
“Their father!” Bounder exclaimed. “Are you making any of this up?”
“Not in the least. And quite a happy family they’ve become. That’s all I know.” So saying, Marty the Fisher retreated among the branches of the tree. He was deep enough for Bounder to lose sight of him, but not so far away that he could not watch the fox.
Bounder was thinking hard about what he had heard. “Could it really be true?” he asked himself. If true, it was a dreadful thing that had happened to Leaper. He truly regretted it. He did. But at least his kits were safe and being cared for. As far as Bounder was concerned, that was the most important thing. Regarding Ereth the porcupine—Bounder grinned. It served the old porcupine right for being such a busybody. What a perfect revenge on Ereth—the old porcupine taking care of his kits. Acting like their father. Until of course, he dismissed him.
The more Bounder thought about it, the more it pleased him that his old foe should be stuck with the job of taking care of his children. Served the porcupine right. Moreover, it meant that he, Bounder, could get on with his business of catching the chickens from the coop at New Farm.
With that thought Bounder trotted off through the snow, his mind entirely on those plump chickens.
“Good,” Marty the Fisher said to himself as he watched Bounder go off. “If I know Bounder he’ll get Ereth away from those kits. And when the porcupine is alone again I’ll be there, waiting for him.”
CHAPTER 21
Discoveries
IT WAS NOW A WHOLE week since Ereth had first come to the foxes’ den. With a plenitude of food available, life had settled into a steady routine.
Sleeping arrangements were something of a compromise. While the kits slept on their own heap of leaves, it worked out that Ereth slept there too. Sixteen paws, four tails, and countless quills found a way to be close without anyone’s being hurt. What’s more, everyone’s sleep was sound.
Ereth was the first to get up each morning. Even as the sun threw golden shafts of light over the white field in front of the bluff, he could be found scrambling toward the grove of trees. There he breakfasted on tender bark, eating as much as he wanted. Only when he was fully satisfied did he return to the den to wake the kits.
It was not an easy task. “Time to wake up, you slimy slug bugs!” he’d cry out, or something equally cheerful and inviting.
Nimble was usually the first to stagger up. A very sleepy Flip followed. As for Tumble, he almost had to be dragged to his feet. Even then he protested in his grumpy fashion all the way.
Once the three kits were up, there was considerable yawning, stretching, and bumping, not to mention bickering. Ereth, meanwhile, snapped, ordered, cajoled, and otherwise insisted that faces be washed, fur groomed, tails smoothed. Nimble had the most trouble with this, insisting she did not care what anyone thought about how she looked, that she was going to appear as she chose no matter what. Flip went the other way. He took great pains with his grooming, insisting that there was no way he would be caught dead (his unfortunate words) looking anything less than exactly as he wished. As for Tumble, he did not care one way or the other, but simply went through the motions to avoid Ereth’s barbs.
Though it seemed to take forever, everyone was eventually up and ready. Then o
ne of the foxes was sent out to the storage den to fetch breakfast. Being chosen and sent by Ereth was considered something of a privilege. Ereth tried to be careful as to his choice, rewarding now one, now another for good behavior, so no one was favored unfairly.
Whoever went brought back just enough breakfast for the other two. Ereth’s orders were always the same: “Take only as much as we really need,” he insisted. “It has to last the rest of the winter.”
While the morning’s breakfast was devoured—with much smacking of lips, wagging of tails, and snapping of bones—Ereth made sure he went outside. Try as he might, he simply could not abide a meal with the foxes—neither the food they ate nor their manners—but had decided that they were not going to change. Protest was to no avail.
Once he sensed breakfast was done Ereth returned to the den. It was time for daily chores. Everybody knew exactly what to do—not that it ever went smoothly or without complaint. If Flip was supposed to tidy the bed, it almost never failed that Tumble or Nimble messed his work up. If Nimble was smoothing down the den floor, there was Tumble or Flip to track it up. Tumble, whose job was the removal of odd bits of bone and uneaten food, almost inevitably discarded something that the other two were saving.
“You’re nothing but a bunch of lazy-legged leeches,” Ereth would inform them hotly. “Why do you always have to be bothering and bickering with each other?”
The kits, who had grown used to the way Ereth talked and groused, paid little attention to him, except to laugh. But once when Tumble, in imitation, actually called Ereth “a pillow of potted porcupine,” Ereth was beside himself with indignation.
“You youngsters,” he yelled, “are nothing more than a tribe of disrespectful renegades. All of you should be turned out in the dead of winter to fend for yourselves, and then, maybe, maybe, your brains would grow as fast as your appetites and that would make the world a better place.”
The kits just laughed.