A Hermit's Wild Friends; or, Eighteen Years in the Woods by Mason Augustus Walton - HTML preview

XVIII.
 TRIPLEFOOT

I OPENED up my cabin one winter morning, at daylight, to find the dooryard covered with two inches of light snow. A mass of fox tracks centred about a piece of meat, which was nailed to the trunk of a pine-tree. When the fox left, about daylight, it went down the old highway, and this is the trail it made:

ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo

Two tracks started from a cluster near the meat, followed by a space, then three tracks followed by another space, and so on, in regular order, three tracks and a space. I had no difficulty in solving the mystery.  The fox had been trapped sometime in the past, and had regained its liberty by the loss of a foot. The space in the trail represented the missing foot. This fox was no stranger to my dooryard, and months before I had named her Triplefoot, because she travelled on three feet. She had a charmed life, for the fox-hunters had failed in their efforts to shoot her, so far, although for over a year she was the only fox in this locality, and the hounds hazed her night and day.

After breakfast I started on Triplefoot's trail. There was a good tracking snow, and I was determined to trail the fox to her den. The trail led down the old highway, but turned off to visit Solomon's Orchard. This was a spot containing two ruined cellars, a large clump of barberry-bushes, and some wild apple-trees, descendants of a cultivated orchard. The fox did some foraging under the barberry bushes, and a drop or two of blood on the snow indicated that she was successful in capturing a wood-mouse. While I was looking for the trail out of the orchard,  I heard two hounds give tongue, and the tone told me that they were hot on the trail. These hounds had come up the old highway, and had struck the fox's trail just south of Solomon's Orchard. Triplefoot had scented the hounds, and turned to the west, into Magnolia Swamp. I pushed my way through the dense shrubbery, the tracks of two dogs and a fox making a well-defined trail. The trail led through the swamp and over the ridge to Wallace's Pond. The trail crossed on the ice, and led me over Magnolia Avenue, just below the lily-pond. I had come to the conclusion that Triplefoot was hunting water, so as to throw the hounds of the scent. The cold weather was against her. All the brooks and ponds were covered with ice. The trail, after it crossed the road, led along the ridges to Mount Ann. From this point the fox had shaped her course to Coffin's Beach. It was a long, weary tramp, but I had enlisted and was bound to see it through.

When I had reached the sand-dunes of Coffin's Beach, I found the snow had melted  under the combined influence of sun and sand. Here Triplefoot had thrown the hounds off, and had left me out of the hunt, too. Not a track could be seen in the shifting white sand. It was an old trick of the foxes, to resort to the sand-dunes, when there was a dearth of water. There was one of two things for me to do; give up the hunt and go home, or skirt the woods for Triplefoot's trail, where she had left the beach. I decided on the latter course, and, as luck was with me, found the trail in less than ten minutes. The fox returned by way of Mount Ann and Dyke's Meadow, crossing Magnolia Swamp south of Solomon's Orchard, and took to the ridges near the old quarry. The den was under a big boulder, and, strange to tell, was only eight minutes' walk from my cabin. It was dark when I found the den, so I had thrown away a whole day looking for a thing that was in my own dooryard, so to speak. Triplefoot reared a family during the season. In April she stored two hens and a grouse in her den, so she would not have to hunt when her cubs were born. I saw the feathers of the fowls, and knew that the wise creature was putting food in cold storage for a day of need.

TRIPLEFOOT'S DEN.

When the fox cubs were old enough to come outside and play, I put in many hours watching them with a good glass. There was no time that I saw more than three, and I think that was the size of the family. There was a flat boulder over the den, which sloped from the ground upward. I was standing on this boulder one eve, when one of the cubs came out of the den, and was in the act of climbing the ledge when he saw me. He stopped, with his forepaws on the edge of the ledge, and coolly looked me over. After he had satisfied his curiosity he went into the den, and immediately returned with one of his mates. The little imp had probably asked his brother to come out and name the comical two-legged beast. The two cubs placed their feet on the ledge and looked at me for two minutes. They were not over six feet from me, and looked as fat and stocky as two young pigs.

Triplefoot's life was one of worry and care, to say nothing about the danger from mankind and the hounds. She had to find food for her hungry cubs, and whichever way she turned, danger lurked on her trail. If she hunted for wood-mice, the hounds were there to pick up her trail. Then she had to seek water to throw them off. It would not do to go to the den, where the hounds would soon dig out her little cubs, and shake the life from their tender bodies. If she turned to some poultry-yard, the chances were that she would find herself looking into the muzzle of the farmer's shotgun. She was desperately wild, and so were the little cubs when she was with them. A warning note from the mother worked like magic. The little ones would crouch and creep to the mouth of the den, and disappear as silently as three ghosts.

I saw Triplefoot return to the den one Sunday morning, empty-handed. The cubs came out and whined pitifully when they missed the Sunday breakfast. The old fox ordered them into the den, and then took the  path for Fresh Water Cove. I knew that a large flock of hens ran in the bushes, near the highway, and Triplefoot knew it, too. In twenty minutes she was back to the den with a large hen over her neck. She called her cubs, and tore the hen to pieces, giving each cub a piece, but reserving something for herself. The dining-room was about thirty feet west of the den. It was under some small hemlocks, and the ground was level and smooth. When all the foxes had had enough, there was a small piece left. Triplefoot buried this piece under the oak leaves.

There was one thing that puzzled me in Triplefoot's way of hunting. I could not understand why she did not go after poultry every day. East, west, north, and south, there were flocks of fowls running at large, and it would be a trifling exertion to snatch one from the bushes at any hour of the day. Triplefoot may have reasoned that a fowl now and then would not be missed, while a wholesale slaughter would attract attention, and send the farmer to hunting for the den.

Triplefoot's cubs were killed that fall and winter, and she was left childless. Her mate did not den in this locality, and without doubt was shot, for Triplefoot did not rear a family the next spring. It happened during my tramps in the woods that I often met Triplefoot. She soon understood that I did not covet her glossy pelt, and she separated me from mankind in general. I have known her to remain at the den when she knew I was looking at her through a glass. She often led the hounds through my dooryard, and, if I was about, the hounds got turned off the trail.

"SHE STOPPED TO LOOK AROUND, AND SAW ME.”

I saw Triplefoot fool the hounds one fall. I was resting in the woods when I heard the hounds in Magnolia Swamp. I understood what was going on. Triplefoot was trying to throw them off, but the dogs had a good scent, and all her efforts were useless. Near where I was sitting there was a pine-tree turned up by the roots. The trunk of the tree was about two feet from the ground, near the roots, but the ground fell off rapidly, so the top, with the foliage, was over ten feet in the air. While I was listening to the hounds, Triplefoot came in sight. She passed close to the leaning pine, and kept on over the hill. There was a small pond in the valley, below, and I thought Triplefoot was going to the water to throw off the dogs. But I had erred. In a few minutes she returned, doubling on her trail. When she had reached the pine, she jumped to the tree, where it was four feet from the ground. She stopped to look around, and saw me. The wind was against her, so she had to be guided by sight. She seemed satisfied that the man was the hermit, for she went into the thick foliage of the pine top and awaited the hounds. The hounds passed by the tree without stopping, but returned after following the trail to water. Both hounds passed by the tree, to return in a few minutes. One hound had a suspicion that the tree might harbor the fox. He put his paws on the tree-trunk, and smelt along as far as he could reach, then gave it up. Triplefoot had been wise when she jumped  to the tree beyond the dog's reach. After the hounds left, Triplefoot came out of the tree and circled around me. She wanted to make sure that I was the hermit. I examined the pine-tree and found the bark much scratched, where Triplefoot had jumped on to it. The evidence showed that she had frequently resorted to the trick, to throw off the hounds. I wish I might end the story of this little three-footed fox in some happy way, but truth has ordered it otherwise. She was shot when running before the hounds, but was not immediately killed. I found her dead body while skirting Magnolia Swamp. She had crawled under a boulder, and had slowly died from her wounds and exhaustion. I buried her, and was glad that her beautiful robe and her mutilated body would not be separated in death.

THE END.