Redcoat

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Redcoat The Phantom FoxBy Clarence Hawkes Author of "Pep," "Silversheene," "Palomine," "The White Czar."

Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull

Milton Bradley Company Springfield, Massachusetts

Four Little Foxes

Speak gently, Spring, and make no sudden sound; For in my windy valley, yesterday I found New-born foxes squirming on the ground— Speak gently.

Walk softly, March, forbear the bitter blow; Her feet within a trap, her blood upon the snow, The four little foxes saw their mother go— Walk softly.

Go lightly, Spring, oh, give them no alarm; When I covered them with boughs to shelter them from harm, The thin blue foxes suckled at my arm— Go lightly.

Step softly, March, with your rampant hurricane, Nuzzling one another and whimpering with pain, The little foxes are shivering in the rain— Step softly.

From "Slow Smoke" by Lew Sarett.(By permission of Henry Holt and Co.)

Note to the Reader

Nearly all animal biographies are composite—that is, the life of the particular animal represented, is made up from facts drawn from many sources.

The naturalist very carefully collects all his own experiences with the special species and all those of his friends, as well as those of other writers in whom he has confidence. So all the authors' friends among hunters, trappers and woodsmen contribute to the story, the aim being to keep the story well within the known facts. In this way the author is enabled to give the reader a complete picture of the life of the animal under all conditions. Hence, it goes without saying, in describing the life of the animal by this composite method, more adventures befall the particular animal hero, than would ordinarily under normal conditions, but probably not many more than might befall an exceptional animal hero of the species. For there is great difference in animals, just as there is in folks. The lives of some people are drab and uninteresting, while others are colorful and full of adventure. So the Red Fox whose fortunes we follow in these pages is a fox born to adventure and narrow escapes, but none of his adventures are impossible in the life of a common red fox, who uses his wits and fights the battle of life as only a fox can.

Redcoat and His American Cousins

Probably there is no more cunning, or clever, wild animal in the entire domain of nature, than the ordinary red fox, who, by the way is not ordinary, but very extraordinary, in his native ability and habits of life.

He has lived so long within the domain of man, and often in thickly settled country, and has so long fought his enemies, both boy, and man, and dog, and fought the fight against guns, traps, and poison, that he would long ago have perished off the earth had not his wits been of the keenest, and his fleetness very remarkable as well.

So skilful is the fox in evading those who would get a glimpse of him, that nine tenths of the people who live upon his range, have never seen him in the wild, although he may frequent the farm daily, or even occasionally trot down the main village street in the small hours of the early morning.

The fox about which I am going to write, and the one which is most familiar to my readers, is the Red Fox, whose range is throughout the northern part of the United States and Canada.

His color is a variety of shades of red, and rarely are two red foxes marked alike.

Although the novice seeing the fox at a distance would say that he is as large as a fair sized dog, yet when he is stripped of his long warm coat, he is the slightest built animal that I know of. The very lankiest greyhound is heavy and cumbersome compared with him. His little legs which carry him for hours over the roughest country, keeping him out of the reach of hounds which weigh five times as much as he does, are no larger than a lead pencil. His head which holds such a fertile brain, is fairly snakey, while his greatest girth is not much more than a man's wrist.

There is not an ounce of fat on him. His muscles are like whipcord.

He thinks like lightning, and then acts like chain lightning.

In a fight with a dog he always draws the first blood, and although he is no match for a gritty dog when cornered, yet he often beats off dogs several times his size, by his shear grit and seeming fearlessness.

The fox that is most closely associated with red fox is his first cousin, the cross fox. His range is throughout western British Columbia, and Alaska, and also in Utah and Idaho. Cross fox is a cross between the red fox and the black fox.

He has a dark colored cross on his shoulders, a steel gray body and head, a big black tail with a snow white tip, and black legs.

The swift fox is the smallest of all the foxes, and probably not much swifter than the rest of the family. He is found on the great plains of the Rio Grande up to Saskatchewan, and his color is a beautiful silver gray with a tinge of yellow.

The Arctic fox is snow white during the cold months, while in the summer he is some- times brown. He ranges the farthest north of all the foxes. He is often found well above the Arctic circle.

The blue fox is the most tractable of all the foxes, and has been successfully raised on the islands of Behring Sea, where there are forty companies raising blue foxes merely for pelts. He can be easily caught in a wire box trap, and then tamed and handled almost as freely as one would a dog.

Yet the blue fox is the homeliest of all this beautiful family. His ears are short cropped, and his head is rounder than other foxes while his countenance is covered with bristly hair, giving him a grotesque appearance.

The white fox of the south is another member of the fox family.

But black fox, who ranges through Saskatchewan and British Columbia, and all through Alaska, is the most important of all. Think of wearing a coat worth nearly three thousand dollars and having men and boys, with traps, poison, and guns, all after it. It is certainly a case of being cumbered with a priceless possession.

The black fox is also called the silver gray, because the tips of his hair are usually just touched with silver, which makes him sometimes look silver gray.

This rare fellow is also being successfully raised for the market, and many men whom I know, have made fortunes raising this wonderful animal.

But be the fox red, cross, black or white, he always retains certain fox characteristics. He is always that nimble witted fleet fellow who fights the battle of life as only a fox can, and always gives a good account of himself, from his own point of view.

Not only is he fleet and beautiful, as well as swift and cunning, but in many ways he so nearly approaches the way of man, that the adjective "foxy" is very often applied to man, meaning a resourceful, quick witted man, one who always takes advantage of all the breaks in the game.

One of the most beautiful scenes in the wilderness, and one that many woodsmen have not seen, is to behold a fox, standing with one forepaw partly lifted, with his head cocked on one side, his tail partly curled about his hind quarters, listening for mice in the grass. This picture is the last word in wild life.

From Æsop down, men have told of the wit and wisdom of the fox, and their praise has not gone to his head, nor dulled his wits, for he still carries on amid the haunts of his worst enemy, man. He barks defiance at the farm dog from a distant wall, and eludes him usually as a rabbit would a tortoise.

Some men and boys always shoot at him when they get sight of him, but for my part, I rather admire this clever freebooter, who flaunts his beautiful brush in the very face of man, and still wears it to the end of the chapter.

The Den in the Spruces

IT was Springtime in the woods. Not the full tide of Spring, but late April, when all the forces of nature were feeling out their powers. Life was stirring and stretching in its sleep, just as it does before the full awakening.

There were no leaves on the trees, but just a faint ghostly shimmer in the poplars and white birches, and a touch of red in the soft maple. But under last year's dead leaves life was still more apparent, for in every warm corner, adder tongues, partridge berries, and wintergreen leaves were starting into new life. But there was a look to the bark on all the trees which was still more telltale to the eye of the woodsman. It had lost the pale ghostly grays of midwinter, and there was a vitality and flush to all the colors that suggested life that tingled and rioted just beneath the outer bark.

All of the wood folks also were astir, the crows were cawing lustily, and the woodpeckers were pounding away as though this beautiful Spring morning had given a new zest to their appetites, and they had got to work hard for the morning meal.

There was life also at the entrance to the den in the spruces, for Mother Fox had just come out to see how the morning went, and to see if she could discover anything of her lord, the great hunter, for the four blind fox pups in the den pulled heavily upon her strength and substance, and her appetite this morning was like that of the proverbial wolf.

The first thing that she did on coming out into the open was to stretch and get the kinks out of her muscles. There was not as much room in the den for her as there had been before the whelps came. She had to be careful and not lie upon them, so she of- ten sustained a cramped position for hours. Her mate was not allowed in the den while the pups were still unweaned, but even so, the den was often cramped.

If Mr. Fox even dared to poke his head in at the burrow to see how things were going, he was promptly invited to get out. This was not because he might have killed the pups as a tomcat will often do with kittens before their eyes are open, but just a bit of jealous mother love, which would not suffer anyone but herself to care for these small wriggling woolly things, that would some day be real full grown foxes.

After stretching and yawning until it would seem as though her jaw would be put out of joint, Mother Fox looked about amid the darkening shadows of the ancient woods. With her keen yellow eyes she searched out every dark thicket, but there was no game in sight, not even a wood mouse. So she sat down upon her haunches to wait for the mighty hunter.

Half an hour before daylight he had arisen from a deep thicket where he had slept during the night in the top of a fallen spruce, and started for the river to see if he could bag a muskrat for Mrs. Fox's morning meal.

He knew just how hungry she was, because his own appetite was as keen as a razor. It seemed that his stomach fairly ached with hunger, and the sight of an occasional bird which he discovered in the treetops made saliva drip from his jaws.

He went at a steady dog trot until he came within perhaps a score of rods of the creek, then he tested the wind to see what direction it was. Muskrats were not so very keen of scent, but a good hunter never stalked his quarry down the wind, it is against good hunting instincts.

If you have a good rule always stick to it. Mr. Fox discovered that he would be hunting in the teeth of the wind, which was just a morning zephyr. That was good, so he began creeping slowly towards the creek. For the last hundred feet, he went almost upon his belly, keeping behind bunches of weeds, and clumps of alders, which fringed the creek's bank. Finally, after fifteen minutes of careful manœuvering, he gained the position he wanted.

It was within about forty feet of a large muskrat house which was situated at the point of a promontory that jutted out into the stream. This house was the abode of a large family, and Mr. Fox had bagged more than one of its members. The muskrats were not very careful to protect themselves, and they did not long remember these hard lessons. This was probably because the children were so numerous and came so often. When there are four litters a year, averaging eight at a time, children are not so precious, as they might otherwise be.

If one had glanced casually at the river bank he might possibly have made out partly hidden in the underbrush, what at first he would have decided was the end of an old log, it looked so lifeless. But had he possessed the eyes of a woodsman, he would have seen that it was the mighty hunter. He was stretched out at full length, with his head between his paws, seemingly asleep. Yet he was far from sleeping, for his two hungry yellow eyes were glued upon the conical muskrat house at the point of land in the stream. Not a movement in the entire scene escaped him. Also his keen nostrils were sifting the morning air, for the first faint scent of the rats.

For half an hour he lay there, without moving so much as a muscle. A less patient hunter would have become discouraged and gone in search of other quarry, but not so the red fox. He knew that patience is the hunter's long suit, so he watched and waited.

At last his patience was rewarded, for a sleek young muskrat, nearly grown, came slowly out of the house and looked warily about him. He too was hungry, and he wanted to see if he could find some roots along the shore which were to his taste. Slowly he ventured forward, looking this way and that. Did Mr. Fox make a dash and try to catch the rat before he should return to his house? Not he, he would wait and make sure of his prey. He would let the rat get so far from home that he could get between him and his refuge. Then he would make his dash.

For fifteen minutes the cunning hunter waited. Finally the unsuspecting rat was in just the right position. He was too far from the house to get back, and not too close to the water. Reynard would not go into the water after him if he could help it, besides there was a fair chance that the rat could escape if he once got to the water. So Mr. Fox waited until the rat had turned his head, and was busy feeding, then he crept slowly forward, and made the final dash, which consisted of two or three quick springs. There was a frightened squeak from the rat, and a quick rush for the creek, but before that safety zone was reached, the fox's powerful jaws had closed over the rat's back, and with a sudden crunch his back was broken.

Then the proud hunter picked up the rat and started for his den in the spruces. He made all haste as he knew his mate was hungry, and waiting for her breakfast. Proudly the hunter laid the kill down at the ravenous mother fox's feet, and himself drew back until she should have had her breakfast. He would not have tried to get a portion of the rat had she chosen to eat it all. She fell upon the muskrat with great fury, and ripped it ruthlessly and savagely. At last, she stepped back, and in fox language, indicated that her lord might help himself, which he proceeded to do without a second invitation.

Finally the mother fox went back into the den to suckle the whelps, and the old fox went to the meadow to hunt for mice. His portion of the rat had been small, and he was still hungry.

Meadow mice were a much choicer dainty than muskrat, and he wanted to take good care of his family in the spruces during the critical period.

The pups at this time were simply four small balls of woolly fur. They would keep this woolly coat for three or four months, until they shed their puppy coat. But even at this stage of their existence the young foxes had some of the fox characteristics.

Another muskrat hunt Mr. Fox had which was not so successful, and it nearly cost him his own life. The Red Hunter had gone to find Mrs. Fox's breakfast. The hunting had been rather lean for the past two days, and Mrs. Fox was fairly ravenous, as she was indirectly feeding the four pups. The Red Hunter had himself gone almost entirely without food so that she might have more.

So this morning he went very early to the creek, and took up his favorite position in a clump of bushes near to the muskrat house. The rats had become rather shy, but he felt that his patience would again be rewarded.

The water was very high, and there was another hunter abroad on that fine morning. This was none other than Bud Holcome, and he was out hunting muskrats. He was following along the creek on the other side from the muskrat house, carrying in the hollow of his arm a twenty-two rifle. His favorite gun.

Now, while Bud was looking for musk- rats, yet he was not averse to bagging a fine fox. The rat's skin might be worth two or three dollars, but a fox's such as that the Red Hunter wore was worth at least twenty-five.

It was mere accident that the boy discovered the fox crouched in the bushes. At first he thought it an old log, and he had to look for a long time before he satisfied himself.

Even then he would not have been sure had not the fox moved his head slightly. This was enough for Bud. Here was such hunting as he had not even dreamed of in his wildest moments, so he snapped the rifle to his shoulder, and took a hurried aim. He was so excited, and the fox skin looked like such a great prize to him, that he did not take pains enough with his aim, otherwise the fox family would have lost their hunter that morning.

But as it was, the bullet struck the fox a glancing blow just over the eye, and glanced off his skull, although it cut a bad gash, and for a few moments his vision faded and everything looked black to him.

Then in a flash it cleared, and he saw the boy on the further side of the creek again pointing the deadly thunder stick at him. He knew firearms full well. Several times in the course of his adventurous life he had heard this dread sound, and had carried away small pellets in his fur, so now the Red Hunter broke from cover and ran for his life. As he bolted he kept such cover as he could between himself and the boy.

Bang, went the small rifle again, and the bullet kicked up some sand between the flying fox's feet. Bang again, and this time the bullet struck ten feet behind him. The boy was miscalculating the speed of the flying fox. Out and in he zigzagged, all the time making for the deep woods on the bluffs above. In almost less time than it takes to tell the fox was out of sight, leaving the boy rubbing his eyes, and wondering how he had missed him three times.

But Mr. Fox thought he had come close enough. He had a bad gash over his eye, and his head throbbed from the blow upon his skull. He went to the spring, and, thrusting his nose deep in the water, cooled his throbbing head. Finally, after a couple of hours, he went back to his hunting, but he did not go to the creek again for several weeks, and even then he took great precautions.

For five or six weeks Mother Fox nursed the pups in the den, while Father Fox hunted for the entire family. He was very persistent in his hunting, and usually brought home game.

During all this time, he did not venture into the den, but each day laid his kill at his mate's feet at the mouth of the den. But he always slept in the spruces nearby, and the mother fox knew if she had need of him, he could usually be found close at hand, for when he was not hunting, he was on guard.

Finally, one bright morning, early in June, a change came over the life of the burrow.

The foxes were getting so active and so playful, and it was so hard to keep them straight in the burrow, that it had been decided to introduce them to the great world outside. The entire fox family was to have its coming out.

The Fox Family

THERE was much excitement in the spruces on that momentous morning, when the fox pups were first brought forth into the great wide world. That is, the mother fox was excited and the pups caught the excitement from her. Her excitement was due to the fact that she was to bring forth into the world, the four small fuzzy balls of foxhood, which she had begun to love more than her own life. She had fed and cared for them for six weeks, and each day they had become dearer to her, just as the human babies do to their mothers.

Now the battle was to begin between the cruel world, with its many lurking dangers, and the wilderness babies. A battle where no quarter was to be given, and where only one very bad mistake might end fatally.

Father Fox had gone very early to hunt in the meadow for mice, so Mother Fox had dined upon her favorite breakfast half an hour before she brought forth her family.

Then Father Fox scoured the country for half a mile around in every direction to see if the range was free of all their enemies so far as he could discover. Of course there were enemies that no vigilance could guard against. A great owl might swoop down from a thick treetop and snatch up a small fox in the twinkling of an eye. So silently he might come that not even the sharpest ear could hear his coming.

This is because his wings are fringed with down so he can approach his prey silently. Not even a fox's alertness might prevent such a calamity as that. But such possibilities were among the regular chances which the wild creatures had to take. They were as cunning and watchful as they might well be, and for the rest, well, that was left to fate, or the Guardian of the wild creatures.

To all the fox family life was a great game. The stakes were life itself. One killed or was killed, as fate might will, and one did what one could, to be on the winning side.

When the four little balls of woolly fur were finally pushed out into the light of day, a wonderful sight burst upon their eyes. A sight that made them blink and wink, and scurry back into the burrow as fast as they could. Then, one by one, they came creeping back into the daylight. Hitherto they had been used to the semi-darkness of the burrow, but here was a great wide new world all strange and shimmering, full of new sights and smells. The only smell that they had known before was the rather pungent, musty fox odor of the burrow, but here were all sorts of smells, and how they did revel in them.

They went snuffing and poking about in the dead leaves, and among the new weeds and ferns, half afraid and very curious.

Each new and unfamiliar sound sent them scuttling back to the burrow, and if the sound was very pronounced they went scurrying down into the darkness where they felt quite safe. But they would always come back again. The outside was so strange and so alluring.

It was a wonderful morning. Birds were singing in the treetops, and the woods were full of the sounds of joyous life. Crows were cawing in the distance, and a woodpecker was pounding on a dead tree only a few rods away. All of these sounds made the little foxes cock their small ears and look very alert.

They stayed out only two or three hours that first day, but it was the beginning of such glorious times. Days full of bright sunshine, and sweet smelling odors, days of wonderful frolics. For the small foxes were always playing. Usually it was a sort of "tag" game. One would pick up a bit of wood, or perhaps some feather, or bit of skin left over from the morning breakfast and run with it, and all the others would try to catch the playful one and get the coveted morsel away from him.

This play very soon grew into sham fights, and gradually developed that real fighting spirit which is the mainspring of the very existence of wild life.

One of their best playthings was Mother's tail. They would catch hold of it and pull and pull, or even allow her to drag them about while their puppy teeth sank deeply into the woolly substance.

But as they grew larger and their teeth became sharper and their jaws stronger, Mother Fox insisted that they give up this play. This she indicated by several sharp nips when the play became too wearing.

Even at this early stage in the development of the pups they were quite different, both in size, markings and general characteristics.

The very largest of the entire litter was a perfectly marked red fox, so I shall call him "Redcoat." He was dark red above and lighter red on the belly, where it approached yellow. The next in size was almost as large as Redcoat, but he was a perfect cross fox. Cross foxes sometimes occur in the red fox litters, and red foxes in the cross fox litters.

The smallest of the litter was also another perfect-red fox, and we will call him "Little Brother," while the fourth was a female, with a generous sprinkling of long hair on the face so we will call her "Fuzzy."

In all their plays and sham fights, Redcoat was the most skilful. Cross Fox was almost as good, but Little Brother and Fuzzy were not in their class.

Perhaps the most exciting occurrence in the whole day was the coming of Father Fox with the morning meal. At first he brought the mice already killed for them to eat, but after a while he would put a live mouse in their midst and allow them to kill it. Here Redcoat always distinguished himself, although he and Cross Fox sometimes had a lively fight over a choice morsel.

But as the pups grew larger Father Fox developed their training each day. Sometimes he would bring the feed very early before the pups were out and hide it some distance from the den. Then there would be a lively scramble to see who would find the breakfast first.

One morning in midsummer Father Fox came as usual, but this time he brought an animal about as large as the pups. It was not dead, and it showed a white shining set of teeth when the pups surrounded it.

Cross Fox sprang forward, as he was nearer the quarry than was Redcoat, but the young woodchuck gave him a savage nip in the face, and he shrank back. Then Redcoat sprang in. The young woodchuck served him in the same way he had his brother, but Redcoat didn't quit. Instead he clinched with the woodchuck and a very lively battle ensued. Finally Redcoat emerged from the fray conqueror, and laid the dead woodchuck before his brothers and sister. He had two bad gashes in the face, but he had won, and this made him even more of a bully than he had been before. But he felt well satisfied with the exploit.

Finally, on moonlight nights Father Fox and Mother Fox took the small foxes into the meadows to hunt mice with them. This was after they had learned to hunt grasshoppers, and crickets, and after they had killed many frogs, and squirrels that Father Fox had brought home alive for them.

They soon became quite expert in mouse hunting, and would stand as patiently as their parents above the runways of the mice, which were very easily smelled out in the grass roots.

One day Father Fox discovered one of those dangerous men creatures in the woods pounding upon a tree. He watched him for a long time, and finally the tree came crashing to earth, and Father Fox ran away in great haste.

When the man had gone home and the woods no longer rang with the sound of his axe, Father and Mother Fox took the four little foxes to where he had been chopping wood and together they investigated all the sights and smells where the man had been.