The Fox Cub Bold (7 page)

Bold decided to pay another visit to the farmhouse garden – but not on the next night. He intended the little pair of fowls to be lulled into a false sense of security. So the next night he hobbled away in another direction to see what he could find. It was a long way to the next human habitation; another farm. By the time he reached its boundaries he was too tired to do much exploring. He was lucky to find another dump of waste, and he contented himself with what edible scraps he could dig out. Now he was in difficulties, for he was too weary to get home. There was no hedgerow here – no cover of any sort, except a few, isolated, large trees which would not hide a fox.

What could he do? He could not be found near the farm buildings when daylight arrived. But who would look for him
in
one of the buildings, or even think of finding a fox in such a place? There was an open barn well stocked with hay that smelt sweet and warm and inviting. He would be well concealed in the depths of that and, tomorrow night, he would undertake his return journey. Bold was delighted with his own impudence and off he went to the dark barn to bury himself amongst the bales.

During the day there was plenty of activity in and around the farm complex. Cows were milked, animals fed, men went to work and came back. But Bold slept on. The farm cat stood on the threshold of the hay barn and sniffed gingerly at the alien scent, fearing to go further. The sleeping fox was undisturbed. Only the sparrows who flitted to and fro among the rafters knew of his presence and even they deserted the scene when evening came.

Bold roused himself from his fragrant couch. It was time to stir. Two mice killed by the cat still lay at the side of the barn. The well-fed cat had toyed with them but had not deigned to eat them. Bold did. It was the first fresh meat he had tasted since he had left the care of Shadow. He visited the rubbish patch again and found some fat worms wriggling amongst the rotting base of the pile. These and a discarded apple core made Bold’s hasty meal before he began his homeward journey.

All the way he thought of nothing but the prospect of the following night. The weather was mild and muggy – the year’s last fling of warmth before freezing December was ushered in. Bold crept gratefully into his earth and covered his nose with his brush.

Twenty-four hours later he emerged, feeling brisk and alert for his venture. He reached the nearby farm and began to slink quietly towards the garden. Because of his uneven pace, he had to make particularly strenuous efforts to ensure his silence. All the time he tested the air for sound or smell of the guard dog. His progress was painstaking but uninterrupted. Like a shadow he slid into the garden and slowly neared his target. The heavy cloud layer which made the night so warm added a welcome additional layer of darkness to his endeavours.

Bold froze abruptly as he heard soft, stirring noises about a metre away amongst the shrubbery. Had the birds sensed his approach? Seconds ticked by. Nothing happened. He took another couple of steps. Again the sound of rustling feathers – then quiet. Now Bold trod on the soft soil by the plants, front paws first. He had almost ceased to breathe. His rear leg – the good one – followed. He held himself stiff as he prepared to drag round the damaged leg. Only that could betray him now. Slowly, slowly, he brought it level. It brushed a plant, hardly stirring the foliage. But it was enough. Out rushed the bantams, the hen one way, the cock straight into his waiting jaws and crunch! it was done. Bold stayed no longer than it took for him to immobilize his victim. While the hen bird dashed everywhere in panic, the victorious fox limped his way out of the garden. Now he went more quickly but still he listened for sounds of the dog, his heart beating rapidly. He could hardly believe his luck.

As he neared the field of swede he dropped to his belly suddenly as he saw a badger again rooting amongst the plants. He watched the animal, lying doggo. Yes, it was Shadow. He knew her movements. Jealous of his prize, Bold cursed her appearance on the scene. For if she spotted him, he would have to offer to share his meal. She had worked hard to feed him not so long ago. She seemed in no hurry to move on. Tubers and roots were amongst her favourite provender and, as he knew, the ones in this field were especially succulent. At last, while the cock’s warm body grew cold, the sow badger seemed to have garnered all she wanted. Her slow enjoyment of her meal irritated Bold beyond measure. His mouth ran dry with his waiting and all the while she munched the roots with every appearance of relish.

Then, when Bold thought he could stand it no longer, Shadow stopped eating and came straight towards him. Bold dropped the bird and sighed. His frustrating wait seemed to have been for nothing.

‘Bold!’ she cried gladly. ‘I didn’t see you before.’

He was on his feet now. ‘I – er – I’ve just come this way,’ he replied awkwardly.

Her glance picked out the dead fowl. ‘I see you’ve been busy,’ she said, comprehending his predicament at once. ‘You needn’t worry. I’m quite content. You enjoy your catch.’

‘No, no,’ Bold protested half-heartedly. ‘Share and share alike.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ she answered. ‘You must have worked hard for that.’

Bold relaxed. ‘Well, yes, I did, it’s true,’ he admitted.

‘I’m sorry, Shadow. It’s just that –’

‘No explanation required,’ she assured him. ‘I understand perfectly. You need all you can get for yourself with your handicap. But you’ve done well!’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I
was
feeling rather pleased with myself.’

Shadow said: ‘I won’t delay you any longer. I bet you’ve been drooling!’

She made her departure and Bold made haste to his den. He took a long time over his meal, anxious to savour each juicy mouthful to the full. It might be many days before he was so successful again. Afterwards he dreamed of the game wood, with himself, perfectly sound of limb, picking off the plumpest pheasants to eat without the least effort. So vivid were these exploits that Bold had some difficulty adjusting to reality when he awoke. So much so, that he was consumed with one ambition: to catch the other bird – the cock bantam’s mate.

Evening found him approaching the farm again, with the same caution and silence as before. The cottage loomed ahead of him, slumbering in the soft air. Nothing seemed to stir. Gradually he pulled himself towards the garden, hesitating a little as his senses told him that there had been a change made here – as yet he knew not what. Then, in the gloom, he saw a strange shape where the bantams’ nest had been, under the shrubbery. The hen bantam had been securely shut away in a pen for the night – the humans had seen the need for her protection. Bold paused, wondering if it were worth his while to investigate the contraption. He limped a little closer.

Suddenly he was frightened out of his wits. The farm dog had been moved from its usual kennel and tethered as an extra sentry under the back wall of the farmhouse. A great black shape leapt out of the shadows, straining like a panther on a rope, and barking fit to bring the house down. Its gleaming fangs and furious eyes were like a vision in a nightmare. Bold turned tail and fled, his damaged leg bumping over the ground in pursuit of the others. Every moment he expected a crushing body to fall on him, bearing him down and pinning him, helpless, to the ground. But the barks became more distant and he started to breathe freely again.

He did not stop until the sanctuary of his earth was reclaimed. He had had a narrow escape and he vowed never to go near that place again. It was as well he had eaten his fill the previous night, for he got nothing this time. But it seemed the humans were not satisfied with giving Bold a scare. They knew a fox had taken the cock, and that he was ranging the area. While he did so he remained a menace. So they set about eliminating that menace.

The farm dog was put on his track the next morning and, as the track was fresh, it was not difficult to follow. Across the vegetable field came the dog, with young men behind carrying spades, and a terrier. Bold heard them as they breasted the hedgerow. The dog barked triumphantly at his entrance hole. Flight was an impossibility. The large animal was pulled back and Bold heard a scrabbling sound. The terrier had been pushed into his earth. Soon afterwards the hole was stopped, blocking out all light.

Bold stood at bay, ready to snap at the little cur who was growling at him in the darkness, his hackles on end, stiff as a hairbrush. There was another hole leading out of the den and slowly Bold backed towards it, watching the plucky little dog in case of a sudden rush. But his back felt a wall of earth. He was holed up with no escape route and the terrier holding him at bay.

Then he heard men’s urgent voices and the sound of their spades striking the surface. The soft moist earth began to drop in on him and the edge of a spade scoured his back fur like a scythe. Daylight filtered into the den while the heavy tools beat away the protective ceiling of mould. In a terrifying upheaval of soil, the cowering body of Bold was exposed to the open air like a defenceless grub in its tunnel. The large farm dog, its fury unabated, cracked the peace of the countryside with its deafening roar. The terrier was hauled out of the pit and Bold cringed, waiting for the cruel thud of a spade across his body that would spell his doom. His bad leg collapsed under him and he sprawled on his stomach. His adventures were over.

The two young men looked down at the puny, maimed beast quailing at bay. They glanced at each other with raised eyebrows. Was this poor specimen the fox that had killed the bantam cock?

‘
He
can’t be the culprit,’ one observed to the other.

‘Must have a mate who did the job,’ muttered his companion. ‘You can see the feathers clear enough.’

‘Quiet, Punch! Stop that row!’ yelled the first man to the large dog. It ceased to bark and began to whine and growl exasperatedly in a frustrated manner. The terrier went on yapping shrilly.

‘We’d better leave this poor brute,’ said the second man. ‘
He’s
no threat to us. Doubt if he’ll see the winter through.’

‘Not him, with that injury. And his mate won’t stay in these parts now she’s got no cover.’

‘She might have another earth, though?’

‘I don’t know of one,’ said the man who was holding the terrier. ‘But we’d best keep our eyes peeled.’

Bold, awaiting the awful final moment, saw through glazed but astonished eyes, the men turn on their heels and stump away across the field, taking their tools and dogs with them. He scrambled out of the wreckage of his den and pushed his way through the hedgerow to the other side and on into open country as fast as his poor gait allowed. Every second he expected to be pursued. But he limped on, each laboured step taking him further away from danger. No sound came from behind. At last he realized he was not going to be followed and paused to give himself a vigorous shake, freeing his coat from its shower of mould. The ways of men were indeed incomprehensible.

Bold’s only thought now was to get as far away from the area as he could before disaster should overtake him again. Fear lent him a new strength and, by late afternoon, he felt he had come a long way. He was in country he had not seen before and now he knew he must rest. His whole body trembled as a result of his exertions, while his legs ached abominably. He staggered into a stand of young holly on the edge of a spinney and fell, rather than lay down, on the carpet of dead leaves underneath, quite oblivious of their spines.

Unknown to Bold, a familiar, black shape was coasting on air currents in the winter sky, occasionally flapping its wings as it lost height. Satisfied that the exhausted fox would be unable to stir for some hours, it flew away over the tree-tops uttering its harsh cries in a sleepy manner as the daylight failed.

Bold was roused at sun-up by a chill wind ruffling his fur. The ground all around the spinney was stiff with frost. Even the edges of the holly leaves had a coating of white. Bold shivered and peered out at a world made silent by thick eddies of mist. Then he blinked in disbelief as he saw a large black bird stepping out of the fog, its bill stuffed with pieces of dark meat.

The Carrion Crow dropped his burden by the fox and croaked a welcome. ‘On the move again, I see?’ he added, ‘then you’ll be needing this.’

Bold saw the pieces of stale, raw meat more closely. ‘Timely indeed,’ he remarked. ‘I haven’t eaten for two days, and so I appreciate it more than you know.’ He took a gulp. ‘This
is
good,’ he said. ‘But where did you find it?’

‘Oh-ho! There’s plenty more of that if you know where to look,’ chortled the crow.

‘And where would that be?’ Bold asked eagerly.

‘In the town.’

‘Town?’ Bold ate another piece of meat.

‘Yes – not far from here. Full of humans and their buildings –
and
their food!’

Bold’s ears pricked up. ‘What sort of cover is there?’ he wanted to know.

‘Oh, plenty round about. You’d have to stay on the fringe, of course, and make raids at night.’

‘That’s rather what I had in mind,’ Bold said wryly.

‘Sorry. Don’t need to teach you your craft, I’m sure,’ the crow answered quickly.