"What's that moving in the ravine—see! About a hundred yards up, below the big cedar on the rock."
"Ground hog, likely," said Fred, turning the glass toward the rocky gorge, through which ran a little stream that lay at the base of the ridge. "I don't see anything. Oh—yes, now I've got 'em. One—two—three—four little animals. Why, they're playing together like kittens! They look like young foxes, only they're far too dark-colored."
Mac suddenly snatched the glass. But Fred, now that he knew where to look, could see the moving black specks with his unaided eye. Just behind them was a dark opening that might be the mouth of a den.
"They are foxes!" said Mac. "It's a family of fox cubs. You're right. And—and—why, man, they're black—every one of them!"
He lowered the glass, almost dropping it in his excitement, and stared at his companion.
"Fred, it's a den of black foxes!"
CHAPTER XII
"Black foxes!" cried Fred. "Mac, give me the glass!"
"Black, all right," Macgregor said. "Four of them, black as jet. See the fur shine! I can't see the old ones. There, I believe I saw something move just inside the burrow! Anyhow, all the cubs are going in."