Red Ben, the Fox of Oak Ridge

by Joseph Wharton Lippincott

Well the mother knew what that baying meant. Months before she had left her own hills beyond the big river, to escape the keen scented hounds and to raise her family here in the Pine Barrens, unmolested by them. Had one at last traced her? Was he on her trail now, following her footprints unerringly to the fallen tree?

She looked at the sleeping pup. He certainly could not take care of himself in a long chase. If the hound found where they were, she would have to run for both of them. But she must wait until there was no doubt that he was on her trail and not following Gray Fox or some other woods creature.

For an hour she lay there, while the musical notes of the hound rang out in the breezeless morning air. He was working out a difficult trail, the one left by Red Ben in his night escape. How well those circles had been made! But circles could only delay, not stop a trailer like this hound. The oftener he found himself going around in aimless rings, the more determined he grew, until at last he was working along the swamp dangerously near the foxes.

Red Ben was wide awake, but understood that he was to hide there while his mother took care of the dog. He had never seen a hound, so was full of curiosity. Just as he had once watched Ben Slown from the mouth of the burrow, he now peeped between the limbs of the old tree to see the lanky black and white creature with the flapping ears come roaring up the trail.

Behind the hound came Farmer Slown’s woolly dog Shep and a white fox terrier. Their noses were not keen enough for trailing, so they encouraged the hound to do the work while they enjoyed the fun of it. Red Ben had seen them before; they usually accompanied the farmer in his walks.

Instinctively he knew then that Farmer Slown was somehow connected with the hound and this hunt. He was instantly more than ever on the alert; undoubtedly the farmer was somewhere near.

Through the bushes came the clumsy dogs, with a great crashing of dry twigs, quite different from Red Ben’s silent way of moving. He could see the excited glare of their eyes, the red tongues and white teeth. The hound, a huge creature, seemed to guess the fallen tree was a “foxy” place: nose in air, he turned to it, full of suspicion. The other dogs followed expectantly.

Red Ben’s heart beat against his ribs. Should he run? Did they see him? Something inside him seemed to warn, “wait, wait, don’t move!”

And then a wild cry of joy came from the little fox terrier. He had seen the mother. She had deliberately run past him to draw attention from the pup, but he did not have sense enough to guess that. With another yell he bounded after her, and after him came Shep. The hound alone stood there doubtfully, but he could not bear to be left alone. With a mighty bellow from his deep lungs he too rushed after the old fox, and went crashing towards Oak Ridge on the fresh trail.

Again Red Ben had escaped. He heard the hound go farther and farther into the Barrens; fainter came the baying, always fainter until it died away entirely.