Farmer Slown did not look for feathers on the nose of the big cat. He never found out that the sight of the guinea running about in the dark was too much for the hunter instinct of his pet. Instead, he remembered only the barking of the fox in the night, and shook his fist in the direction of the Ridge.
CHAPTER X
JIM CROW’S SIGNAL
Instead of sleeping under the fallen tree in Cranberry Swamp, where the fleas had become too lively for comfort, Red Ben had made it a practice to pick out a new place nearly every day. This time he chose a laurel clump on the top of Oak Ridge. There was an advantage in this high bed; he could keep an eye on Ben Slown’s farm, whence he now expected trouble of some kind to come.
He had lately paid special attention to the danger signals of all the wild creatures, and on them relied for first warning, so he curled up in his usual tight ball, with eyes closed, but ears uncovered to take in every sound.
The “check, check” of red wing blackbirds, the rasp of brown thrashers, the screech of sparrow hawks and the rustlings of a great wood full of happy life went through his ears unheeded. The bark of Red Squirrel made him look up for a moment, to make sure that the little fellow was only talking to his mate; so also did the whirring of a grouse that some prowling hunter had scared up nearby; but during most of the time he could doze.
From a pine, near the fields below, came an occasional reassuring “caw” from Jim Crow, who was keeping guard while the crow flock fed in the sheep pasture. Everything seemed all right to him. To be sure there were two red-tail hawks soaring high in the sky, but they were not worth bothering over at that distance. All at once, however, a man, followed by dogs, came from behind the farm buildings.
“Caw, caw!” called the old crow sharply, to tell the others that something suspicious was in sight. A moment later he recognized Ben Slown and instantly flew out of his tree with the real danger call. “Cawr, cawr, cawr!” repeated again and again, as the other crows flew up too and scattered in the direction of the Barrens.
The first call awoke Red Ben, and the second brought him to his feet in a bound. All he needed was the sight of the crows, flying towards the Barrens, to convince him that it was Ben Slown who was coming. Only the approach of a well known gun carrier could make those wise birds leave the neighborhood of the Ridge like that.
He watched the farmer and his three dogs, then trotted down the far side of the Ridge, crossed Cranberry Swamp and entered the Barrens. There was a definite plan in all this. Gray Fox had freed him from Ben Slown’s dogs once before, now he could do it again.
Red Ben knew the old bully’s range rather well, and wasted no time in reaching the most likely thicket. Sure enough, the smell of Gray Fox was there in plenty, the smell Red Ben had such reason to fear and dislike. He sneaked cautiously up wind and spied the sleeping fox curled up under a pepper bush.