When the hound ran Woodchuck, or Muskrat, into a burrow, his baying was muffled, on account of his nose being in the mouth of the hole. But when he rushed full tilt through the woods with a musical “wu—uh, wu-uh, wu—uh” at regular intervals, that meant fox; and, near the Ridge, fox meant Red Ben.
Ben Slown no sooner would hear that, than down he would throw the corn bundle and off he would run for his gun, which was never left very far from his hands. Off, too, would dash Shep and the fox terrier, who ordinarily busied themselves with digging for mice around the corn shocks.
In the excitement, Red Ben always managed to get away, usually by hunting up Gray Fox, or some other member of the gray family, whom he had learned to find in the Pine Barrens a mile down Goose Creek. The hound had discovered that any other fox was easier to follow than Red Ben, so he gladly changed trails.
On one occasion, after a long, hard run, Red Ben, circling back by a new route, came across the scent of a fox entirely a stranger to him. With his usual caution he looked about and presently caught sight of a red creature like himself, watching him intently.
For a full minute he and the other fox studied each other without moving. Not since his mother vanished had Red Ben seen a red fox, and never before had he seen an animal quite so unkempt looking as this one. The red fur was all mangy and torn, the tail almost a stick.
Red Ben, in all the magnificence of his perfect coat, seemed like a different kind of animal from this wretched little she-fox. And yet there was a brightness of eye, as well as an alertness about her which commanded attention.
The baying of the hound close by changed the scene all too quickly. Red Ben went on his way in graceful bounds, the little she-fox watching him till out of sight, then herself vanishing in the wood.
This kind of daily persecution by Ben Slown and his hound wore heavily on Red Ben. The sleepless days, hard runs and constant worry made him unfit for hunting during the night. Often he went hungry. He quickly became embittered and reckless. Instead of running after swift rabbits and spending hours in digging out mice, he fell into the easy habit of catching the fat, stupid chickens and ducks that could be picked up at any farm yard without his expending much energy.
His cunning in work of this kind seemed endless. He learned how to catch the guinea hens in the gray light of early morning, how to climb over and under chicken yard fences and how to enter hen houses through windows. He became the vexation and terror of every poultry man within three or four miles of the Ridge. Bounties were offered in three villages for his capture. One hundred dollars in all hung over his head; and still he somehow managed to live on his much loved Ridge—the only place he knew as home.
To children Red Ben naturally became a real hero; stories of his cunning took the place of fairy tales, besides which he seemed to have a friendly as well as inquisitive feeling towards them which led him to follow them about in the woods on their winter-green and holly picking expeditions, cautiously of course, but showing in one so wild an interesting trustfulness.