Sometimes he would be glimpsed as he watched them from some thicket, far enough away to satisfy his shyness; at other times his orange colored form would slip past as silently as a shadow, to be swallowed immediately in the tangles all about. So the children, with their sharp eyes, had the thrill of seeing him more often than anyone else; and of all the hungry woods creatures he had first choice of crusts and lunch scraps they dropped.
Every fox is likely sooner or later to do something foolish that gets him into trouble, but Red Ben’s wonderful luck seemed unending. He was often seen when running ahead of the dogs. Perhaps some old farmer would be driving home his cows, when into the country road ahead would plunge the fox, his bright fur and big, bushy tail leaving no doubt as to his identity.
“Ah, there goes a hundred dollars,” the old man would sigh, as he thought of the reward, then he would admiringly watch the graceful fox until out of sight around the bend in the road, and pray that the dogs might not get him after all.
Red Ben of course jumped into the road ahead of the cows so that these big footed creatures, which kicked up the dust so plentifully as they walked, would spoil his trail before the dogs would get there. It was one of his ways of eluding them.
Everyone who saw the red fox talked about it and about the reward, and though to the children he was always Red Ben, to the farmers he was now Ben’s Hundred Dollar Fox.
“He’s the most valuable thing on your old farm, Ben,” some neighbor would tell Farmer Slown.
“And he won’t be there much longer,” Ben would answer in his usual ugly manner.
“How’s that? Are you going to try sticky fly paper next?” But Ben would stalk off without answer.
The answer came when five of the village dogs died from some mysterious poison for foxes they had picked up in the fields. After that people began to pass Ben Slown on the road without speaking.