“But he hadn’t,” Mr. Lawson’s tone changed abruptly. “He was in one of Skunk McGee’s traps. And when we found him he was dead, frozen hard as a rock.
“And so you see, boys,” he added quietly, “I’ve always hated traps. I never see one even now but I seem to see poor old Bing with one foot in it, whining and shivering out there all alone.”
From that day on the thought of traps was banished from their minds.
But the foxes? Did they vanish? No indeed! The foxes saw to it that they were not forgotten.
Before the summer was at an end some families, unaccustomed to the pioneer life, lost courage and decided to return to their original homes. Among these were two families who had brought with them small flocks of chickens. By careful planning the Lawsons were able to buy the chickens. Having built a stout log henhouse and a small wire enclosure for sunny days, they felt better than ever prepared for the winter.
“Chicken for Thanksgiving and Christmas and eggs all winter long! What luck!” Lawrence rejoiced.
The chickens, no doubt, were something of a surprise to the foxes. But had they not always preyed upon ptarmigan? And were not chickens just big plump ptarmigan? Perhaps this was the way they reasoned. At any rate, one night Lawrence heard a loud squawking and rushed out just in time to see a plump white hen vanish into the night. A fox had her by the neck.
“Something must be done about that,” he insisted at once. “If we can’t trap the foxes, what then?”
“Take them alive,” was his father’s prompt reply.
“Alive! Alive!” both boys cried.