54 
A Gray Fox’s Cunning. 
Washington, June 20. —Editor Forest and 
Stream: In all of my fox hunting experience 
never have I seen the gray run an honest race; 
the red relies on fleetness of foot and endur¬ 
ance, the gray on cunning. The following story 
will illustrate the point I make. 
One morning in November, 1902, Lawrence 
A. Williamson and I were hunting grays in the 
sandhill region of North Carolina, near the his¬ 
toric town of Fayetteville. We had been out 
for two hours, hit many trails, but failed to 
make a jump, but believing in the old saying 
that a poor beginning makes a good ending, we 
kept trying. After following a warm track up 
Sandy Run, one of the many swamps in that 
section, for a mile or more, we missed our fox 
because an old tree dog broke off after a coon 
We blew off our dogs after this humiliating 
experience and started to an old field some dis¬ 
tance away to get a new trail. On the way 
thither Music, our faithful strike dog, struck 
and other members of the pack chimed in, mak¬ 
ing the welkin ring. The enthusiasm was short¬ 
lived. The trail, which seemed cold, grew 
fainter instead of warmer. Williamson and I 
had become discouraged. It was 8 o’clock, the 
dew all gone, and the sun unusually warm for 
that season of the year. But as we sat debat¬ 
ing whether or not to give up and go home, 
Bess, a beautiful red hound, well formed, with 
a strong, strident voice, struck a fresh trail, 
going at right angles to the one Music hammered 
away on. Nell, Cry, Buck, Hattie and others 
joined her, and all went, single file, sniffing the 
ground toward the head of a reed-covered 
swamp about one hundred yards away. 
“That thicket is a good place for him to lie.” 
said Williamson who had hunted in that terri¬ 
tory for years and knew the ways of the sand¬ 
hill fox. “Yes, I would not be surprised to see 
him slide out of there.” 
Fifty feet north of the end of the swamp 
Bess turned to the right, trailed to the stump 
of a turpentine tree, which had broken, where 
it had been boxed and bled for a half century 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
for rosin, and fallen with its top in the reeds, 
and rearing upon her hind legs and running her 
nose along the bark, gave a very encouraging 
yelp. Pulling herself up by the chin and feet 
she mounted the prostrate pine and walked, 
trailing and barking toward the top, with the 
pack following one behind the other until the 
log was covered from stump to top with dogs 
barking and whining. 
“That looks promising,” said Williamson as 
the hounds filed down to the thicket. “I think 
the scamp is there.” 
Riding close we threw our legs across the 
pommels of our saddles to await developments. 
Bess, when she reached the top of the broken 
tree, descended to the ground, and Cry, a long- 
legged white and brindle dog, noted for his 
good sense, great speed and irritable temper, 
jumped down, ran around the head of the swamp 
and took a stand on the opposite side. 
“The fox is there,” declared my companion 
joyfully, “and old Cry knows it. Watch him 
fudge! He went around there to see him slip 
out; he knows from the urgent tone of Bess’ 
voice that he is close about.” 
I was convinced that Williamson was right, 
but could not imagine a fox with the courage 
to lie still in so small a thicket with twenty or 
more dogs barking in his very ear. 
Cry stood about thirty feet from the edge of 
the reed patch, looking intently for the fox. 
Although we did not approve of his sneaking 
in order to get the advantage, and doubted the 
wisdom of the move, we were compelled to ap¬ 
plaud his purpose. That sort of trick would 
work well with a rabbit, but not a gray fox 
whose favorite dodge is to steal out behind the 
dogs. 
While Cry was standing guard, his running 
mates entered the reed patch, turning and twist¬ 
ing briskly and barking fiercely, indicating that 
they were close on the quarry. 
Williams and I sat perfectly still, looking on 
expectant. As the last hound jumped from the 
fallen tree into the thicket we saw a fox, a 
beautiful, clean looking red-legged gray, with 
pretty tail, spring calmly and noiselessly upon 
[July ii, 1908. 
the log where the dogs had left it and trot 
slowly to the stump where Bess had climbed 
up. We were within twenty paces of him, where 
we could see his every move, even the twitch¬ 
ing of his nose. I was amazed at his com¬ 
posure; he displayed coolness, deliberation, even 
indifference. I was so impressed with his man¬ 
ner that I felt like cheering him. He did not 
seem frightened in the least, but moved as 
easily, as gracefully, and with as much dignity 
as if it were sunset, and he on his way to prowl 
the old fields in search of rats and no liound 
near. On reaching the end of the log imme¬ 
diately over the stump, he stopped, turned to 
us, looked us squarely in the faces as if to 
say, “You can outwit me, but your dogs can’t,” 
then shook his grand brush and jumped straight 
ahead, landing fifteen feet away and dashed 
across the hill. He struck the ground running, 
and was going at full speed when he passed 
out of our sight. There may have been method 
in his deliberate movement in going to the end 
of the log. By moving slowly he may have kept 
down that pungent fox odor until he was at 
a safe distance from the hounds. I am inclined 
to believe that this is true, for the dogs did not 
discover that he was up until some seconds 
after he had departed, yet they were within a 
few feet of him when he started. 
“He has the assurance of a government mule,” 
said I as he went away. “Yes; what do you 
think of that for genuine nerve?” asked William¬ 
son. 
“I have seen grays turn that trick in- getting 
away many times, and it is a very clever ruse. 
Now let us remain where we are, not say a word 
to the dogs, and see how long it will take them 
to get on his track.” 
“Did you see what he did?” Williamson con¬ 
tinued. “Do you follow him ? I feel almost 
certain that he is the same fox Music was trail¬ 
ing. He passed this thicket, so as to mislead 
any creature that might try to follow him, and, 
after going by some distance, circled back, and 
Bess hit the trail where it crossed, coming this 
way. He went to that tree, mounted it at the 
highest point, and walked to the top, beneath 
which he lay, when the hounds passed. Being 
absolutely still, he emitted very little, if any odor, 
and the dogs went beyond him. The good scent 
that Bess got, as she circled in the thicket, came 
from the trail he left on the reeds and the damp 
ground just before lying down. 
Listen 1 Listen at Bess! She has discovered 
that he is up. She is good at that. Hear her 
scream !” 
The little red hound cried out as if in distress. 
“Whenever you hear her break out as though 
she were tied by the heels and being half killed,” 
declared Williamson, “you may bet that the fox 
has moved.” 
The reeds were shaking violently. Lead, the 
wisest dog in the pack, and the fastest gray fox 
runner that I ever knew, was jumping above the 
top of the weeds and shrubs, looking for the fox. 
Such a barking and bawling you never heard! 
As the newspaper men say of turbulent political 
conventions, “pandemonium reigned.” 
Cry, knowing full well what had occurred by 
the impetuous call of Bess, began to run up and 
down the thicket, his head lifted high and his 
eyes stretched wide. But he had lost. The fox 
beat him out.. Within a few seconds the dogs 
scrambled out of the reed patch on all sides; 
A FOX AT HOME. 
From the County Gentleman. 
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