“Foxes are fast, but we hunt the same game. That’s why we don’t get along.”
“There’s plenty for everyone.”
“Now. But in bad years we have to fight for our territory.”
“But, Murphy, you don’t need a hunting range. You have good food in the house and at work, too.”
“It’s a matter of principle.” Mrs. Murphy walked out onto the pea-rock drive.
“Where are you going?”
“To the fox’s den.”
“Oh, is there going to be a fight? I don’t want to get in a fight.”
“Simon, go eat your Tootsie Rolls and make sure those mice get to work.” Mrs. Murphy burst into a flat-out run from a standstill.
Simon watched. He wished he could do that. Any human with that ability would be signed as a halfback by a professional football team for millions of dollars. Of course, Mrs. Murphy would still outrun the player.
The cat ran for the sheer joy of running. Her long, fluid strides covered the ground, her paws barely touching the slick grass. Within five minutes she stood outside the fox den, secure in the stone base ruins of what had been the old spring house.
Since gray foxes keep a modest entrance, the large mound in front of the den announced the presence of the red fox.
The vixen, with characteristic intelligence, had selected a den on high ground, secure from the weather and within a leisurely walk to the strong-running creek dividing Blair Bainbridge’s and Harry’s property. This was the west side of Harry’s property. A family of gray foxes lived near the eastern boundary, so the two types of foxes rarely conversed and never competed against each other. It was a good working arrangement.
A young cub peeped out at Mrs. Murphy. “Momma, a tiger!”
Mrs. Murphy laughed to herself, then called out, “It’s Mrs. Murphy.”
The sleek vixen, shedding her undercoat, came outside. Four little red heads popped up to listen, their luminous eyes wide in wonder at this exotic, striped creature.
“How are you?” The vixen minded her manners.
“Well, and yourself?”
“Healthy, thank you.”
Mrs. Murphy used to spit and fuss whenever a fox was near, until one cold night years back, when a bloodthirsty bobcat had come down off the mountain since game was scarce. This terror chased Mrs. Murphy, and the cat only escaped death thanks to this fox den. Even Tucker had ducked in, squeezing herself next to the fox. That night she was as close to a bobcat as Mrs. Murphy ever wanted to be. Since the truce was in effect, Mrs. Murphy dutifully informed both the reds and the grays when the hunt club would be leaving from Harry’s farm. This usually happened twice during hunt season, mid-September to mid-March. The foxes could decide whether to give the hounds a run for their money or to snooze inside.
“I was wondering if you’d heard any reports of rabies among the foxes?”
The vixen shook her head. “No. Oh, Lord, I hope another epidemic isn’t sweeping over us. It’s been a good time. No mange or rabies.” She cast a fearful eye at her children.
“If you haven’t heard of anything, then we’re all right. Now, you’re eating the kibble Harry puts out from time to time?”
Harry, as a dutiful hunt-club member, once a month put out kibble with wormer dripped over it. This knocked the parasite load right out of the foxes. She also would trap the cubs just before the fall and take them to Dr. Shulman for their first rabies shot. Getting the booster into them three years later was a lot harder.
News of an oral rabies vaccine, used extensively in France, had Harry and other foxhunters hopeful it would soon be allowed here in the States. Feeding foxes their vaccine would be much easier then.
“Yes. I’m grateful. Why do you ask about rabies?”
“Two humans have had it. Both dead, although one was killed outright. They discovered the rabies later, after the autopsy.”
“Two humans. That’s very strange.”
“What about the raccoons or the beaver? You all talk.”
“Everyone here is fine.” She looked lovingly at her litter. “They’re too young for their distemper shots or their rabies. Early fall.” She let out a long sigh. “Means I’ll have to get in the cage. They’ll come in it if I do, but, oh, Mrs. Murphy, those cages scare me.”
“I know. They scare me, too, but a little fear is better than a lot of rabies,” the cat sensibly said.
“I know.”
“Foxes have long memories. Ask some of the old ones if their grandmothers or great-grandfathers ever spoke of Mary Patricia Reines.”
“She was buried up in the high pastures behind St. James under the stone wall. That’s the story I always heard. But whoever dragged her up there didn’t do a good job. That’s how come her arm was dug out. That’s what I was told by my grandfather.”
“Why didn’t anyone see the killer?”
“Grandpa said it was a wicked rainy night. No one with any sense was out. And that was one of the reasons the human got away with it. Not only were no other humans out, the pouring rains washed out all his tracks. You’d be surprised how many human remains we’ve found over time, all the way back to murders from the colonial era. One of those men is under the Clam parking lot down at UVA. That’s what my grandfather told me. Someone killed back in 1781. But these things are always troublesome when they come to light. Best to keep silent.”
“Did your grandfather say anything about a horse? Ziggy Flame, Mary Pat’s great stallion, disappeared when she did.”
“Ziggy was in the high pastures. He lived.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. Murphy tilted her head to look directly down at one of the cubs, who shrank closer to his mother.
“Is Harry off on one of her toots?” The fox knew Harry could get obsessed.
“Yes.” Mrs. Murphy nodded. “She has more curiosity than I do.”
At that they both laughed, then Mrs. Murphy headed back toward the house. She was disturbed by the thought that some of Mary Pat’s bones had been scattered over time. A crow or some small predator must have taken the hand or a finger and dropped it near or in Potlicker Creek, and year after year the ring, finally off the bone, must have inched its way down to where Harry found it. Unless Barry had it. Dropped it. That was equally disquieting.
Being a feline, her senses were much sharper than Harry’s, although Mrs. Murphy knew Harry possessed remarkable hearing for a human and was able to hear into some of the cat range. She also possessed a decent nose. But what Harry could never possess was that extrasensory perception that even the lowliest feline had. And that sixth sense was warning Mrs. Murphy that danger was coming closer, closer in a fashion that not even she could suspect.
A startling swoosh overhead sent her crouching, eyes upward.
“Hoo, hoo, HA!” The great owl laughed as she landed.
“Flatface.” Mrs. Murphy breathed a sigh of relief.
Flatface lived in the cupola in Harry’s barn. She wasn’t especially social, but she was more social than the giant black snake who lived up there and had recently taken to interrupting her hunting circle to steal some of Simon’s treasures. Simon had saved a perfect little robin’s egg, which the black snake took right off his special towel.