# Redcoat/Chapter 1

IT was Springtime in the woods. Not the full tide of Spring, but late April, when all the forces of nature were feeling out their powers. Life was stirring and stretching in its sleep, just as it does before the full awakening.
There were no leaves on the trees, but just a faint ghostly shimmer in the poplars and white birches, and a touch of red in the soft maple. But under last year's dead leaves life was still more apparent, for in every warm corner, adder tongues, partridge berries, and wintergreen leaves were starting into new life. But there was a look to the bark on all the trees which was still more telltale to the eye of the woodsman. It had ​lost the pale ghostly grays of midwinter, and there was a vitality and flush to all the colors that suggested life that tingled and rioted just beneath the outer bark.
All of the wood folks also were astir, the crows were cawing lustily, and the woodpeckers were pounding away as though this beautiful Spring morning had given a new zest to their appetites, and they had got to work hard for the morning meal.
There was life also at the entrance to the den in the spruces, for Mother Fox had just come out to see how the morning went, and to see if she could discover anything of her lord, the great hunter, for the four blind fox pups in the den pulled heavily upon her strength and substance, and her appetite this morning was like that of the proverbial wolf.
The first thing that she did on coming out into the open was to stretch and get the kinks out of her muscles. There was not as much room in the den for her as there had been before the whelps came. She had to be careful and not lie upon them, so she of​ten sustained a cramped position for hours. Her mate was not allowed in the den while the pups were still unweaned, but even so, the den was often cramped.
If Mr. Fox even dared to poke his head in at the burrow to see how things were going, he was promptly invited to get out. This was not because he might have killed the pups as a tomcat will often do with kittens before their eyes are open, but just a bit of jealous mother love, which would not suffer anyone but herself to care for these small wriggling woolly things, that would some day be real full grown foxes.
After stretching and yawning until it would seem as though her jaw would be put out of joint, Mother Fox looked about amid the darkening shadows of the ancient woods. With her keen yellow eyes she searched out every dark thicket, but there was no game in sight, not even a wood mouse. So she sat down upon her haunches to wait for the mighty hunter.
Half an hour before daylight he had arisen from a deep thicket where he had ​slept during the night in the top of a fallen spruce, and started for the river to see if he could bag a muskrat for Mrs. Fox's morning meal.
He knew just how hungry she was, because his own appetite was as keen as a razor. It seemed that his stomach fairly ached with hunger, and the sight of an occasional bird which he discovered in the treetops made saliva drip from his jaws.
He went at a steady dog trot until he came within perhaps a score of rods of the creek, then he tested the wind to see what direction it was. Muskrats were not so very keen of scent, but a good hunter never stalked his quarry down the wind, it is against good hunting instincts.
If you have a good rule always stick to it. Mr. Fox discovered that he would be hunting in the teeth of the wind, which was just a morning zephyr. That was good, so he began creeping slowly towards the creek. For the last hundred feet, he went almost upon his belly, keeping behind bunches of weeds, and clumps of alders, which fringed ​the creek's bank. Finally, after fifteen minutes of careful manœuvering, he gained the position he wanted.
It was within about forty feet of a large muskrat house which was situated at the point of a promontory that jutted out into the stream. This house was the abode of a large family, and Mr. Fox had bagged more than one of its members. The muskrats were not very careful to protect themselves, and they did not long remember these hard lessons. This was probably because the children were so numerous and came so often. When there are four litters a year, averaging eight at a time, children are not so precious, as they might otherwise be.
If one had glanced casually at the river bank he might possibly have made out partly hidden in the underbrush, what at first he would have decided was the end of an old log, it looked so lifeless. But had he possessed the eyes of a woodsman, he would have seen that it was the mighty hunter. He was stretched out at full length, with his head between his paws, seemingly asleep. ​Yet he was far from sleeping, for his two hungry yellow eyes were glued upon the conical muskrat house at the point of land in the stream. Not a movement in the entire scene escaped him. Also his keen nostrils were sifting the morning air, for the first faint scent of the rats.
For half an hour he lay there, without moving so much as a muscle. A less patient hunter would have become discouraged and gone in search of other quarry, but not so the red fox. He knew that patience is the hunter's long suit, so he watched and waited.
At last his patience was rewarded, for a sleek young muskrat, nearly grown, came slowly out of the house and looked warily about him. He too was hungry, and he wanted to see if he could find some roots along the shore which were to his taste. Slowly he ventured forward, looking this way and that. Did Mr. Fox make a dash and try to catch the rat before he should return to his house? Not he, he would wait and make sure of his prey. He would let ​the rat get so far from home that he could get between him and his refuge. Then he would make his dash.
For fifteen minutes the cunning hunter waited. Finally the unsuspecting rat was in just the right position. He was too far from the house to get back, and not too close to the water. Reynard would not go into the water after him if he could help it, besides there was a fair chance that the rat could escape if he once got to the water. So Mr. Fox waited until the rat had turned his head, and was busy feeding, then he crept slowly forward, and made the final dash, which consisted of two or three quick springs. There was a frightened squeak from the rat, and a quick rush for the creek, but before that safety zone was reached, the fox's powerful jaws had closed over the rat's back, and with a sudden crunch his back was broken.
Then the proud hunter picked up the rat and started for his den in the spruces. He made all haste as he knew his mate was hungry, and waiting for her breakfast. ​Proudly the hunter laid the kill down at the ravenous mother fox's feet, and himself drew back until she should have had her breakfast. He would not have tried to get a portion of the rat had she chosen to eat it all. She fell upon the muskrat with great fury, and ripped it ruthlessly and savagely. At last, she stepped back, and in fox language, indicated that her lord might help himself, which he proceeded to do without a second invitation.
Finally the mother fox went back into the den to suckle the whelps, and the old fox went to the meadow to hunt for mice. His portion of the rat had been small, and he was still hungry.
Meadow mice were a much choicer dainty than muskrat, and he wanted to take good care of his family in the spruces during the critical period.
The pups at this time were simply four small balls of woolly fur. They would keep this woolly coat for three or four months, until they shed their puppy coat. But even at this stage of their existence the young ​foxes had some of the fox characteristics.
Another muskrat hunt Mr. Fox had which was not so successful, and it nearly cost him his own life. The Red Hunter had gone to find Mrs. Fox's breakfast. The hunting had been rather lean for the past two days, and Mrs. Fox was fairly ravenous, as she was indirectly feeding the four pups. The Red Hunter had himself gone almost entirely without food so that she might have more.
So this morning he went very early to the creek, and took up his favorite position in a clump of bushes near to the muskrat house. The rats had become rather shy, but he felt that his patience would again be rewarded.
The water was very high, and there was another hunter abroad on that fine morning. This was none other than Bud Holcome, and he was out hunting muskrats. He was following along the creek on the other side from the muskrat house, carrying in the hollow of his arm a twenty-two rifle. His favorite gun.
Now, while Bud was looking for musk​rats, yet he was not averse to bagging a fine fox. The rat's skin might be worth two or three dollars, but a fox's such as that the Red Hunter wore was worth at least twenty-five.
It was mere accident that the boy discovered the fox crouched in the bushes. At first he thought it an old log, and he had to look for a long time before he satisfied himself.
Even then he would not have been sure had not the fox moved his head slightly. This was enough for Bud. Here was such hunting as he had not even dreamed of in his wildest moments, so he snapped the rifle to his shoulder, and took a hurried aim. He was so excited, and the fox skin looked like such a great prize to him, that he did not take pains enough with his aim, otherwise the fox family would have lost their hunter that morning.
But as it was, the bullet struck the fox a glancing blow just over the eye, and glanced off his skull, although it cut a bad gash, and ​for a few moments his vision faded and everything looked black to him.
Then in a flash it cleared, and he saw the boy on the further side of the creek again pointing the deadly thunder stick at him. He knew firearms full well. Several times in the course of his adventurous life he had heard this dread sound, and had carried away small pellets in his fur, so now the Red Hunter broke from cover and ran for his life. As he bolted he kept such cover as he could between himself and the boy.
Bang, went the small rifle again, and the bullet kicked up some sand between the flying fox's feet. Bang again, and this time the bullet struck ten feet behind him. The boy was miscalculating the speed of the flying fox. Out and in he zigzagged, all the time making for the deep woods on the bluffs above. In almost less time than it takes to tell the fox was out of sight, leaving the boy rubbing his eyes, and wondering how he had missed him three times.
But Mr. Fox thought he had come close ​enough. He had a bad gash over his eye, and his head throbbed from the blow upon his skull. He went to the spring, and, thrusting his nose deep in the water, cooled his throbbing head. Finally, after a couple of hours, he went back to his hunting, but he did not go to the creek again for several weeks, and even then he took great precautions.
For five or six weeks Mother Fox nursed the pups in the den, while Father Fox hunted for the entire family. He was very persistent in his hunting, and usually brought home game.
During all this time, he did not venture into the den, but each day laid his kill at his mate's feet at the mouth of the den. But he always slept in the spruces nearby, and the mother fox knew if she had need of him, he could usually be found close at hand, for when he was not hunting, he was on guard.
Finally, one bright morning, early in June, a change came over the life of the burrow.
​The foxes were getting so active and so playful, and it was so hard to keep them straight in the burrow, that it had been decided to introduce them to the great world outside. The entire fox family was to have its coming out.