“Ereth . . .” It was Tumble who spoke.
“What?”
“We’re really starving.”
“Mom always brought home lots,” Nimble added plaintively.
“More than we could eat,” Flip agreed.
“More?” Ereth’s ears perked up.
“There were times,” Tumble said, “she brought us rabbits so big we couldn’t even finish everything.”
“What happened to the extra?” Ereth asked. “Did she take them off and eat the rest herself?” He knew that’s what he would have done.
Flip shook his head. “Mom said dinnertime was family time, that it was rude to go off and eat alone. So we always ate together.”
“Then, where did she put the leftovers?”
The foxes looked at one another in puzzlement.
“I guess we don’t know,” Nimble said with a shrug. “She just did what she did.”
“Do you think she could have stored them somewhere?” Ereth asked. “She ever mention having still another den? You know, an emergency storehouse?”
“She never said,” Flip replied.
A frustrated Ereth turned to look over the field. If there was a storage den stuffed with food it would make all the difference in the world. The problem was, such a place was likely to be well hidden. It could be anywhere.
He turned back to the waiting kits. “There must be one. I think we’d better go look for it,” he said. “The point is, I can’t teach you anything about hunting. But you need food. So think hard. Did your mother even hint about another place?”
“Nope,” Nimble said.
“Okay,” Ereth said. “Then here’s what we’re going to do. We’ve got those trails you’ve made. Instead of looking for traps, go back along them. Keep your noses to the ground. Sniff. Smell. See if you can find a storehouse. But, whatever you do, don’t go off the safe trails! If you think you smell something, come back and we’ll investigate together.”
The kits needed no further encouragement. They bounded off, each one going in a different direction.
As he waited, Ereth scrutinized the field, trying to guess where, if he were to build a secret storehouse, he might put it.
Then he craned around to look behind him, at the crest of the bluff in particular, which rose up some five feet over his head. He doubted if the kits would even think of looking there. A shrewd mother like Leaper, knowing that, might well put a storehouse in just such an out-of-the-way spot.
Ereth eyed the area carefully, trying to figure out a way he could haul himself to the top. It was steep. But as he looked around he noted that not very far from where he sat was a natural cleft worn into the face of the bluff. If he could work his way up that cleft, he should be able to get beyond the bluff.
Still he hesitated. What about traps? There were still six to be uncovered. So far, however, they had all been found along the base of the bluff, in the forest, or out in the field. That suggested they wouldn’t be beyond the bluff. Maybe.
Ereth looked over the field. The kits remained hard at work. Should he tell them what he was doing? No. It would take too long. Besides, it would be a lot more enjoyable to greet them with news of his discovery—if he made one.
Ereth headed for the cleft, working his way across the bluff. It was not easy to reach. First there was snow with which to contend. Then too, the face of the bluff was studded with rocks and boulders, all of which slowed him down. More than once Ereth needed to stop and rest.
Once he reached the lower end of the cleft, he started up, clawing and scratching at the loose gravel and snow. Twice he had to stop, panting heavily. But when he pulled himself over the final bit, he faced a stand of pine trees. His heart skipped a beat. Food! Trailing drools of spit and ignoring all caution, he ran right toward the trees.
Upon reaching the pines he attacked them with nothing less than savagery, ripping away the outer layers of bark to get at and gnaw at the sweet under-bark.
After twenty minutes of nonstop eating, Ereth felt so stuffed, so crammed full of food, he had to rest and allow himself to digest his meal. Then, with a start, he recalled his original mission: food for the kits.
He sat up and looked about. The first thing he realized was that there were enough trees in the area to keep him satisfied for a long time. That is to say, his food problem had been solved.
But where, he asked himself again, if he were a fox, would he place a secret den?
Ereth searched among the trees. The ground was hard, frozen in spots, though without many rocks. The snow was sparse here, and he was able to make his way with relative ease. Still, there didn’t seem to be any logical place for a secret den.
Then he noticed, within a tightly woven grove of trees, a large pile of rocks. He lumbered over to it and eyed it with care, searching for a hole or anything to suggest an entry to an inner cache of food. But though he walked completely around the pile, he saw nothing that even hinted at it.
He was about to move on when he decided he should climb atop the pile. Perhaps—though he doubted it—he might see something more from up there.
He clambered up the rocks. It was not easy, and he kept swearing to himself. Then, as he climbed higher, he began to detect the smell of something distinctly unpleasant.
Ereth reached the top of the pile, and suddenly the smell of meat was much more pungent. Poking about the top, he found a hole. It was not a very large hole, but when he put his nose to it he had to jump back, so repellent was the stench. It was the stink of meat. A lot of meat.
Excited now, Ereth scratched about the hole, trying to enlarge it. The edges gave
