Very soon Ereth was able to poke his head down into a bigger hole. What Ereth saw in the dim light made him blink. The pile of rocks enclosed an entire storeroom of food: partially eaten rabbits, voles, chipmunks, and even, to his horror, mice. All were frozen.
It was as he had guessed and hoped: Leaper had carefully provided emergency rations for her family to last for a good part of the winter. No one would starve.
Caught between total revulsion and complete glee, Ereth wheeled about and dashed back toward the bluff and the foxes. “Bouncing bear burps!” he cried. “I’ve found it. We’re saved.” He was so excited he hardly noticed he was using the word “we.”
CHAPTER 20
Bounder
TOWARD THE OTHER END of Dimwood Forest was a small, shallow glen. All but circular in shape, the hollow was surrounded by tall ponderosa pines, their heavy limbs bent with snow. Near the center of the place—like the hub of a wheel—was a rock. Atop the rock, bathing in the warm sun beneath the blue sky, was a large, handsome fox. It was Bounder, the father of the three kits.
Head high, majestic tail curled about his body, Bounder was in perfect repose. His coat of ruby red fur was as thick as summer grass. His paws were powerful. His noble face, long and pointed, bore deepset eyes and sharp whiskers.
Indeed, he was quite prepared to believe that the rock upon which he rested and even the sun in the sky were there for him, so as to show him at best advantage. All that was missing was a pool of water in which he might admire his own image.
A few days ago Bounder had heard a rumor that the humans at New Farm—at the eastern end of Dimwood Forest—had built a brand-new chicken coop. The coop was full of plump chickens—or so the fox had been informed. With visions of many tasty meals in his future, the fox was determined to visit the coop. Just thinking about it made him lick his lips in anticipation. For Bounder did what he wanted, how he wanted, when he wanted. It was only the snowstorm that had interrupted his journey.
Though the storm was now over and he was still planning to go, the soothing sun upon his back detained him. The warmth provided such sweet contentment, he had shut his eyes and given himself over to random thoughts.
Even as the fox’s eyes were shut, his ears were working, listening to the sounds of the forest, on guard for the slightest hint of any disturbance to which he should attend.
As time went by he caught the sound of a mouse burrowing under the snow. Bounder decided the mouse was not big enough for him to bother with.
Not long after that, he was certain a baby rabbit was hopping by the rock. Though the fox knew the rabbit was easy prey, once again he decided that the animal’s small size did not justify making any effort to catch it.
It was his awareness of the young rabbit, however, that caused him to think—momentarily—about his wife, Leaper, and his three kits, Nimble, Tumble, and Flip.
Regarding Leaper, Bounder had no great depth of feeling. When he thought of her, it was to acknowledge that she was a good mother to these kits of his. That, as far as he was concerned, was the only thing important about her. For Leaper’s good mothering meant that he, Bounder, did not have to concern himself very much about his youngsters. That in turn allowed him to go about his business freely without the least hindrance. And so he did.
As for the kits, he did care for them, but on his own terms. He enjoyed visiting them from time to time. He liked to bring them special treats, like a freshly killed chicken—something their mother would not risk providing. He also enjoyed engaging the kits in a bit of rough play—just enough to let them experience his strength.
But what Bounder liked most, in regard to his kits, was to allow his children to gaze upon him with adoring eyes. Once that was accomplished, he would go off again on his private business.
All that, in Bounder’s opinion, was the proper life for a father fox.
So it was that as the fox continued to lie beneath the warm sun, he deliberately dismissed thoughts of home and family. Life was too good for him to be disturbed by such things.
But then Bounder heard the sound of something much larger than a baby rabbit. Opening his orange eyes a little, he sought out who it might be. There, on a branch on one of the trees overlooking the glen, was Marty the Fisher.
As soon as the fox realized it was Marty, he shut his eyes again. Bounder did not like Marty. As far as the fox was concerned, the fisher was an unpleasant creature: sly, secretive, not always to be trusted.
“Hello, Bounder,” Marty called out. “Do you know what is happening?”
The fox said nothing.
“Well, then,” the fisher said, “my guess is that you don’t want to know what’s happened to your wife, Leaper, and those three kits of yours who go by the names Tumble, Nimble, and Flip.”
Bounder felt uneasy. By stating the fox’s family’s names, Marty had aroused his curiosity. Still, the last thing the fox wanted to do was ask for the story. That would put someone else in control, a thing Bounder did not like to happen. He preferred to be in charge.
When the fox neither moved or replied, Marty called, “It’s a pretty tragic tale, Bounder. I don’t blame you for not wanting to know.”
Bounder continued to act with indifference.
“But then,” Marty continued loudly, “since everyone else knows what happened, I suppose you do too. Yes, I’d guess you were the first one to hear. Well, Bounder, you do have my sympathy.”
Bounder, no longer able to resist, turned
