The porcupine was not sure whether to be pleased by what he had observed. He could only hope they had not touched the salt at the cabin.
When he told the kits about the hunters they listened wide-eyed. “The danger isn’t over,” he warned. “Not yet.”
More cold winter days passed. There were good days and bad. Sometimes winter weather raged. Sometimes it was almost balmy. Even so, one more trap was discovered, leaving, by Ereth’s calculations, just one more trap to be found. He was hopeful they would find that one soon enough.
One evening, four weeks from the time Ereth had first come to the kits, right in the middle of what must have been his fourteenth telling of the famous battle between Mr. Ocax the great horned owl and Poppy the mouse, a voice boomed down the entry tunnel.
“Anybody home?” the voice bayed. “Anybody care for some fresh chicken?”
There was a moment of silence.
Then Tumble leaped to his feet. “It’s Dad!” he cried, and tore up the entryway. The next moment his sister and brother followed.
“Buzzard boozers on burnt toast,” Ereth mumbled. “Bounder has returned.” The old porcupine felt very nervous.
CHAPTER 22
The Return of Bounder
BELOW GROUND ERETH could hear joyful yapping and barking from the kits up above. Part of him wanted to go up and see what was happening. After hearing so many stories about Bounder from the kits, he was curious about him and wondered what he was truly like. But he worried even more how the fox would treat him.
While Ereth hesitated, a very excited Flip rushed down into the den. “Ereth,” he cried, “why are you staying down here? Come on up. It’s Dad. He’s back. Don’t you want to meet him? And guess what? He brought a whole fresh chicken. Just for us. Isn’t that fantastic? It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten! A lot better than anything Mom or you ever got us. Come on! Look!” With that, the excited fox raced back up to the surface.
Even as Ereth knew it was good that Bounder had returned, he wished the fox had not. Ereth was not unfamiliar with jealousy. He recognized the almost forgotten feeling in himself now. It infuriated him. “You pocket of pig poke,” he accused himself. “You’re an idiot! A fool! A dope!”
The force of his own barrage propelled him up the entry tunnel. Once at the top he poked his head out and looked around.
Bounder was stretched out on the ground, forepaws extended, tail straight behind him, head held high. There was an air of muscular pride about him as he gazed down at the kits.
The three youngsters were frolicking before him, yapping and growling joyfully, tails wagging wildly. They were in the midst of devouring the chicken, which they must have pulled apart as soon as it was offered. But even as they ate, they kept breaking away from the food to leap at their father, pummel him with their paws, nip at his fur, roll on his back, then rush back to their food lest they miss a delicious morsel. All the while they also were—as best they could with mouths full—jabbering away, telling Bounder everything they had been doing. They talked simultaneously, paying no heed to one another. Ereth had never seen them so happy.
There was endless chatter about tracking down the traps. “There were sixteen of them, Dad! Sixteen! They were so ugly. And really scary.”
On they went: How Flip had the idea of making snowballs to find them safely. How they had managed to make the balls. How the balls had worked.
There was talk too about the big snowstorm and, in passing, the sad death of Leaper—but that talk was brief. There was much more talk about how they had managed to keep everything going. “Mom left us a whole storage den of food, Dad,” Nimble explained. “So we’ve had plenty to eat.”
“But this is so much better than anything she left!” Tumble quickly put in, his mouth full of chicken.
The only thing the kits never mentioned was Ereth.
Bounder himself gave little response to the youngsters other than a few nods and yaps, just enough to make it apparent he was aware the kits were talking to him.
Then, quite casually—as if by accident—Bounder turned and gazed at Ereth. Their eyes met. In an instant Ereth recognized him as the fox he had met in Dimwood Forest a long time ago, when Poppy had first run into his log.
He could not help but grin at the memory, telling himself he had every reason to detest this fox, and that nothing—ever—would alter that. Nothing.
“Well, hello, Ereth,” Bounder said in a low, even voice. “What a surprise to see you here.”
“Nice to see you again,” Ereth returned, trying to keep the snarl out of his voice, but not quite managing.
Nimble, hearing the exchange, looked up and around. “Oh, right, Dad. This is Ereth. He’s been staying with us.”
“Has he?” Bounder said.
“Yeah,” Tumble put in as he looked up from his food. “But don’t worry. Now that you’re back he’ll go away. That’s what he keeps telling us.”
Ereth flinched.
It was Bounder who grinned now. “Been keeping warm in my den, Ereth?” he asked the porcupine.
“I’ve been taking care of your kits,” Ereth replied sharply. “Where have you been?”
“Oh, you know how it is, Ereth,” the fox said in his most casual way. “Business. Constant business. It keeps me on the go. I wish I had the time to hang around and take it easy—like you,” he added with a smile. “But then, some of us have to work hard to make a living.”
“Dad,” Tumble said. “Do you want to see how we make the snowballs and find the traps? Do you? Please. It was our own idea.”
“Be delighted to, son,” he said. “Delighted.” He stood up to his full height. He was much bigger than the kits, and Ereth too, for that matter.
The young foxes fell back and
