Ereth sighed deeply. He could feel the pain where the fisher had clawed him. And yet, as he looked at the beast in the trap, all he could think of was the fisher’s predicament. “Frog freckles,” he grumbled. “I suppose we should.”
“Of course you should,” Marty snarled. “The weak always have an obligation to help the strong. We’re the important ones. Besides, I’ve suffered a great deal. Didn’t I just explain, my family is almost extinct. You have an obligation to help me.”
Lumbering forward, Ereth approached the cage. After sniffing and studying it carefully, he found the bar Marty had mentioned, the one that would open the trap. Rearing up he pushed down on it. It gave way partly but not enough to release the doors. He looked around at the kits. “Come on,” he called.
“Ereth . . .” Flip called, “are . . . you sure we should do this?”
“Come on,” Ereth growled, “lend a paw!”
Tumble jumped atop the trap. Nimble reared up from one side, while Flip got close to Ereth.
“When I say three, we’ll all push,” Ereth said.
“Would you hurry!” Marty snarled.
“One . . . two . . .” Ereth stopped.
From somewhere in the distance came a high-pitched whine.
Tumble cocked his ears. “What’s that?”
The animals listened.
“Faster, you fools!” Marty shouted. “I must get out!”
The whine grew louder, becoming a growl as it got closer.
“What is that?” Flip asked Ereth.
“Pig pudding,” the porcupine swore. “It’s the snowmobile. The hunters. They’re coming back.”
“Let me out of here!” Marty shrieked. “Don’t let them get me. You mustn’t!”
The sound of the snowmobile grew very loud.
Ereth leaped off the trap. “Into the woods!” he cried to the kits. “Hide! Run!” He scrambled away painfully.
The kits tore after him.
“Don’t leave me!” Marty screamed. “Don’t let them get me!”
Ereth dove under the low-lying branches of a pine tree. The kits quickly joined him.
“What’s going to happen?” a frightened Flip asked.
“Shut up!” Ereth ordered.
The four peered out through the tree branches. They could still see the trap. Marty was thrashing about, trying desperately to free himself.
The sound of the snowmobile had become a roar. The next moment they saw it burst into the clearing in front of the cabin and stop. It was the same machine Ereth had seen before. Sure enough, two men were perched on it. Though they were so bundled up it was hard to see their faces, Ereth recognized the furs they were wearing: they were the same humans he’d dealt with before.
Sure enough, one of them said, “Hey, Wayne, look here. There’s blood on the ground.”
The man on the backseat leaped off and peered into the snow. “Some animal has been wounded,” he said.
“That’s my blood, you two-legged lump of wind cheese!” Ereth snarled.
“Shut up!” Tumble whispered.
Ereth gave the fox a dirty look but said no more.
“Whatever it was, it went this way,” said the man. He began to follow the trail of Ereth’s blood away from the cabin, moving right to the stump where the struggle had taken place. The other man followed.
“Look here, Parker,” the first man said. “Must have been some kind of fight. Must have been a whole bunch of animals.”
“Tracks go there,” the man named Parker said. He began to move toward the trap.
Ereth and the three kits, not even daring to breathe, watched.
“Wayne,” Parker called. “I think we got something.”
“Good Lord . . . what is it?”
“Not certain. Look at that gorgeous fur. But he sure is mad. Watch out for his claws.”
“Hey, that’s a fisher!”
“Sweet.”
“Lot better than that porcupine we were trying to get. Zoo material. Might give us a lot for it. No one wants to see a porky. But lots of people would like to look at a fisher. Pretty rare.”
The two men picked up the trap and began to walk toward the cabin. Once they reached it they opened the door and took the trap inside with them. Then they closed the door with a bang.
At first the animals under the tree said nothing. It was Flip who finally spoke.
Turning to Ereth, he nudged him with his wet nose. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Did you hear what he said?” Ereth muttered. “Better than a . . . a porky!”
“Ereth,” Flip repeated, “is your body all right?”
“Oh. Some cuts and bruises. Where did you all come from?”
“The den,” Tumble said.
“But . . . your father . . . where is he?”
“Dad?” Flip said. There was a slight look of embarrassment about his face. “He said he had some business to do.”
“And he left?” Ereth asked, feeling his indignation rise.
“It’s okay. He asked us if we minded being left alone,” Nimble explained. “We said we didn’t.”
“He said he only came back to be sure you weren’t bothering us,” Tumble said.
Flip said, “So the day after you left, he took off.”
“It was important business,” Tumble interjected with some of his old heat.
“But . . . when will he be coming back?” Ereth asked.
“Oh, sometime in the spring,” Nimble said casually.
“Right. He’s going to take us hunting,” Tumble said.
“He’s really great at that,” Flip put in.
Ereth thought of saying something. Instead he told them, “You saved my life. And . . . and I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
“You didn’t?” Flip said, taken by surprise. “Why?”
“Because . . . oh, toe jam on a toothbrush,” Ereth grumbled. “I just didn’t, that’s all.”
“I mean,” Nimble said, “Dad is fun, but you’re the one who takes care of us. So of course you’d have to see us again.”
“The thing is,” Tumble added in his sour way, “Dad has more important things to do than take care of kits. But Ereth, you’re so old you’ve got nothing better to do.”
A speechless Ereth looked around.
“So can you come back to the den with us?” Nimble asked.
Ereth glowered.
“We found the last trap,” Tumble said. “You won’t have to worry about that.”
“Will you come back?” Flip coaxed.
“No,” Ereth said at last.
“No?” the kits chorused.
“I’m going home. My home.”
“But . . . what about . . . us?” Flip whispered.
“You’ll be fine without me,” Ereth said. “You didn’t eat up all that food your mother left you, did you?”
“No.”
“Good. It should get you through the winter.”
The dismayed foxes stared at Ereth.
“But . . . we’ll
