The snow was deep but the boys thoroughly enjoyed the excitement of the chase.
“We didn’t expect to blunder into a foxhunt when we left the cabin this morning, did we?” said Joe, when the village was out of sight behind them.
“I’ll say we didn’t,” returned his brother. “This beats iceboating all hollow.”
“It will, if Chet will keep from pointing that gun in my direction,” said Biff. “He has already tried to kill me once this morning.”
Chet, blushing, reversed the weapon, which he had been carrying in a highly dangerous position, with the barrel pointing toward the other members of the party.
They went down into a gully extending several hundred yards to the west, following the tracks that led along the bottom of the ravine, then turned sharply up the slope again toward a thicket of trees. Here and there they could see flecks of blood on the snow.
“That’s from the chickens,” Frank said, as they strode along.
Suddenly the dog became very active. Reaching the top of the slope, he plunged along in a swift run and soon disappeared among the trees. Then they heard him howling with excitement.
“He’s found them!” shouted Chet.
The boys hastened on. When they overtook the dog they found him frantically raising clouds of snow as he dug among some rocks in the depth of the thicket. He had found the den.
The boys knew little or nothing about the habits of foxes, but they reflected that the dog would be scarcely making such a clamor unless the animals were at home. They waited, rifles in readiness.
“Shoot ’em when they come out!” advised Biff, capering about.
The dog suddenly disappeared into the mouth of the den. The lads heard a yelp of pain, and the dog emerged again, his tail between his legs. He scuttled between their legs and headed down the home trail, howling. A moment later he was lost from view.
The lads looked at one another blankly.
“What happened to him?” demanded Biff.
“One of the foxes must have bitten him,” Joe said.
A shout from Chet interrupted him.
“Look!”
He was pointing over among the trees. The boys saw a tawny object flash against the snow, then another. The foxes had emerged from their den by the back entrance, evidently alarmed by the intrusion of the dog, and were fleeing for their lives back toward the ravine.
Chet flung his rifle to his shoulder. He was trembling with excitement, but he managed to aim at the foremost fox, and pressed the trigger.
There was only a dull click!
Chet had forgotten to load the weapon.
The others were too excited to notice his discomfiture. They were running about wildly, each seeking a good view of the fugitives. Frank and Biff, noticing the direction the foxes were taking, went plunging through the snow, back toward the rim of the ravine, with the intention of heading the animals off.
Frank tripped over a hidden tree-trunk and went sprawling headlong. He lost his rifle, and while he was searching for it Biff passed him and ran on toward the gully. Chet and Joe, in the meantime, were heading toward the gully in the opposite direction.
Biff emerged at the top of the slope. He looked down into the gully, just as Frank came racing up.
“See them?” demanded Frank.
“Not yet. They must have doubled back.”
The boys looked down into the gully. The snow was white and unbroken. Suddenly, at the far end of the gully they saw a movement among the bushes. A moment later, a fox came streaking out of the thicket, followed by its mate. The animals did not see the lads watching at the top of the slope.
“Take your time, Biff,” advised Frank, as he raised the rifle to his shoulder.
The foxes were hampered by the deep snow, but even at that they were racing down the gully so quickly that the boys had to take swift aim.
Bang!
Biff’s rifle spoke. The lead fox stopped short, whirled in his tracks and darted back. The other animal did likewise. But Frank’s aim was more accurate.
Bang!
The lead fox dropped into the snow, threshed about for a moment and lay still.
The other animal raced madly away, seeking cover. But by this time Biff had ejected the empty shell and had taken aim again. He pressed the trigger, sighting at the fleeing fox.
This time his aim was sure. The animal leaped high in the air, turned completely over and fell motionless in the snow.
“We got ’em!” yelled Biff joyfully. He began scrambling down the slope, anxious to inspect the prize. Frank followed him. At the bottom of the gully they came upon the dead animals, lying only a few yards apart. Each had been killed almost instantly.
“Amos Grice won’t lose any more hens after this,” declared Frank, with satisfaction.
“Just got them in the nick of time!” said Biff. “In another two seconds they would have been back among the trees and we’d have never seen them again.”
Chet and Joe, attracted by the sounds of the shots, now appeared at the top of the slope. They were astonished when they found that the hunt was already ended and that Frank and Biff had slain the marauders.
“You’re lucky, that’s all,” said Chet solemnly. “Just lucky. It was just by chance that the foxes headed this way instead of going down toward where we were waiting for them.”
“Well, we had our rifles loaded,” said Biff pointedly.
This silenced Chet, as he did not care to start any discussion concerning his failure to load the rifle when he started out on a foxhunt.
The boys started back toward the village, carrying the dead bodies of the four-legged chicken thieves with them. When Amos Grice saw them enter the store he was almost speechless with amazement.
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