In a few minutes there came up from under the mountain that long, peculiar bark which the hound always makes when he has run the fox in, or when something new and extraordinary has happened.  In this instance he said plainly enough, “The race is up, the coward has taken to his hole, ho-o-o-le.”  Plunging down in the direction of the sound, the snow literally to our waists, we were soon at the spot, a great ledge thatched over with three or four feet of snow.  The dog was alternately licking his heels and whining and berating the fox.  The opening into which the latter had fled was partially closed, and, as I scraped out and cleared away the snow, I thought of the familiar saying, that so far as the sun shines in, the snow will blow in.  The fox, I suspect, has always his house of refuge, or knows at once where to flee to if hard pressed.  This place proved to be a large vertical seam in the rock, into which the dog, on a little encouragement from his master, made his way.  I thrust my head into the ledge’s mouth, and in the dim light watched the dog.  He progressed slowly and cautiously till only his bleeding heels were visible.  Here some obstacle impeded him a few moments, when he entirely disappeared and was presently face to face with the fox and engaged in mortal combat with him.  It is a fierce encounter there beneath the rocks, the fox silent, the dog very vociferous.  But after a time the superior weight and strength of the latter prevails and the fox is brought to light nearly dead.  Reynard winks and eyes me suspiciously, as I stroke his head and praise his heroic defense; but the hunter quickly and mercifully puts an end to his fast-ebbing life.  His canine teeth seem unusually large and formidable, and the dog bears the marks of them in many deep gashes upon his face and nose.  His pelt is quickly stripped off, revealing his lean, sinewy form.

The fox was not as poor in flesh as I expected to see him, though I’ll warrant he had tasted very little food for days, perhaps for weeks.  How his great activity and endurance can be kept up, on the spare diet he must of necessity be confined to, is a mystery.  Snow, snow everywhere, for weeks and for months, and intense cold, and no henroost accessible, and no carcass of sheep or pig in the neighborhood!  The hunter, tramping miles and leagues through his haunts, rarely sees any sign of his having caught anything.  Rarely, though, in the course of many winters, he may have seen evidence of his having surprised a rabbit or a partridge in the woods.  He no doubt at this season lives largely upon the memory (or the fat) of the many good dinners he had in the plentiful summer and fall.

As we crossed the mountain on our return, we saw at one point blood-stains upon the snow, and as the fox-tracks were very thick on and about it, we concluded that a couple of males had had an encounter there, and a pretty sharp one.  Reynard goes a-wooing in February, and it is to be presumed that, like other dogs, he is a jealous lover.  A crow had alighted and examined the blood-stains, and now, if he will look a little farther along, upon a flat rock he will find the flesh he was looking for.  Our hound’s nose was so blunted now, speaking without metaphor, that he would not look at another trail, but hurried home to rest upon his laurels.