It was dead, of course. He picked it up by the tail and started back toward the car. Charlie Boston had rolled down the window at his side and stuck his head out. “What is it?” he asked. “A cat?”
Oliver Quade was grinning hugely. “Nope. This is a fox, a silver fox. Charlie, we’ve turned the corner, and run smack into Old Man Prosperity.”
“Silver fox!” yelped Charlie Boston. “Why, holy smokes! Ain’t silver fox skins worth about a thousand bucks each?”
Oliver Quade climbed into the coupe and placed the dead animal at his feet. “Not a thousand dollars, but it’s the most valuable fur to be found in all North America. Step on the gas, Charlie. I want to get to the town ahead as quickly as possible so we can pelt this beautiful, poor creature and kiss Mr. Recession so-long!”
Charlie stepped on the starter. It made a grinding, spitting, choking sound. That was all. He ground down on the button again.
Oliver Quade, who almost never lost his composure, said: “Damn it!”
Charlie Boston’s face was a study of mingled rage and despair. “The gas!” he groaned. “Gone. And we’re twenty miles from town in a howling wilderness.”
Oliver Quade, his nostrils flaring, hauled out a road map. He consulted it, then looked at the mileage gauge. “The map says sixty-six miles from Homburg and we’ve come thirty-five which leaves us thirty-one to go.”
“And it’ll be dark in an hour! It’s starting to snow now.”
It was. The sky had been overcast all day. Only a few flakes were coming down now but they were big.
“It’s a God-forsaken country!” said Quade. “We haven’t seen anyone for two hours, but there must be farmhouses around somewhere. It’s a cinch we can’t stay in the car all night. It’s getting colder. We’d freeze stiff.”
“Ollie,” said Charlie Boston, “I feel like a man on a desert island who finds a pot full of gold. I’ll trade my share of that silver fox for one bowl of hot chili. And for a warm bed I’d toss in my chances of heaven.”
“Well,” said Oliver Quade, “in a pinch we can move into the woods and build a fire. We’ve got matches.”
“Let’s try walking first.” Charlie put up the big collar of his overcoat, climbed out of the car. Oliver Quade’s tweed coat was lighter than Boston’s. He wore a light suit underneath. The prospect of a long walk was not cheering. He climbed out of the car on his side, then reached back and picked up the dead fox by the tail.
“I’m willing to desert the car, but not this,” he said. “And look, Charlie, the going may be rough, but, just in case, would you take the valise with the books. We might get an opportunity to make a few bucks. You can’t tell.”
Charlie Boston went around to the trunk, unlocked it and took out a small, heavy valise. He locked the trunk again. “I hate to leave the two hundred, but these twenty’ll get us on our feet. Let’s go.”
They started up the road. The snow was coming down thicker now. The flakes were cold and powdery, not wet which would have indicated warmer weather.
Stunted, snow-laden tamaracks grew to the edge of the road on each side. Interspersed, like sentinels, were white birch. On the higher spots a few lean, tall poplars stood like green sticks stuck into the snow.
“I still think we ought to have had dogs instead of the jalopy,” groused Charlie Boston.
“Nah,” said Quade. “The dogs would have scared away the fox. What’s a bit of snow when we’ve got meat for the pot?”
“Hey! You’re not figurin’ on eating that fox, are you?” There was genuine alarm in Boston’s tone.
Quade chuckled. “Only figuratively. This is a prime pelt and ought to bring us fifty or sixty dollars. We can buy a lot of beefsteaks for that amount. Charlie, do you see smoke over there to the right?”
Boston’s eager eyes followed Quade’s finger. “Umm, I’d almost swear I can smell it, too. Let’s cut over.”
“Looks like a small tote road up here, Charlie.”
It was. And it had been traveled recently. Quade and Boston started up it briskly. Before they had gone a hundred yards along the narrow road that wound in through the trees their steps quickened. They not only saw smoke now, but they saw a house, a large one. In a moment they saw several buildings, clustered around a five-acre clearing.
“Oh, boy!” exclaimed Charlie Boston.
Swiftly they approached the main house. It was built of logs, but it wasn’t just a big cabin. It was a lodge, reinforced with stone and lumber. Paths were shoveled in the snow all around, and a thick column of smoke was coming out of a stone chimney.
They pounded up to a veranda and stamped their feet. Quade rapped sharply on the door with his gloved knuckles. The door was opened almost instantly and a heavy-set man with a close-cropped beard was framed in the doorway.
“Hello,” Quade said, cheerfully. “Our car broke down up the road a piece. We wondered—”
“Sure, sure, come in!” said the man. His face broke into a smile. And then suddenly the smile gave way to a fierce scowl. “What have you got there?” he snapped.
Quade turned around and looked at Charlie Boston. He saw nothing out of the way. He turned back to the bearded man and saw his eyes fixed on the fox he was dangling in his own hands.
He held up the dead animal. “This? Why, it’s a fox we ran down. I thought we’d pelt it.”
“You ran down that fox! And you t’ought you’d pelt it?”
Charlie Boston cut in. “Sure, buddy, why not? We’re trappers, see? I’m Dan’l Boone and this is my pal, Kit Carson.”
“You!” choked the bearded man. “You t’iefs! You kill my fox, and you have the nerve to bring him here!”
“Your fox?”
“Of course, it’s my fox. All foxes around here are mine.”
“How about the wolves?” Charlie Boston shot in. “And the squirrels and the hummin’ birds — they yours too?”
“Wait, Charlie, I think I understand. You raise silver foxes, is that it?”
“Of course!” snapped the bearded man. “I’m Karl Becker.”
“Ah,” said Quade. “Of course, Becker, the silver fox breeder. I’ve read about you. Well, I’m afraid we owe you an apology, Mr. Becker, but, of course, we didn’t know. And couldn’t have helped it, if we had. The fox ran right in front of the car.”
Karl Becker seemed mollified by Quade’s confession. “Come in,” he invited.
Quade and Boston were quite willing. They almost leaped into the lodge, and the hot air was like California slapping them in their faces. They moved toward the roaring log fire in a huge fireplace.
“I’m awfully sorry about the fox,” Quade apologized again.
“Oh, that’s all right,” Karl Becker said. “I was a leedle sore at first, but I know they get through the wire now and then. Usually they come back when they’re hungry, but this time — well, let’s say, it couldn’t be helped, yah?”
Karl Becker took the dead animal from Quade and carried it back to the door. He opened the door and tossed it outside on the veranda. Charlie Boston scowled.
“And you said the Recession has receded, Ollie!”
Quade nodded significantly to the valise Boston had set down near the fireplace. Boston brightened.
“How far is it to the next town, Mr. Becker?” Quade asked.
“Spooner? About thirty-one miles. I don’t think you make it the way the snow’s coming down.”
“We’ve got to make it, Mr. Becker. But unfortunately, we ran out of gas. I was wondering if you had a couple of gallons around here?”
“Yeah, sure. I got lots of gas. I be glad to sell you a few gallons.”
Charlie blinked at Quade. Quade cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, we’d be glad to pay you for the gasoline. On the other hand, you really think we’d have trouble getting to Spooner?”