Run with the Wind by Tom McCaughren Page B

under the wire. The men never discovered how it was getting in or out. They never even discovered it was the mink. They thought it was us.’
    ‘When do you think it’ll be here?’
    The otter twitched his whiskered snout. ‘When gloomglow comes again. Maybe a little longer.’
    ‘Then we must move fast. What’s your plan?’
    ‘Follow me, and I’ll show you.’
    Dawn was breaking as Black Tip and Whiskers founda safe spot on the thickly wooded side of the valley from which they could look down on the pheasant farm. There were hundreds of buff-coloured hen pheasants, and a few brightly-coloured cocks. Black Tip couldn’t help noticing how fat and well fed they looked, compared with the ones he hunted in the hedgerows.
    The farm was a narrow strip of land sandwiched between the side of the valley and the river. It was fenced in and partly covered over with chicken wire, and the bottom of the fence was edged all around with sheets of shiny tin to keep foxes and other predators from gnawing their way in. At one end were the gamekeeper’s house and a shed where he took the eggs for hatching. The other end narrowed to the small pond where Whiskers — and later the mink — had got in. The pond was probably meant for ducks, thought Black Tip, although there were none there now. A shallow stream trickled down through a deep gully in the side of the valley into the pond, and a small dam held the water back from the river. Most of the pheasants were in covered pens just inside the fence. A few more were in open pens in the centre, and Black Tip wondered why these didn’t fly away.
    ‘Sometimes they do,’ Whiskers told him. ‘But they always come back in for the food.’
    ‘And what are those things for?’ Black Tip was referring to four wooden poles that rose high above the pens at intervals outside the fence.
    Whiskers explained that when raids started on the young pheasants, things on these poles lit up the whole area. ‘It becomes so bright,’ he said, ‘it’s not safe to hunt.’
    ‘Are there any shooters in the farm?’
    ‘Not that I’ve seen.’
    ‘How many fun dogs are there?’
    ‘One for each leg of your body.’
    Black Tip didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Don’t they touch the pheasants?’
    Whiskers shook his head. ‘They don’t seem to be interested in them. I often see them running around when the men are putting out food and water for the pheasants, and they don’t chase them or bother with them.’
    ‘What a strange way for fun dogs to act,’ mused Black Tip.
    ‘Don’t let that fool you,’ warned Whiskers. ‘They hunt everything else — rabbits, foxes, even me when they get the chance.’
    As Black Tip looked down on the pheasant farm, he just couldn’t imagine how they were going to teach the mink a lesson. Maybe, he thought, Fang and Skulking Dog were right, and the only answer was to attack the mink and frighten it away. Yet, when they suggested simply going in and attacking something, Old Sage Brush always said there was another way. Indeed, with the old fox and Hop-along back up there in the undergrowth, they would have to think of another way. They couldn’t risk a noisy fight that wouldfrighten the pheasants and bring out the fun dogs. The dogs would soon pick up their scent, and there would be no question of survival, at least, not for some of them. No, there had to be some other way.
    ‘You said you had a plan,’ said Black Tip.
    Whiskers nodded. ‘The fun dogs can’t find out where the mink is getting in and out because it goes under the water.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘So I’m going to let the water out.’
    ‘How?’ asked Black Tip.
    ‘I’m digging a hole through the dam from the river. I’ve been at it some time and I’m nearly finished. The thing is, I need your help.’
    ‘How can I help you?’
    Whiskers thought for a moment. ‘If I let the water out of the pond after the mink goes into the farm, and if you then raise the alarm while it’s still in there, the