The Call of the Wild

Outside the cities in East Texas, there are roughly two kinds of people--men who love the sound of a bugle hound and plenty of foxes to chase,* and the farmer-rancher kind, who would rather see all foxes dead. Feeling ran hot in Henderson County when some foxes got rabies, bit cattle, dogs, children; one jumped on a man's neck. A dozen rabid cows were reported, and many more had died under suspicious circumstances; 47 people had had to take anti-rabies shots. Anti-fox petitions poured in on County Judge James ("Turkey") Spencer.

Turkey Spencer yielded to no man as an enemy of the fox. As a state representative, Turkey had beaten the hound-dog lobby, got a bill passed to make fox killing legal for the first time in 20 years. But Turkey was up for re-election ("Let's have Turkey in November"). He had nothing against the hound-dog boys personally, but the farmers had the votes. Turkey had read about a man in Brownwood named Adam L. Lindsey, who could call foxes with a cow horn. He sent for him.

Lindsey's gadget was a thin metal shim vibrating against a metal plate set in a cow horn. It made a noise like a baby strangling and, Lindsey boasted, it would call any flesh-eating varmint-hawks, owls, coons, wolves or foxes. "They think it's a hurt rabbit," he said.

In the county courtroom, Lindsey and three helpers exhorted farmers, ranchers and courthouse loafers. "You think it's silly tryin' to call up the varmint that has the reputation through the ages of bein' the slyest. We four have been the direct cause of about 600 bitin' the dust." He explained carefully how two men with miners' cap lights were to stand back-to-back waiting to spot the fox's red eyes. Behind the jury box, some hound-dog men snickered.

Lindsey lent out 37 horns, sold eight more at $3 each. Then 60 hunters sallied forth one night last week. For eight hours they stumbled through scrub-oak thickets, squawking dismally. Turkey went along in his campaign suit (double-breasted gabardine) and tan oxfords, stepped gingerly around rain puddles.

By midnight, the hunters had bagged two house cats, one hoot owl, a large bullfrog and a parked 1949 Buick sedan (someone saw the tail lights through the brush, thought they were a fox's eyes), but nary a fox. Said a hunter sadly: "Hound-dog men will really have the laugh tomorrow." Lindsey was undaunted. It just showed that the rabies had cut the fox population to nothing. "They've extincted themselves," said he.

*But usually not to kill--at least not with firearms. Most have "running dogs" which chase happily, catch seldom. Some train "tree dogs" who will corner and tree a fox for killing.

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