Ben Dover's Arc

Chapter 139 of 150

Ben stood in the alder stand with the scout behind him and the trail ahead. He cracked the box a finger's width. The fox hummed, and the pull ran north across a bare stretch of grass. No trees. No cover. Just open ground under a gray sky. The sold piece lay somewhere on the far side, close now. But anyone on the ridge would see him the moment he stepped out. He crouched and studied the field. A hunter's camp sat at the far edge, three men around a low fire. One held a spotter's glass. Ben could not cross in daylight without being seen. He could not wait for dark. The fox's pull grew sharper by the hour, and so did the risk that someone else would reach the piece first. A lean gray shape slipped from the grass beside him. It moved low, quick, built for speed, its long tail flat behind it. A wild runner, the kind that lived in the open scrub. It froze when it saw the box, ears turning toward the hum. Then a second creature crept up. This one crouched close to the earth, its scaled hide the color of stone, hard to see even at arm's length. It seemed to melt into the ground. Ben watched the two. The swift one wanted to run. The hidden one wanted to vanish. An idea took shape. He opened the box wider. The fox hummed loud now, and both creatures leaned toward the sound, drawn to it. He pointed the swift runner east, away from the piece, and let the hum spill toward it. The creature bolted across the open grass. At the fire, the man with the glass stood and shouted. All three hunters turned to watch the streak of gray tear across the field. They grabbed crossbows and ran after it. Ben shut the box halfway and moved. He kept low behind the hidden creature, matching its crawl. It hugged every dip in the ground, and Ben followed its path. The grass hid them both. The hunters' backs stayed turned, their eyes on the swift runner shrinking into the distance. Ben reached the far edge and dropped behind a low bank. He opened the box full. The fox's hum surged, and the pull dragged him three steps to a heap of stone. There, wedged under a flat slab, sat a carved wooden box with a sad face on the lid. The sold piece. He pried it loose. His hands shook. Behind him a horn blew twice. The hunters had lost the swift runner and turned back. Ben clutched the recovered box and the fox and ran into the trees. He had the piece. He also had three armed men who now knew he was somewhere on their side of the field, and no crossing left behind him.