The Bright Moon shone on the remaining snow, and the north wind was strong yet waning. We were hiding behind a red pine, and although we built a snow wall to block the wind, we were still downwind. After a long time, we were truly freezing and struggling to hold on. Just then, there was finally some movement. I quickly pressed my hand down and whispered to Fatty and Yanzi, "Shh... the Yuan Weasel has arrived."
Although we usually referred to weasels as "Yellow Weasels," there was a rule in the mountains: once a Yellow Weasel was spotted, one could no longer casually mention the character "Yellow." This was because the Greater Khingan Range has historically produced a lot of gold, and mountain folk often said, "Three thousand *li* of great mountains, edged with gold." This referred to the fact that where there are mountains, there are gullies, and where there are gullies, there is gold. However, that was the saying before Liberation. According to traditional beliefs, the Yellow Weasel and gold were incompatible—both belonged to the 'Old Yellow Family'—so when setting a trap for a weasel or searching for a gold vein, one absolutely could not use the character "Yellow"; the character "Yuan" had to be substituted, otherwise, the attempt would surely fail.
Spotting movement near the Yellow Weasel Grave, the three of us immediately became alert, especially Fatty and I. Since the Up to the Mountains and Down to the Countryside movement, the leftover zeal from our time as Red Guards had nowhere to be vented, and we felt like banging our heads against walls. At this moment, we subconsciously treated the affair of trapping a weasel as a formal combat operation, dedicating ourselves entirely to it with utmost seriousness.
I concentrated my spirit and observed the movement on the snow hill through the camouflage. I saw a long neck topped with a small head poking out from behind the snow hill. Its two large eyes gleamed intelligently as it cautiously looked left and right. After a long pause, it fully exposed its body. Seeing this, Yanzi softly gasped, "It's a female! Her fur is magnificent!"
I couldn't help but exclaim inwardly as well. I had seen many weasels caught in the Village before, some dead and some alive. The live ones always looked shifty, and the dead ones were even less comparable to the word "beautiful." But the forest spirit appearing before us now was sleek and glossy, its eyes bright, possessing an extraordinary bearing and demeanor. Standing on the snow hill, it resembled a graceful Noblewoman. For some reason, my first impression upon seeing it was that it was a person, not a beast. I thought this must be the "Yellow Immortal Maiden" that the mountain folk often spoke of, which frequently proved true. Catching a few little Yellow Weasels is boring; this was perfect timing. If we were going to catch one, it should be this exceptional female weasel.
This "Immortal Maiden" might have slipped out of a nearby Tree hollow to forage. Since our ambush spot was quite far, although she was extremely vigilant, she clearly hadn't detected our presence. She began circling the "Fur Wontons" we had set as a trap. She walked slowly and deliberately, not in a hurry, seemingly not hungry, and not paying much attention to the scent of chicken feathers mixed with egg white emanating from the Leather Pouch. She was merely curious about the strangely shaped pouch but also held a degree of Fear, not daring to approach for a closer look.
Fatty grew impatient: "Why isn't this sly weasel taking the bait?" He tried to ask Yanzi for the Hunting Rifle to shoot it. I stopped his movement. Firing a gun would turn this into mere hunting; the pelt wouldn't be worth as much, and more importantly, it would negate the greatest pleasure of trapping a weasel—the battle of wits. The fun of this affair lies in matching wits with the weasel to see if our disguised "Fur Wontons" can trick it into the trap. After lying in the ice and snow for so long, we waited for this moment; we had to remain patient.
I estimated that the "Immortal Maiden" couldn't possibly not be hungry; she must be engaged in an intense internal struggle. Perhaps her weasel Ancestors had passed down a warning: there exists a type of "Fur Wonton" that one enters but never exits, and any weasel that crawls inside is certainly skinned alive by hunters. But she couldn't be certain that the leather sac before her was the legendary "Fur Wonton" that had cost countless weasels their Lives. No matter how she looked at it, the Leather Pouch seemed ordinary, unlike common Traps or snares. Turning it over and over, it didn't appear dangerous. Moreover, a mysterious scent wafted from the Leather Pouch, constantly stirring her heartstrings and stimulating the accelerated surge of her stomach acid...
While scouting, I tried to fathom the "Immortal Maiden's" psychological state, aiming to maximize the enjoyment of trapping the weasel. People say: beggars rise early—a busy effort for nothing. Fatty and I have been in the mountain gullies for so long that we might end up rooted here for the rest of our Lives doing revolutionary work. But besides this busy work, it was extremely necessary to find some form of entertainment. Usually, the Old Branch Secretary kept a tight watch in the Village, leaving us no opportunity to play in the mountains. Day in and day out, it was nothing but work and study—endless quotations and directives to memorize, endless self-criticism essays to write. Beyond that, the biggest concern was calculating how many Work Points we earned that day and how many were deducted for laziness. Fatty and I are both restless souls who cannot stand boredom. This rare chance to enter the mountains to trap a weasel, especially encountering such an "Immortal Maiden," was precious. Only after the Lesser Snow solar term do animal pelts become valuable in the mountains, but even now, the pelt on this Immortal Maiden would surely fetch ten catties of Fruit Candy. We secretly rejoiced, growing more and more excited.
I felt a faint worry, afraid that I might get carried away by excitement and inadvertently scare the "Immortal Maiden" away. Alas, what I feared happened. After squatting for half the night, Fatty built up a belly full of cold air. Seeing the "Immortal Maiden," he got excited and couldn't hold it in, letting out a long, echoing fart that wound its way around. Yanzi and I heard his fart, and our hearts immediately turned cold—the fat meat about to enter our mouths was escaping.
As the saying goes: "A loud fart doesn't stink." But even if it doesn't stink, it's still a fart, and that slight noise was enough to startle the "Immortal Maiden" on the snow hill. At that moment, the weasel had wandered directly below the opening of the Leather Pouch, precisely between our ambush spot and the "Fur Wonton" trap. It was just about to crawl in, in the moment between deciding and entering, when it was startled by Fatty's fart, causing all its fur to stand on end. It leaped high into the air, arched its back, and prepared to flee toward the dense forest like an arrow loosed from a bowstring.
Mountain weasels are the craftiest; once they enter the woods, they can utilize every natural feature, capable of burrowing and climbing, and they run incredibly fast, moving with the speed of lightning. Even a hunting dog cannot catch one. But before it could bolt, a gunshot rang out—the roar of gunpowder and iron shot. It turned out Yanzi, next to me, had also been watching the "Immortal Maiden" with complete focus. Seeing it about to flee, she ignored the distance and whether she could hit the target, raising her Hunting Rifle and firing a shot.
The shot naturally missed due to the distance, but the sound of the gunshot in the quiet night was immense, shaking down accumulated snow from the pine branches. Moreover, this shot produced an unexpected, specific effect. The "Immortal Maiden" was already a frightened bird; her instinctive reaction upon hearing any noise was to flee for her Life. But before she could even start running, she heard another shot behind her. Wild animals and birds in the mountains have an innate Fear of Hunting Rifles, knowing that sound means death. In her panic, she fled without regard for direction, and habitually trying to escape by diving into a Tree hollow, in her flustered state, she actually dove straight into the opening of the "Fur Wonton" right in front of her.