The three methods of hunting that the trappers use are ineffective against the thick-skinned renxiong (man-bear). We encountered a renxiong back at Lama Gully, and it nearly cost us our lives, so when Yanzi mentioned the threat of the renxiong just now, a cold dread gripped my heart. But I quickly countered, "Are we going to stop farming just because we hear the clamor of cicadas? The renxiong isn't invulnerable, and besides, they hide in their dens at night. We’ll sneak up to Tuan Shan Zi under the cover of darkness, snatch a few weasels, and be back. What is this small risk compared to that? Don't forget, our crew is unbeatable."

Fatty stamped his feet anxiously nearby, urging us to leave. Revolution waits for no one, it demands immediate action. After I persuaded her, Yanzi finally agreed. The truth was, she really wanted to set traps for the weasels, but the old village head's word still carried significant weight in the hamlet, so someone needed to help her overcome this psychological barrier.

The air outside the logging cabin was frigid; the snow had stopped falling, and the large moon shone with an unsettling whiteness. However, the corona around the moon suggested a heavy snowfall was imminent. The wind howled through the mountain pass, sounding in the distance like mountain spirits weeping mournfully. I had already decided to set traps for weasels or foxes when I left the village for the logging station; I had brought all the necessary gear. The three of us moved toward the river by the logging area under the moonlight.

The river surface was already frozen over, covered in a layer of accumulated snow. Standing on the bank, a dozen meters from the channel, you could hear the gentle gurgle of the river flowing beneath the ice. Since this was the "Winter Famine Drive," well into autumn, a sudden cold snap had hit, meaning the river ice was quite thin. Stepping directly onto the ice was a guaranteed way to fall into a sinkhole. The safest method was to tread across the logs frozen in the river.

The moonlight reflected off the thin snow, casting a silvery sheen everywhere. Long logs jutted out across the river—timbers that hadn't made it downstream and were temporarily locked in the ice. By walking on these logs, even if the ice cracked, the buoyancy of the wood would prevent anyone from sinking into the river.

From the bank, the river didn't look especially wide, but when we actually started crossing, we realized it was far from narrow. The three of us spread out, stepping carefully from one log to the next. Because it was cold, our clothing was heavy, making our steps sluggish. The crushed ice crunched noisily beneath our feet. Despite the inherent danger, for some inexplicable reason, I felt no fear at all; on the contrary, I felt a surge of excitement. That primal urge for adventure was overwhelming; this whole endeavor felt incredibly thrilling.

Crossing the river led us to Tuan Shan Zi, a forbidden area in the eyes of local hunters. The forest on this mountain was too dense; even Yanzi wasn't sure she could navigate her way out once inside. Though we were audacious, we dared not rush blindly forward. Fortunately, the "Weasel Grave" was situated at the foot of Tuan Shan Zi, not far from the riverbank. It was a large, raised earthen mound where nothing grew. The mound was riddled with countless holes, large and small, where the weasels took shelter. Perhaps because the mound resembled a burial barrow and weasels frequently appeared there, it was named the "Weasel Grave."

We didn't walk directly up to the "Weasel Grave." Instead, we found a sheltered grove of Korean pines nearby. Being downwind here, the weasels and other wild beasts from the mountain wouldn't catch our scent. This looked like the perfect natural "ambush spot." I called Fatty and Yanzi over, and the three of us crouched behind the trees to strategize our approach.

When leaving the village, Fatty had managed to sneak out two flasks of tushao—moonshine distilled from our own stills. He had warmed them up earlier in the logging cabin and kept them tucked inside his coat during the river crossing; they were still slightly warm when he took them out now. I watched him take a swig and demanded a taste. This liquor was shockingly harsh, sickeningly unpleasant, probably made from dried corn cobs and sorghum stalks.

Fatty grumbled, "Stop being so picky; just take a couple of swigs to warm up before we get to work. Having any tushao at all is a blessing. We only have a few meager acres of poor land in this valley; we can't spare much grain for brewing. But I still have a whole bottle of good liquor I brought from home. Once we catch some weasels, I’ll cook up a proper meal, and we’ll have a couple of cups to ease the fatigue." Then Fatty asked me how I planned to trap the weasels.

I chuckled and pulled an egg from my satchel, explaining sheepishly to Yanzi, "I’m sorry, Yanzi. I saw your speckled hen laid two eggs today, and I took one on the fly. Time was short and the mission urgent, so I didn't have time to report it. But then I realized that for foxes and weasels, an egg is too much of a luxury. So, I also plucked a handful of feathers from your speckled hen..."

Yanzi angrily smacked my shoulder, "It would have been fine if you’d just stolen an egg, but why did you pluck my speckled hen’s feathers too!" Fatty quickly intervened, "We must use words, not fists. When we get back, I’ll make this scoundrel write a self-criticism, digging deep into the flawed motivations in his thought process. But for now, let him confess exactly how he plans to use chicken feathers to trap weasels."

I explained that trapping weasels was actually quite simple; the scent of chicken feathers was enough to drive those greedy creatures to distraction. Yanzi's father was an expert fox trapper, and the old hunters all possessed the inherited secret of making the "pihúntun" (Skin Pouch). This craft is now lost. The "pihúntun" was exactly what its name implied: a specially made leather pouch. Legend claims that secret medicines were mixed into the leather during its preparation, masking any scent that even the keenest-nosed foxes could detect. This pouch had a hexagonal opening that allowed entry but prevented exit. The outer mouth was round and elastic, allowing both foxes and weasels to squeeze in. As they burrowed deeper, this opening would tighten like a snap fastening, expanding as they entered. But the inner opening of the pouch was hexagonal, perfectly designed to catch a weasel's bone joints. While these animals can compress their bodies, they cannot squeeze through a hexagonal hole. Once inside, it’s hard to get out; if they try to escape, the pouch opening tightens and grips them until they die. The genius of the "pihúntun" was its ability to preserve the pelt completely intact. For instance, the value of a fox pelt depends on its tail, but if a snare or trap damaged the tail, the entire pelt would be worthless.

In the whole village now, only Yanzi’s family possessed a "pihúntun." Her ancestors were a line of hunters, and this pouch had been passed down through countless generations. Countless weasels and foxes had died inside it. Because this device was so ruthless and efficient—catching anything that entered—hunters traditionally abhorred catching pregnant animals or mothers with young, considering it highly unlucky. Thus, Yanzi’s father rarely used it. But I had long wanted to test the effectiveness of this legendary "pihúntun," and I had secretly brought it along this time.

We smeared some egg white onto the chicken feathers to use as bait inside the leather pouch. The remaining egg yolk was poured into an empty water flask; I was too stingy to feed it to the weasels, but I didn't want to waste it either, planning to use it for scrambled eggs later. Finally, we camouflaged the setup with dead leaves and dry twigs, sprinkled some snow on top, and then used a branch to sweep away our footprints and residual scent. The trap was complete. All that remained was to observe from a distance and see which unlucky weasel fell for it.

After camouflaging the "pihúntun," we returned to wait behind the pines. But the snowy landscape of the forest remained utterly silent. The moon climbed to its zenith, and I was almost losing patience. Just then, movement finally stirred on the snow-covered hill. Fatty, Yanzi, and I instantly tensed up. I peered closely and was instantly stunned. My God, this was a fully matured Huang Daxian'gu (Great Immortal Fox Spirit) emerging from the Weasel Grave.