The moon illuminated the melting snow, and the north wind, though fierce, was waning. We lay prone behind the Korean pines. Though we had built a snow wall as a windbreak, we were downwind, and after a time, the biting cold made us tremble uncontrollably. Just as endurance was wearing thin, there was finally movement. I quickly pressed my hand down, signaling in a low voice to Fatty and Yanzi, "Hush... the Yuan Pizi is here."

Although we usually referred to the weasels as "Huang Pizi," there was an unwritten rule in the mountains: once a Huang Pizi was spotted, one must never casually utter the character for "Huang" (yellow). This was because the Greater Khingan Range had historically been rich in gold mines. The locals often said, "Three thousand li of mountains, rimmed with gold," referring to this fact—where there were mountains, there were gullies, and where there were gullies, there was gold. However, these were tales from before liberation. According to traditional belief, the Huang Pizi and gold were in opposition, both belonging to the "old yellow family." Therefore, when setting traps for them or searching for gold veins, the character "Huang" was strictly forbidden; the character "Yuan" (origin/primary) had to be used instead, or the venture would surely fail.

Catching sight of movement near the "Huang Pizi Grave," the three of us instantly came alive, especially Fatty and I. Since being sent down to the countryside, the leftover zeal from our days as Red Guards had nowhere to vent; we felt like bashing our heads against walls. At this moment, setting the trap for the Huang Pizi subconsciously felt like executing a formal military maneuver, and we were completely immersed, taking it with utmost seriousness.

I concentrated, holding my breath, peering through the camouflage at the activity on the snowdrift. A long neck topped by a small head poked out from behind the mound. Two large eyes gleamed intelligently, nervously scanning left and right. After a long moment, the creature fully exposed itself. Seeing this, Yanzi quietly gasped, "It’s a female! What magnificent fur!"

A gasp also escaped my own throat. I had seen many captured weasels back in the village—some dead, some alive. The living ones all looked shifty and sly; the dead ones were even less appealing, bearing no resemblance to anything "beautiful." But the forest spirit before us now was sleek, its coat lustrous, its eyes bright, possessing an extraordinary bearing and demeanor. Standing on the snowdrift, it resembled a graceful, refined noblewoman. For some reason, my first impression was that it was a person, not a beast. I thought this must be the legendary "Great Immortal Aunt Huang" that the mountain folk often spoke of with such certainty. Catching a few common weasels was pointless; this was a perfect opportunity. If we were to catch one, it had to be this exceptional female.

This "Yellow Immortal Aunt," perhaps emerging from a nearby tree hollow to forage, had not detected our presence, despite her vigilance, because our hiding spot was quite distant. She began to circle the "Skin Wonton"—the decoy we had set—slowly, deliberately, and unhurriedly, seemingly not hungry. She paid little attention to the scent of chicken feathers mixed with egg white emanating from the leather pouch, focusing instead on the strangely shaped sack with a mix of curiosity and apprehension, daring not approach to investigate closely.

Fatty grew restless. "Why isn't this slutty weasel going for the trap?" He reached for Yanzi's shotgun, intending to shoot it. I held his movement down. Shooting it would turn this into mere hunting; the pelt would lose value. More importantly, it would obliterate the greatest joy of catching a Huang Pizi: the battle of wits. The entire fun lay in seeing if our disguised "Skin Wonton" could trick it. We had waited long enough, lying frozen in the snow, and now was the moment to hold steady.

I figured the "Immortal Aunt" couldn't be starving; she must be engaged in an intense internal debate. Perhaps a message from her weasel ancestors warned of a certain kind of "Skin Wonton" that offered entry but no exit, a trap that guaranteed the weasel would be skinned alive by hunters. Yet, she couldn't be sure if this particular leather pouch was the legendary trap that had claimed so many of her kind. By all appearances, the pouch seemed unremarkable, unlike the common snares or clamps. Turning it over and examining it, she saw no inherent danger. Still, the mysterious scents wafting from it continuously plucked at her instincts, accelerating the flow of her digestive fluids…

As I observed, I tried to map out the "Immortal Aunt’s" psychological state, determined to maximize the pleasure of the pursuit. People say, "Beggars rise early—busy for nothing." Fatty and I had been in the mountain gullies long enough that we might well take root here and dedicate our lives to the revolution. But aside from such necessary toil, finding some form of entertainment was crucial. In the village, the old Party Secretary kept a tight watch, leaving no opportunity for mountain recreation. 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 tallying the work points earned each day and how many were deducted for laziness. Fatty and I were inherently restless souls, unable to bear the monotony. This rare chance to trap a Huang Pizi in the mountains, especially encountering such an "Immortal Aunt," was precious. Only after the Xiaoxue (Lesser Snow) solar term did animal pelts become valuable, but even now, this creature's hide looked capable of fetching ten catties of fruit candy. We were secretly thrilled, growing more excited by the moment.

I felt a faint worry, fearing my excitement might make me careless and scare the "Immortal Aunt" away. And just as feared, what I dreaded happened: Fatty, having squatted for half a night and filled up on cold air, let loose in his excitement—a loud, echoing fart that spiraled and reverberated. Yanzi and I heard it and instantly felt our hopes plummet; the fat catch was about to slip away.

It is often said, "Loud farts don't stink," but a stink was irrelevant—it was still a noise. That slight disturbance was enough to startle the "Immortal Aunt" on the snowdrift. She happened to be right below the opening of the pouch, precisely between our hiding spot and the "Skin Wonton" trap. She was poised to enter, about to slide in, when the sound of Fatty’s flatulence jolted her, causing every hair on her body to stand on end. She sprang high into the air, arched her back, and prepared to bolt like an arrow into the dense woods.

Weasels in these mountains are exceptionally cunning. Once they enter the forest, they utilize every natural feature—burrowing, climbing, moving with impossible speed and serpentine agility, as swift as lightning. Even hounds cannot catch them. But before she could flee, a gunshot ripped through the air, the roar of powder and iron shot. It turned out Yanzi, next to me, had also been focused intently on the "Immortal Aunt." Seeing her prepare to flee, he fired without calculating the distance or the likelihood of a hit.

The shot, being at a distance, naturally missed. However, the sound in the quiet night was enormous, shaking down snow from the pine branches. Furthermore, this single shot produced an unexpected, specific effect. The "Immortal Aunt" was already terrified—a startled bird—and her instinctive reaction upon hearing the noise was to flee for her life. But before she could even move her legs, she heard a second shot erupt behind her. Wild animals and birds in the mountains possess an innate terror of firearms, recognizing the sound as a potential death sentence. In her panic, compounded by her habit of diving into tree hollows when escaping, her confused flight led her directly into the mouth of the "Skin Wonton" before her.