Рита Браун - Out Of Hounds

If you don’t trust your hounds, don’t hunt them. Sister had that drilled into her by the late Peter Wheeler, a dear old friend, and a hunter of decades. Peter had hunted with the great Dicky Bywaters, as well as the Poe brothers, Fred Duncan, the greats of Virginia. He also had the pleasure of hunting behind the young Tommy Lee Jones, now in his fiftieth year hunting Casanova’s hounds. Peter would knit his eyebrows together, fuss at Sister, “I’ll make a foxhunter out of you yet.”

She loved him. Who didn’t?

She trusted her hounds and she trusted Weevil, young though he was. Weevil possessed a sure light touch with the intelligent, loving animals. He loved the hounds and this was returned. Weevil was the one with the higher view, the good eyes. He had to borrow four legs. Hounds knew on two he was unfortunately slow and they knew his nose wasn’t worth a damn. Well, their noses were superb. So they made a good team. They wanted the same thing: to chase foxes.

Dragon hit. “Red.”

Fifteen couples, out today, put their noses down at the spot, roared, shooting into the woods.

Sister found a decent trail. The last time the club had been here was cubbing on a luscious October day, but the winds since then had knocked down trees, some big ones, so it was an obstacle course.

Betty, on the right, memorized territory after one visit. If she’d been dropped onto a fixture of Deep Run’s outside of Richmond that she’d hunted as a guest in the 1980s, Betty would know exactly where she was. Uncanny.

Kasmir pushed into a narrow deer trail. Riding Nighthawk, a horse he had bought years ago from the late Faye Spencer, he stopped, listened. The music ricocheted off the trees. Alida, behind him, noticed a flash out of the corner of her eye.

“Tally-ho,” she softly alerted Kasmir.

Kasmir turned to see the direction in which she was holding her cap. What he saw was the butt of a coyote, a big one.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, “Tally-ho!”

Weevil heard him but did not interfere with his hounds running in the opposite direction. Sure enough, they paused fifty yards into the woods, furiously working, they turned left, south, to head in the direction where Kasmir and Alida stood fast.

Within a few minutes, battling low branches, Weevil appeared, hounds streaming before him. Alida had her cap outstretched.

“Coyote,” Kasmir called out and Weevil nodded back.

Then the two newly recruited whippers-in moved farther to the left, charging forward as best they could.

Clever as a fox is, a coyote is not stupid. This fellow vaulted over tree trunks then dipped over an odd embankment that once was part of a man-made irrigation canal, dug during the Depression by the CCC. While it wasn’t steep, horses would need to jump the canal, which was two feet deep, perhaps as wide.

Sister on Lafayette soared. Never look down. She did not.

This, however, did not apply to Dr. Walter Lungren, her joint master, out today on his day off from the hospital. He didn’t throw his wonderful partner, Clemson, off but he threw himself off.

Father Mancusco, behind him, hollered, “Lay flat!”

In this manner, Walter could observe the bellies of the horses in the field. Once they had passed he scrambled out, mud on his right side, mud on his cap, which had flown off.

“Thank you.”

Freddie Thomas, a good rider, stayed back, caught Clemson, who was in no hurry. Holding the sweet mare, she waited while Walter found a tree trunk, lots to chose from, stood on it, easily mounting.

“You tight in the tack?”

“Yes.” Walter smiled at the attractive Freddie.

“We’ve got a lot of ground to make up.”

They tore off just as the coyote broke cover at the edge of the woods, abutting property filled with old cars, rusted bedstands, plastic barrels.

Skirting this mess, the coyote came out behind it, turning back onto the Chafee’s Welsh Harp. Again he used the woods, but this time followed a wide stream. Hounds sang in tune.

Fast though they were despite the difficult terrain, he knew he was faster. Making a tight circle he then headed back toward the small unused barn behind the house, burst past that, now flying due east, straight as a stick.

Hounds came out onto the pasture just as he disappeared at the other end of it. Staff and the field saw the entire pack running together, a sight which foxhunters love. A few of the older hounds now ran tail but they weren’t out of the pack, simply at the rear. Again they plunged into heavy cover then stopped.

“Dammit!” Dreamboat cursed.

Tinsel, a young fellow, tried not to go to the deer carcass, but what was left of it still emanated that heavenly smell to a hound.

“Leave it!” Betty rode over.

“Okay.” Tinsel dropped his head.

Weevil pulled them away from the enticement. “Did you see him?”

Weevil’s eyes followed her as she held out her crop in the direction of the coyote. Betty, long a whipper-in, knew no good would come from this. Coyotes take you right out of your territory a lot. They charged on to Showoff Stables.

The pack also ran behind the luxurious stable, then lost the line by the tractor shed complete with gas pumps. That powerful gas smell covers many an odor. They circled, noses down, trying so diligently as Parker Bell, red-faced, charged out from the end of the stable.

“What in the goddamned hell do you think you’re doing?” he screamed at Weevil. “Get these damned dogs out of here before I shoot them.”

Weevil put his horn to his lips, blew three equal blasts, then sang out, “Come along.”

As he did so, Kasmir and Betty moved, now between the paddocks, to help him.

Seeing them, Parker bellowed, “Get out. Get out. You’ve got the horses farted up. If there’s one scratch on any of these horses, you all are paying for it! Mr. Sabatini sues people for sport.”

Alida rode back to Sister. “Kasmir said to stay away. So I’m coming to you.”

“He’s right. The last thing that idiot needs is an audience. Forgive the crude language.”

Hounds, loathe to surrender their search, did return to the horn one by one. Trinity, a sweet little fellow, veered too close to Parker, who kicked him. That fast Weevil dismounted, knelt down to pick up the hound, and Parker kicked him. Weevil rolled over.

Kasmir vaulted off Nighthawk. Middle-aged, a touch of a paunch, he hauled off and hit Parker smack in the face.

“You goddamned Arab!” Parker punched back.

“Goddamned Muslim,” Kasmir responded as Parker insulted him, then punched the worker in the gut.

While Kasmir may have been past his prime, he had boxed at Oxford. He was actually enjoying this so he crashed his right fist into Parker’s jaw when the large man doubled over.

Weevil, holding Trinity, frightened but unharmed, handed the sweet fellow up to Betty, who draped him over her saddle.

“It’s all right, sweetie. I’ll put you down in a minute,” she reassured the trembling animal.

A distant siren preceded the cursing. Alida had called the Sheriff’s department just in case. Ben Sidell drove down the main entrance, lights flashing, which of course caused more equine consternation. He cut the motor, got out, beheld Parker struggling to his feet, Kasmir standing over him.

“Sheriff,” Kasmir simply said.

“Trespassers! Trespassers!” Parker unsteadily stood up. “Goddamned hounds ran through here. These assholes ran through here. I want them charged with trespassing.”

The sheriff, calm as always, handed him an envelope, which he’d pulled from his pocket. “The Goodloe law. These people have the right to come onto this property to retrieve hounds. It’s the law in Virginia.”