Рита Браун - Out Of Hounds

“We need to stick with the fox. It’s Grenville. He’s easy to track but once he decides to run, he’ll do crazy things,” Dreamboat counseled.

Grenville crossed back and forth over the stream, easily done, then he headed up through the woods to the Shootrough part of Mill Ruins. Broomstraw, golden and tough, covered the old abandoned pasture at the top. A rutted farm road ran alongside this, finally emerging onto a two-lane state road rarely traveled back here. A few round hay bales covered in plastic sat in two rows on the good pastures. Walter had rehabilitated the pastures on the sunny side of this part of the property, cutting good hay. The rest stayed broomstraw, which gave skunks, groundhogs, rabbits, foxes, and turkeys cover. Turkeys had been there early in the morning, for the soil was scratched to bits especially under the odd large sycamores, hickories, and black gum trees dotting the various pastures.

Walking out of the broomstraw, Grenville heard the hounds behind him. Picking up the pace he ran in the middle of the rutted road. He could hear Yvonne motoring toward him but from a ninety-degree angle. The nose of her expensive SUV would pop out of the farm crossroads in a few minutes. He decided to go in the other direction, straight for the row of hay bales.

Weaving through the hay bales he rubbed against them. Scent would be heavy. Then he climbed to the top, surveyed the countryside, leapt down, ran to a car so old it was abandoned in 1954. He walked through the insides, what was left of them, then he shot out, making straight for his den in the big storage building back there. Having time to dig entrances and exits, he was never far from a quick duck down thence upward inside, to enjoy whatever Walter had parked in this faraway building.

Hounds worked their way across the stream, back and forth, then threaded their way through the woods, emerging into the broomstraw. Working steadily they kept moving, crossed the rutted farm road just as Yvonne drove out from the crossing farm road. She stopped the car, cut the motor.

Hounds didn’t bother to look, they were so intent.

“It’s a clear track but fades in and out,” Trooper remarked.

“Wind. Not strong but tricky. It’s not staying still.” Taz inhaled deeply.

“Shifting. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get some wind devils. You never know back here. The lay of the land, with all those swales just over the ridge there, works to his advantage,” Pookah sagely added.

Once at the hay bales they spoke louder, for scent was stronger.

Pickens jumped up on the hay bales, walking along the top rows. “Been here.” Then he jumped off, moved faster, all with him, and they streamed to the large storage shed.

“He does this all the time. I hate it. Can’t get him out.” Thimble ran for the large building, found the entrance he used, began digging furiously, a plume of dirt erupting behind him.

“You’ll never get me,” Grenville tormented him.

“That’s what you think,” Thimble threatened.

Weevil rode up. “Good hound. Leave it, Thimble.”

Thimble looked up, disgusted, but he stopped digging.

“Come along.” Weevil knew Grenville had his fun.

Pickens followed his huntsman, as did the others.

The tails on the back of Weevil’s cap, down, for staff wore their caps tails down, fluttered a bit. Weevil looked up, studying the sky. February played tricks. That being the case he thought all was well. The wind, not stiff, didn’t carry moisture, so with that belief he pushed down the farm road, away from the storage shed.

The creek meandered, little loops here and there, as it was an old, old creek. Young waters run straight. Following the creek, which now ran close to the farm road, he headed south.

A wooden footbridge arced over the water perhaps six feet wide at that point, wide enough for a horse or human, since many humans on foot would not have been able to jump six feet as a long jump. Truly it wasn’t that wide but the banks could be slippery and a child would not be able to span it with a leap.

Weevil on HoJo nudged the Thoroughbred across the creek. Hounds, forward, noses down, moved with deliberation. The thin water vapor hovering over the creek might intensify scent.

An old deer trail wound up, for the land rose a bit.

Yvonne couldn’t go farther, as the farm road became impossible, deep ruts for decades.

“Hounds are headed for Birdie Goodall’s,” Aunt Daniella informed her. “The only way there would be to go out Mill Ruins, turn right, turn right again at Clinton Corners, way in the back there, and go down maybe two miles. A little white sign will hang on an old post. ‘Goodall.’ ”

“God’s little acre?” Yvonne laughed, using the phrase from the play.

“No, Birdie keeps it pin-tidy but it’s not convenient. The old home place of the Goodalls still stands. Never was a Goodall had a gift for money but they work hard and Birdie manages Walter’s medical office, the one he shares with the other doctors. If you sit still I am betting our fox will come back. This way we can warm up.” She lifted a flask with the Jefferson Hunt insignia engraved on it, reached again in her bag, pulling out Jefferson cups.

“I like the way you think.” Kathleen took the cup handed to her.

Yvonne ran her window down a bit to hear. Even though opened only a crack the cold air slipped in, wafer thin. She, too, was offered a libation.

“Ah.” Aunt Daniella smiled, for hounds opened loud enough for them to listen.

The whole pack together ran down the rutted farm road, which widened just enough for them but not enough for riders to gallop more than two abreast.

Reaching a garage, slate gray with red trim, they stopped. The front door to the garage was open, the house within walking distance but not particularly convenient. Hence no car was parked safely in the garage. It sat instead next to the house, under one of those roofs propped up on four legs. Why people used these things was anyone’s guess. Snow and rain easily blew onto the vehicle from the open sides.

Sister held up far enough from the house so as not to be a nuisance. She figured maybe Birdie just didn’t want to walk to the bigger, wooden garage except when a terrible rain or snowstorm was predicted. Then the car would be protected, except one would need to dig it out. Then again, it didn’t matter where you parked a car in a snowstorm, you had to dig it out eventually.

Pansy circled the garage, followed by Dreamboat. Not a tendril of scent assailed their noses. The fox didn’t go to ground. He had vanished, just vanished.

Weevil rode to the edge of the garage, looking inside to see if by chance the fox had climbed onto a shelf. Not a thing.

Well, they’d had another run, short but still good music.

“Come along,” he bid his charges as they turned back to Shootrough.

Leaning over HoJo’s side, Weevil checked for tracks. Raccoon tracks dotted the creekside once he again reached it, but nothing else. Yvonne and her passengers sat on the road. Upon hearing Weevil’s call, then seeing him cross, Yvonne backed up to a spot where she could turn around to park by the side of the farm road.

Weevil passed the storage shed, reached the intersecting farm road, and turned for the big mill itself, two miles off. The day would try the patience of all the giving saints.

Betty and Tootie shadowed him as the field walked far enough behind the hounds, so as not to disturb them.

As the temperature dropped people flipped up the collars of their coats, which protected your neck a bit. If a hunter wore a four-in-hand tie, wider and often thicker than a thinner tie, that helped cut cold. Sister, long in the tooth and wise in the ways of keeping as warm as possible, except for her feet after an hour, wore a cashmere stock tie. Since it wasn’t fuzzy it looked like a conventional stock and blocked the wind.