Рита Браун - Out Of Hounds

Then again, people who liked predictability ought not to foxhunt. Sister changed the fixture to Tattenhall Station, for The Weather Channel forecast a few snow flurries changing to rain. No need to have everyone at the distant fixture she had chosen. In a perfect world hounds would be working Welsh Harp or even Wolverton, but given that Showoff Stables now separated the two, that took care of that.

Cars lined both sides of the Chapel Cross roads, east, west, north, south. As the Jefferson Hunt Club tacked up, people dressed in warm coats of all varieties, wearing scarves and gloves, held signs reading “No Hunting,” “Hunting Is Cruel,” “Hunting Is Elitist.” There were more but Sister needed to get hounds and horses out of there. Reading wasn’t a priority.

The chanting and waving signs unnerved some of the horses. Staff horses noted the noise, the pressing people, but stood still for their riders to mount up.

Sister, on Aztec, tried and true, knew he might avoid a sign but he wouldn’t bolt or spook.

“Weevil, let’s move off behind the station as soon as you can. Our people will find us. We need to get the hounds out of here. I don’t want any hound mistreated.”

“Yes, Master.”

Gray, also mounting up, put himself between Sister and the anti-hunting crowd, perhaps fifty deep, noisy, and with no regard whatsoever for the animals much less the people.

“Go on, honey. They won’t get past me.” Gray’s example led other riders, mostly the men, to form a barrier.

Thanks to the hounds’ attention to the staff, they managed to ride to the rear of the station. The protesters bedeviled slower riders then followed the last of the riders. Thankfully no one felt compelled to smash a complaining face with a crop. Everyone had the sense to know their behavior needed to be perfect.

As they rendezvoused behind the station, Sister cursed. “Goddamn their eyes.” She counted heads.

Kasmir, close to her, as were Alida, Freddie Thomas, and Bobby Franklin, watched as the protesters marched behind the train station.

Kasmir, pulling out his phone from his inside pocket, dialed Ben Sidell, on duty today. “Sheriff, my property is overrun by protesters. They’ve left the road and are now on Tattenhall Station property. I do hope you and your team can take care of this. I will press charges, of course. I will press charges to the fullest.” He cut off his phone, slipping it back into his pocket.

Weevil blew a few wake-up notes and trotted off. Those people carrying signs, in shoes not meant for the country, wouldn’t be able to follow far.

Three car followers edged away from the Station markers along the roads, Shaker Crown and Skiff Kane; Yvonne, Aunt Daniella, and Kathleen; and surprisingly, Gigi and Elise Sabatini with Ronnie Haslip, the club treasurer, in the car with them, who explained foxhunting. Ronnie, a fellow who looked ahead, realized the Sabatinis were the kind of people who needed attention. He hoped Sabatini wasn’t funding the Standish fellow running for office and he hoped the Sabatinis did not blame the hunt club for Parker Bell’s death. He practically roped them into following by car. If anyone could smooth potentially troubled waters, it was Ronnie. He was more than happy to do it and Sister loved him for it. She’d known him since childhood, where his perceptiveness was already obvious. Also, Ronnie was one of her late son’s best friends.

Seeing the behavior of the anti-hunting crowd underscored the calm of the hunters. The anti-hunters did themselves no favors.

Hounds reached Beveridge Hundred with only a few yips and yaps. The darkening clouds, the light wind carrying the hint of moisture promised a good day, good if you’d dressed for it.

Juno, a first-year entry, began to feather. Unsure of herself, she needed support, she didn’t open but her tail picked up speed. Dasher walked over, putting his nose down.

“I don’t know what this is.” The lovely young hound turned to Dasher.

“Bobcat.”

“Can we chase bobcat?” Juno did not want to make a mistake and the field was huge today, people would see.

“We can. Fox is preferable, so let’s open but should a foxtrail cross the bobcat we can switch over. The humans won’t know the difference.”

“Really? Not even the huntsman and the whippers-in?”

“No nose, sugar. No nose at all. They have to be right on top of something to smell it. Now staff may suspect but they won’t really know unless they see the quarry. In time you’ll become accustomed to what they lack but you’ll appreciate what they do have. An odd species. Okay, you open first, this is your chance to show everyone, then I’ll chip in. Sing!”

“Bobcat.” She warbled, her voice still a bit high.

“Warm, getting warmer.” Dasher seconded the find.

The whole pack rushed over, Pickens inhaled. “Finally.”

His littermate, Parker, said, “If you don’t hit in the first five minutes, you get bored.”

“Shut up.” His brother snapped back, they were off.

Aunt Daniella, window cracked, listened. “I do hope they get a good run. These temperature bounces don’t help, but the conditions are about perfect. Good driving, Yvonne, getting us out of there.”

Kathleen confessed, “There was a time when I might have had sympathy for anti-hunters. But learning, as I have, thanks to you all, I realize they have no concept of nature. We’re losing it, I fear.”

“We are,” Yvonne affirmed. “Let’s hope they’re gone when we get back. I don’t want to waste another minute on them.”

Shaker, now on the edge of his seat, the window all the way down, predicted, “If it’s the usual red fox we pick up here, he’ll cut over to Old Paradise in about ten minutes, but if not, I say this is a straightaway run.”

Skiff drove carefully. “They sound great.”

“You know the first thing you can lose when breeding is cry. It’s funny what you can add fairly easily and what you can’t.”

“That’s the truth,” she agreed. “What I’ve found is you can’t breed a den dog. That hound has to appear. I don’t understand it. On, straightaway. You were right.”

He loved hearing that, naturally.

Once hounds were cast, the protesters disappeared from their thoughts. You can’t let people spoil what you love, and neither huntsman was in danger of that.

Ronnie, in the backseat, put his hand on the headrest of Elise’s seat. “Hounds have found. You can see the two whippers-in moving forward and a bit outward. It’s easier to come into hounds than move out, because if you’re moving out you usually are trying to catch up. Betty has a clear path right now but Tootie is in the right place.”

“How can you tell?” Gigi asked.

“If you think of the face of a clock, hounds are at twelve o’clock, the huntsman is the button where both hands join. Your first whipper-in should be at two and your second whipper-in should be at ten. Many hunts use more than two whippers-in but Sister only uses two. She says if hounds need pushing up, she can do it. Best to keep things simple but our territory lends itself to hunting the old way. So many highways for other hunts.”

“The face of a clock. I can picture that.” Elise watched as horses picked up an easy canter.

“As I said when we drove off, there actually is a lot to it. As I also said, we usually don’t have protest drama. Never had people in pursuit before. We’ll get one or two at a county meeting but this was a first and I hope a last.”

Back on the field, the hounds now moved in a line, for the territory began to close in. Weevil, behind them, saw the coop in the old fence line, which fortunately would put him on a decent path in the small woodlands on the south side of Beveridge Hundred. He was on Gunpowder today and if he had given the Thoroughbred the horn, Gunpowder could have hunted hounds.