Рита Браун - Scarlet Fever

“You never know.” Sam smiled. “Isn’t it a relief to hack to a hunt?”

“Sure is.” Drew smiled then walked over to Alida and Kasmir, striking up a conversation. His stable girl, Wanda, was already at the back of First Flight, as she was riding as a groom.

“I had no idea this was back here,” Alida commented.

“You’d be surprised what’s hidden on some of these back roads or up on ridges,” Cindy Chandler, waiting with Kasmir and Alida, said. “You can’t go wrong in central Virginia. Pick a spot, it will be lovely.”

They chatted about topography, the old homes, and the new ones.

Sister, speaking to Weevil, Betty, and Tootie, suggested drawing first up the drive toward Pitchfork Farm, but off the road. This way, if a fox crossed they could follow without too much difficulty, the zigzag fencing would be easy to clear.

“If by chance a fox goes all the way across the flat pastures there, goes through that woods, and on, we will actually wind up at Mousehold Heath, as you know, since we all checked the topo maps.”

“And if a fox heads to the right?” Weevil asked.

“Straight up. But don’t go down on the other side, as I said when we read the maps. Beasley Hall has Crawford’s stock out in the pastures; St. Swithin’s, his small chapel; plus Marty’s gardens ready to awaken. We’ve finally reached agreement on hunting Old Paradise if a fox goes there. If we go down into Beasley Hall, that will be the end of that.”

“What about the whips?” Weevil worried.

“Skiff will be in her truck at the bottom on his side of the ridge. I talked to Crawford last night and I talked to Skiff when she was over with Shaker. The whips have permission to ride down, but he prefers we try everything else first.”

“Not much you can try if hounds are on a fox.” Tootie rewound her thong.

“No one ever said Crawford understood hunting.” Betty tried not to sound sarcastic.

“We will all do our best. Well, let’s hope for a good hunt, a memorable one for our return. Ready?”

“Yes, Madam.” Weevil looked down at an obedient but ready, very ready, pack of American foxhounds.

“All right.”

Pansy looked up at her huntsman. “Finally.”

The clatter of hooves followed the hounds as they drew alongside the tertiary road, which soon turned into a stone road. The state displayed an odd set of qualifications for what roads deserved their attention and what ones did not. However, the Ticknors and the Taylors took up the slack.

Thirty-two people rode out filled with the usual excitement of revisiting a former fixture. Tinged with melancholy, for only one hunt remained, heads up, heels down, they were ready.

Two hundred yards, more or less, behind the unused stable, Dreamboat veered toward the stable. As he was a reliable hound neither Weevil nor the whippers-in moved to stop him nor to deter the three couples who now followed. Weevil stopped a moment. Soon the whole pack filtered behind Dreamboat, noses down. Circling the stable, a pause, then feathering.

Hunt staff moved closer while Sister scanned the area she and Betty had only peered at from an open car window on that colder day. She could make out the vestiges of the trail she had seen from the car.

“Dog fox.” Dreamboat inhaled, then walked briskly up toward the beginning of the steep rise, the ridge.

“Let’s go.” His sister opened.

Hounds, ducking under brush, charged up the ridge.

Weevil stuck with his hounds by finding a narrow deer trail. Betty, remembering the territory, had already headed up toward the top. If hounds hit the ridge she’d be the only impediment until they got to the bottom, where she prayed Skiff was sitting with Shaker in the car. Shaker knew the ground on this side of the ridge and Skiff knew Crawford’s territory.

Sister followed Weevil. The field followed her, but one by one. Two people could not have ridden side by side.

Hounds stopped midway, hooked hard left, now all speaking. Sister could hear the bush branches swishing as they ran. Years ago a middle trail followed the ridgeline. Still there.

Weevil found it first, of course, and he flew behind his hounds, all wide open. Odd pine trunks, woodpecker holes much in evidence, crossed the trail in spots, but even Second Flight could get over.

Hounds continued on, then another quick check. They turned down. Going down was harder than going up. Again, Weevil, good eye, found the deer trail.

Sister paused a moment.

Drew called out from behind the Bancrofts, Alida, and Kasmir. “Master, allow me.”

“Please.” She squeezed to the side as he rode up.

“There’s a good trail up ahead. We won’t lose much time and more importantly we won’t lose any people.”

She let him go first as Lafayette snorted. That his beloved master would allow a Warmblood, no less, to go in front of him was an insult. However, he did as he was asked and followed the good-looking bay, Binny, although the Thoroughbred thought Drew’s horse clunky.

Halfway to the bottom, Sister could see her pack stream out of the undergrowth and the woods on the ridge. Drew trotted down then stopped, as a large tree, an old, really old hickory, blocked the path. Given the wicked winds this winter, the old tree finally had fallen over, having lived an exceptionally long life.

Looking around, for there was no way to clear the crown of such a massive tree, Drew quickly dismounted to pull aside brush from behind the hickory. Low-hanging branches from other trees created another problem.

Sister, too, dismounted, leading Lafayette behind Drew, who pushed forward, holding back branches for his master. They were losing time and the pack was on full accelerator.

Looking down, Sister saw a figure walking toward the house.

“Damn. I told him to stay inside,” Drew cursed while pulling back a thick vine.

Finally clear, Sister chose not to mount up on such a steep angle. She and Drew continued down on foot, as did the entire field behind them. The second she hit solid, flat ground she was up. Some people struggled, some did not, but everyone got up.

By now the pack was crossing the dormant hayfield to the Fairies Bottom side of the farm, the fence line between the two properties visible from the distance.

No need to cluck. Lafayette knew his task and that long fluid stride, that beautiful Thoroughbred movement, paid off.

Within minutes she could see her tail hounds. Betty, to the right, was up near the front of the pack, as was Tootie on the left on the other side of the fence.

Tootie had cleared the fence. She didn’t bother to look for a jump. Sister sent up a prayer of thanks that she had such terrific riders whipping-in.

On and on they ran. The footing though soft wasn’t bad. It was forgiving. A plus.

After ten minutes of this, a longer time than one realizes when mounted, hounds disappeared into a thick wood then they slowed. Weevil did likewise, and Sister, seeing his scarlet coat ahead, also slowed to a walk. One doesn’t run into one’s huntsman.

By the time she reached him he was moving off at an extended trot. She could stay behind, keep him in sight. Then he stopped.

The field, some on a decent path, a few off to the side to try and see what was happening, stood still.

“Get ’em up. Get ’em up,” Weevil encouraged.

Hounds fanned out in a large half circle. Betty didn’t move as hounds came back to where they had lost scent. Tootie, now visible, also stood still.

“He can’t have gone into his den. We were close enough we’d find it.” Diana spoke with certitude.

Dreamboat looked around. Hounds could easily run in this wood. There wasn’t as much undergrowth, but the soil wasn’t as good as that in the pastures.