Рита Браун - Scarlet Fever

He put his nose down, walking to the side, thirty yards from where they had lost the line. Dasher, another “D” hound, mirrored his brother on the south side. Now hounds moved off from where scent disappeared.

Zorro walked over to a fallen tree, a thick trunk. He leapt up, putting his nose down.

“He used this,” the sleek tricolor called out.

That fast the whole pack reached him, some now on the trunk with him, others on both sides of the uprooted tree.

“Got him!” Aero called out in triumph.

They started in the direction from which they’d come. The fox was heading back. He didn’t double exactly on his tracks, for hounds had gotten too close, but he was returning to safety, most likely his den. Sister prudently turned back on the path. If the fox headed north she’d figure it out somehow but if he was going to where they had found his scent or a den somewhere, this was a better bet.

The pack, running hard, shot out onto the pasture again, running along the fence line then turning, but this time toward Drew’s four-stall barn. They checked before reaching the barn then headed off to the back, down over a small swale into one of those Virginia ravines cut by a blade. A human could walk down there but only one at a time and the grade punished horses.

Weevil started to head down then thought better of it. Sister also sat on the edge. Hounds milled about downed trees next to a large thick brush pile of branches, vines, some tree limbs.

“Not a fox.” Trinity was intrigued.

Thimble pawed at the large entangled pile; then Dreamboat, who also smelled the alluring non-fox odor, kept pushing past it.

“He’s gone back up.” Dreamboat began the climb to the rim, as he found fox scent again.

Diana, wise, ran next to her brother. “He knew that would slow us down. Mask his own scent.”

Dreamboat didn’t reply but kept running, the entire pack now behind the two lead hounds. Weevil turned as they shot out of the ravine, then waited for the whole pack to come up. So did Sister.

Hounds ran behind the stable, around the stable back out toward the house, then behind the house. This time they paused at the base of the ravine, moved around, then found scent again. Up they ran.

The fox reached the top of the ravine. Skiff and Shaker had been trying to listen, to no avail, but now the whole pack ran along the top of the ridge, dipped a bit toward them, then crossed back over, heading down toward Pitchfork Farm.

By the time staff and Sister reached the top, horses were breathing heavily. So were the people. Sister stopped. Hounds appeared back up on the ridge then charged down again. She swiveled in her saddle to look behind.

“Better not,” she said to herself as she carefully walked down the trail, even though hounds were screaming.

When she reached the bottom, they had stopped behind the stable, a yip here, a yap there.

Weevil waited, as did his two whippers-in. Everyone needed a breather, which the fox had thoughtfully provided them.

Sister waved her hand to Kasmir, who rode up. “Hold them, will you? I’ll be right back.”

“Of course.”

She rode to Betty perhaps a half a football field away. “Hounds are where we saw the puddle of blood.”

Betty squinted. “It can’t be there now.”

“No, but whether it soaked in or was washed away, they’ll pick up a hint of it. Our fox must have come back this way. There’s no reason for hounds to stray to the back of the stable.”

“It is strange.” Betty dropped her reins, rubbed her hands, then picked them up again. “Hell of a run.”

“Good to be back. Wondered if you’d noticed.”

“Actually, I did not. I’m trying to catch my breath and to see where the pack goes next. I swear we’ll wind up at Mousehold Heath yet.”

“I expect only staff horses could make it, given this season. At least we kept everyone in work no matter what. Look around. Maybe something or someone will pop up. You know, someone red.” She smiled and rode back to the field, happily waiting.

Horses and people needed the break. Passing flasks around helped the humans. Sister could not drink, as staff is not to drink alcohol while hunting. This is often ignored in the breach, but not by Sister, a real stickler.

“What do you think?” Zane asked his brother Zorro.

“He mingled scent. But if we walk with this scent, faded, we might get his line again and it will be hot.”

Zorro proved prescient as Dasher, moving away from the group, slowly walked toward the distant woods. “Something.”

Dreamboat hurried over, nose touching the flattened grass. Shoots had not yet appeared. With a little luck they’d break upward in a week or two. It couldn’t stay winter forever. He, too, walked with deliberation.

Zane, Zorro, and Dreamboat headed away from the stable. Weevil did not chide them. He trusted his hounds. They weren’t skirting.

“Diana, help,” Dreamboat called out as she was circling the stable to make sure the fox didn’t have an entrance dug into it.

Joining the three hounds she, too, was puzzled. “He’s walked this old scent line. Old but strong enough to give him time.”

Zane, younger than the “D” hounds, said, “It’s human, isn’t it? Old but human.”

“Yes. He’s really smart, this fellow. He almost lost us by the brush pile. Stronger there.” Diana broke into a lope.

The other hounds saw her, as did Weevil, who called to them. Within minutes the pack, together, followed this line, although no one was opening. It was confusing; two scents had definitely been mixed. But when?

Near the edge of the woods, Zorro called out. “It’s him!”

Indeed it was. Back through the woods they flew, he turned again. So did the pack. The humans, back on a decent trail, regrouped, but feeling how long they’d been running stayed as close to their field master as possible. Her eyes never left Weevil’s scarlet coat.

A mile into the woods, a check.

Then Tinsel, who’d been a little bit behind, turned toward the stable, which wasn’t visible. She had the line and she sang out.

Everyone headed back, and once out in the pasture again the entire pack shot down the narrow ravine. This time Weevil dismounted to go with them.

Given the length of the run, the long time of the run, the fact that the hunted fox returned to that brush pile made Weevil think either he had a den there or one close by. Why he chose not to use it before, the huntsman had no idea. Foxes could be peculiar. That they were smarter than all of the other creatures was never in doubt.

He grabbed some overhanging branches as he slid down. Tootie and Betty stayed at the edge. If he needed them he’d yell.

Hounds surrounded the large, dense pile but they didn’t dig. They waited for their huntsman.

He reached them, knelt down, peering in. He couldn’t see much but he did see a baseball cap. Nothing reached his own nose, but he was a country boy. Something or someone was in there. The nights had light frosts. Whatever was there he couldn’t smell but hounds could. He stood up. He trusted his hounds and he knew human noses needed a strong scent to register.

Climbing back up he walked to Sister. “Something is in that mess of a brush pile. Not our fox.”

“Alive? You know, a skunk or something like that?”

“No. I think something is dead in there, and I saw a baseball cap.”

“Weevil, say nothing. Let’s go back to the trailers. I’ll call Ben Sidell. If he’d been out today he’d have a better idea than any of us how to proceed.”

Back at the trailers, hunt members set up a tailgate. Drew declined because he said he was so mistrustful of Morris. Even if he was locked in his room he could scream and pound on the doors.