Рита Браун - Homeward Hound

No need, for hounds found the scent immediately. Snow like talcum powder flew off horses’ hooves. The ground underneath remained frozen although the mercury was to climb into the low forties, so the firmness probably wouldn’t last long.

Running hard, hounds hooked left, some jumped over a roll jump while others leapt over the stone fence. Once the work of the building restoration was complete, Crawford intended to return to stone fencing, creating stone fences everywhere. Now the stone was at the road’s edge where everyone could see it. He wanted everything in stone, whether a border fence or a small paddock. It would be impressive, beautiful, and cost a fortune. This jump, three feet high, was deceptive, because it was wide, a bracing two feet wide. The horse had to have a bit of scope and boldness to go over this jump. Few had encountered anything like it. Crawford enjoyed creating various jumps.

Aztec saw the wideness, took off just a hair early and big. Sister rode it out. She could have forced him to take off at the spot she thought best, but she truly trusted him so if he took off big, okay.

As luck would have it, the hunted fox had doubled back, so no sooner was Sister over than the two packs turned, heading straight for her. She held up on one side of the fence, as did the field on the other side. Weevil jumped over, then Sam. Sister turned, following him. Aztec picked the right spot. No need to leave early for he now knew this somewhat unusual, new jump.

Once over, Sister effortlessly breezed past the standing field. They turned, falling in behind her, with Tedi and Edward in her pocket, Kasmir and Alida behind them, Ronnie and Dewey and on down the line of First Flight. People placed themselves according to status, not that that was said, their ability and the ability of their horse. Riding tail, Walter again assumed those duties.

Sam, just ahead of Sister, asked for more speed. Sister did likewise for the pack was pulling away. The fox was heading for the outbuilding, visible in the distance.

Crawford, a decent rider but not the strongest, began to fade back a bit. Gray moved up alongside him.

All of a sudden, hounds stopped. They cast themselves, skidding down into a small ravine that opened up on flatter meadows.

In the crevice, the deeper snow slowed them down. Thor, a big Dumfriesshire hound, called out. “Stay in the crevice. I know this fox. He’ll climb out toward the north.”

Sister, on the edge, followed. No point in trapping yourself and others in this fold of the land.

Sure enough, the fox had exited heading north toward the chapel crossroads that lay three and a half miles down the road from this spot. The field was running on the snow-covered pastures. Sister kept her eyes on the pack. This pattern, different, announced a new fox, perhaps a visiting fox. Anything goes.

A light breeze swept down the side of the mountains, enough to make the tree branches sway. Hounds stood out against the snow. Crawford’s were black and tan whereas most of hers were tricolor. Weevil and Skiff hung right behind them. Betty, far on the right, was already heading for a jump in the fence line that would put her on Chapel Road. Tootie on the left made for the driveway into the main buildings. She’d need to turn down the road, but she would be in a good position if the fox turned toward the mountains.

A tidy coop beckoned. Hounds soared over it, some simply jumping the stone fence. Then Weevil, then Skiff, a slight gap, Sam on Trocadero smoothly took the fence. Sister, in her eagerness, had drawn a bit close to Sam. She rated Aztec, pissed him off, then when Sam was clear and ahead she urged him over. She could hear the field behind her.

Hounds, up ahead, ran right in the middle of the road, crossed into the churchyard. The entire pack was behind the church screaming while Adolfo Vega cleaned off the steps up to the church for service tomorrow. He leaned on his snow shovel to watch.

Sister paused for a moment. She couldn’t lead the field over the front of the church. The ground, still somewhat hard, was dicey enough. If there were any soft spots, she’d tear it up. So she slowed, trotted all the way around the main building, white, so simple, so beautiful. The gold cross gleamed from the blue steeple. Our forefathers exhibited a marvelous and restrained aesthetic sense. Much as she shared that sense, she wanted to get with her hounds, so she squeezed Aztec to trot faster and she looped around all the buildings, trying to keep where she thought the edge of the grass would be. Finally, she emerged at the graveyard, hound at every tombstone or so it seemed. Weevil and Skiff, off to the side, watched.

The two huntsmen couldn’t go into the graveyard, nor could Sister. There was enough snow to cover the flagstones. One step on that could be ugly thanks to slippery snow. Worse, the horse’s weight could crack the stones, many dating back to the 1820s. The standing tombstones outlined in snow looked either peaceful or mournful, depending on one’s temperament.

Shaker’s temperament was not peaceful. Sitting in the backseat, for no one would possibly displace Aunt Daniella, he was fulminating.

“That fox will circle. I’m telling you. Those two damn kids better head for the road.”

“You know this fox?” Aunt Daniella inquired.

“Yes and no. But the fox, no matter who he is, and it has to be a male as it’s breeding season, is smart enough to use these tombstones, so I’m thinking he’s local enough to baffle the hounds. He’s a red, running straight for the most part. A gray would have turned by now.”

Neither of the ladies would refute the color of the fox nor the animal’s intelligence.

“There’s one of our hounds heading out,” Yvonne excitedly said.

“Old Asa. He’s dipped in gold.” Shaker sat on the edge of the seat.

One by one, the Jefferson Hounds moved out of the cemetery as the Crawford pack began to mingle with them.

Sister and Crawford sat still. No one knew what would happen next, but as if hearing Shaker, Weevil and Skiff had ridden out to the road. Hounds milled about, then a deep roar by Balzac, Crawford’s hound, sent them all back to the crossroads.

Crawford, with pride, looked at Sister. “Balzac. A hunting man, you know.”

“Yes, I do.” Sister smiled for the hound was good. “You’ve named this hound well.”

The two of them turned, fell in behind Sam, and reached the crossroads. Hounds ran right down the middle of the road. Fortunately, there was little traffic out here, but no one wanted to fly on a macadam road covered with snow. Ben Sidell, back with Bobby Franklin, thanked the angels for his horse, Nonni, sure-footed and smart. She stopped for a split second, turned her nose toward the mountain, and Ben, out of the corner of his eye, saw the streak of red shifting through a narrow covert.

Counting to twenty, he then called out loudly, “Tallyho.” His hat, in his hand, arm pointed in the direction he had seen the fox, told the huntsman the direction in which their quarry was running.

Second Flight often sees the fox, so Weevil and Skiff, hearing the cry, immediately ramped up the speed heading in the direction of Ben’s outstretched arm.

Hounds screamed. Horses were full throttle. So was the fox, realizing he had to get out of there.

Across the snow-covered pastures they all flew, a scene that could have been from prior centuries. Dots of scarlet here and there, tails flying on the weazlebellys, a few hats already swaying on the hat cord behind the ladies wearing derbies. Most people wore hunt caps securely shoved down or even secured with a chin strap. But the die-hards wore their gorgeous shining top hats or reinforced derbies, which usually were quite secure. Derbies banged behind backs. They were all moving far too fast to pull up a derby. Who cared? The pace was too good.