Рита Браун - Homeward Hound

The screaming raised the hair on the back of people’s necks. You could tell people about the feeling, but until they experienced it themselves they never quite believed it. Your blood was up, as was your horse’s.

For over three and a half miles, those familiar miles, the pack charged hard. The fox made straight for the restored stable, ducked into a hole, as there was a fox who lived there. He stuck right there, deep down as Earl, the proprietor, bitched and moaned.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Breathing hard, the medium-sized red, Mr. Nash, replied, “Saving my ass.”

The stable fox heard the entire pack, he’d heard them anyway, moved into the deep part of his den, confronted the intruder. “You can’t underestimate those hounds. They know the territory and they have good noses. What did you think you were doing?”

Mr. Nash followed Earl as he led him through his extensive underground network to come out in a corner of the tack room behind a tack trunk. “This is something.”

“Better yet, the place is full of workmen and they leave food. Good food. No one thinks to look in the tack room. They know I have a den back in one of the stalls. Every now and then someone fills it up with sawdust and dirt. I just clean it out but I have a lot of ways in and out. But you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for a girlfriend. I live up at Close Shave. It’s nice enough but nothing like this.”

Earl sat on a plush lamb’s fleece saddle pad. “It is impressive. But girls, most of the girls are taken but there’s a young one over at Mud Fence. Still close to her parents’ den but you could see if she’s interested. My experience is the young girls wait a year. They often stick close to home and help with the next litter but you never know.”

“You’re not interested?” Mr. Nash was curious.

“Not this year.” Earl listened to the two huntsmen speak to their hounds. “Heading off. Good. Girls, yes, well, I find vixens wonderful, of course, but then they have the babies and you exhaust yourself feeding the little buggers. Taking a year off.”

As Mr. Nash had yet to become a father, he remained silent about that. He cocked his head, hearing the field move off now.

Earl advised. “Don’t pop out yet. Diana, one of the Jefferson Hounds, is really smart. She could double back very quickly and check again. The huntsman trusts her, so she won’t be pushed back into the pack. Of course, now there’s a new huntsman. Young.”

“Gris told me the regular fellow hit his head over a human hand.”

“Ah yes, Gris, the town crier,” remarked Earl, who could gossip with the best of them. “So you have traveled as far as Chapel Cross before today?”

“Just.”

“You know what amuses me? Heard there was so much fuss over that human hand, another one was found in the Carriage barn. So what’s a human part? We can be splayed out on the roadway. Doesn’t seem to bother them a bit.”

Mr. Nash agreed. “They are strange creatures.”

As these two became better acquainted, Weevil and Skiff decided to move across the road to Beveridge Hundred, drawing along the way.

A short burst pulled them through the edge of Old Paradise as light snow began to fall. Given their workout no one felt the cold right then, plus most people watched the weather report so they wore their thermal underwear, some layers of silk for others and Sister’s favorite trick, wearing an old white cashmere turtleneck over which she tied her stock tie. A thermal shirt, then the ancient cashmere, toasty warm. Her feet and hands, though, tingled with the cold. As Aztec, enlivened, surged forward, she felt that telltale ache in her toes. No matter, the day was too good.

The barn owl at Beveridge Hundred, ears very keen, heard the distant singing of the hounds. At a foot and a half she could take care of herself, not that she worried about hounds hunting her. She liked the hayloft in the tidy small barn, never bothering to build a nest. She was happy on the wood. Given her feathers she stayed warm. One of the reasons she liked Beveridge Hundred was its quiet. The older people rarely walked out to the barn anymore and certainly not in winter. Enough mice kept her full but she especially liked hunting the cemetery at the chapel, full of mice. She thought if they were Christian mice she was sending them to the great mouse in the sky. Why mice liked cemeteries she didn’t know, but she took advantage of it. She also liked the stable because she could visit with Sarge, the young fox. He seemed a little naive but he was young. She enjoyed sharing her wisdom of which she thought she had quite a lot.

She flew up to walk along a crossbeam where she could peer out the small louvered slats at the peak of the roof. She didn’t see the fox or any fox, but she could see the entire two packs hunting as one heading right for Beveridge Hundred. She looked to the side, she looked down, nothing to entice those miserable hounds. And the doors were closed. Good.

Hounds rushed up to the stable, circled it once, twice. The fox must have done that to throw them off for no den existed in the stable. Then they took off, turning back north in the direction of Tattenhall Station. The people on horseback waited for a moment at the stable. Then they, too, took off.

The owl observed First Flight go, followed by Second Flight. One man from First Flight hung back.

“Dewey, problem?” Bobby Franklin asked.

“Thought I’d answer Nature’s call behind the stable.” Dewey smiled as he dismounted.

The others moved off, picking up speed as hounds opened.

Dewey, however, did not answer Nature’s call. He carefully walked around the stable, peering at the ground. The ground protected by the overhang was not covered in snow. The falling snow was light.

He then tied Bosco to the railing by an old water trough, hurrying over to Yvonne’s cottage dependency. He bent over, peering into the bottom of the doghouse, rose, brushed off his knees, hurried back to Bosco, mounted up, and rode off.

Crawling down the state road, Shaker noticed Dewey trying to catch up, as did Yvonne and Daniella.

“Dewey’s always been helpful. When Mercer was alive they’d talk about Thoroughbred syndicates and Dewey said he’d try it with real estate. Certainly worked,” Aunt Daniella remarked.

“Syndicates can be tricky,” Yvonne added. “Victor bought the first television stations with syndicates. We managed with difficulty to eventually buy out the other partners, but what a bitch, I can tell you. I worked the charm offensive overtime.”

“Ah, took you two minutes.” Shaker teased her.

“He still calling? Your ex?” Yvonne’s eyebrows lifted up.

“Not me. He calls Tootie. My prediction is Victor’s lost a lot of money. This will take time. Give it another six months or a year. Then he’ll call me pretending the divorce was a mistake. I haven’t lost money.”

“That’s good news.” The old lady smiled.

“Now what are they doing?” Shaker half stood up.

“Sit down,” Yvonne commanded. “If I have to hit the brakes hard, I’ll hurt your neck.”

“Damn my neck. I am so sick of this.” Shaker cursed. “But look at the pack. A tight circle. I want to get out and look for tracks.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Aunt Daniella put her foot down. “Sister would have our hides if we let you do that.”

“There have to be tracks but we haven’t seen anything. To hear a roar like that, I expect this scent is fresh.” He looked out the window. “Then again, conditions are really, really good. It might be twenty minutes old but no more than that. I’ve told Skiff to always look for tracks.”