Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

The other hounds ignored this. No one was going to close that gap. The young fox ran like blazes.

The humans, grateful for the check, breathed heavily, leaned over to check tack, pull up their girth an inch if necessary, took a swallow from their flasks. Some flasks were incendiary. Others, like Sister’s, carried iced sweet tea. Gray Lorillard, right next to her, imbibed something far more potent, then cheekily blew her a kiss.

“Worthless,” she said under her breath, for one shouldn’t talk while hounds are working.

He winked and nodded.

Steady old Asa, wise, walked toward a line of Leland cypress, some undergrowth beneath as Kasmir had not gotten to tidying up. Actually, Sister would have been thrilled if he didn’t tidy up. More cover for foxes.

The hound sucked up the air, a slight snuffle as he did so. He walked with deliberation. His stern began to sway, then moved like a windshield wiper.

Diana, younger but she never missed a trick, watched her old mentor. She joined him. They walked along side by side. He stopped. Sniffed again. So did she.

“Here!” Asa bellowed, his deep voice filling the air.

“We’re on,” Diana commanded and the two hounds took off, the others quickly joining them.

Sister, Shaker, Tootie, and Betty loved watching hounds collapse on a line. Those in the field who liked good hound work were also impressed. This was textbook stuff, and with young entry, too.

Hounds moved through the undergrowth emerging on a trail in the woods, the old tire ruts pointing both north and south. Horses ran in the raised space between the tire tracks. By now Bobby Franklin had caught up to First Flight.

Freddie Thomas, an attractive woman, a strong rider, rode in Second Flight today as she was on a green horse. Better safe than sorry. She’d bring this mare along; she had her made hunter, so she could ride First Flight when she chose to do so. The riders checked again, the mist seemingly tangled up in the treetops, leaves still heavy on the branches, a spot of color here or there. The real color would explode mid-October. Out of the corner of her eye, half turning in her really expensive Tad Coffin saddle, Freddie caught a movement. The hunted fox quietly walked right behind her horse.

The rider behind her, Ben Sidell, the sheriff, counted under his breath, “One, two, three.”

Freddie picked it up. “Four, five, six.”

When they reached twenty both sang out, “Tallyho.”

One must always give the quarry a sporting chance, hence the count to twenty. People forgot in the excitement of a view, but it really was bad sportsmanship.

Shaker swiveled around in his saddle. “Come along.”

Hounds had heard the tallyho, knew what it meant. Happily they reversed field, forcing the riders off the road, horses’ rear ends now in the woods, heads facing out. Otherwise, a nervous horse could kick a hound, or the huntsman.

Both Ben and Freddie had removed their caps, holding them in their hands, arms outstretched, pointing in the direction in which the fox was moving.

“Get ’em up.” Shaker encouraged the pack.

Dreamboat struck first, then they all opened.

Shaker wove through the woods, twisting this way and that. The field followed. Gray bent low onto his horse Wolsey’s neck, as a branch grazed his back.

Slowed them down.

The young fox burst out onto a meadow, heading for the county road that ran north and south dividing Tattenhall Station from Old Paradise. He ducked under the fence, blasted across the road, and ducked under the Old Paradise fence, an old stone wall rehabilitated by Crawford at breathtaking cost. While people loathed his personal showiness, they all admired his restoring what was original about Old Paradise.

A herd of deer grazed in the field. The head doe lifted her head, hearing the horn.

“Bother. Let’s go,” she ordered her group.

The little fox headed for her.

She paused. “Don’t be scared, Sonny. Run in the middle of us. It will throw them off.”

Shaker came out on the road. The hounds soared over the stone fence. The huntsman looked at his Master.

“The MFHA says we can stay on a hunted fox even if it goes into another hunt’s territory,” he said.

Sister knew Crawford’s was an outlaw pack. So did Shaker. The rules didn’t apply to him, nor would Crawford have obeyed them. This flitted through her mind. She didn’t want to start the season with a fight, because sooner or later he would hear about it. On the other hand, hounds roared on full throttle.

“The hell with it.” She squeezed Matador, taking the fence in a graceful arc as Shaker, next to her, did also. They looked like a perfect pairs team.

Everyone followed. Poor Bobby had to ride a quarter of a mile to a gate to get in.

The head doe, now into a woods, rock outcroppings looming ahead, stopped.

The fox stopped with her.

“There’s an old den in there. No hound can get into it but it will be easy for you. You’ll be safe. It’s a well-trained pack so they won’t follow us, but if you jump up on that first rock, walk along the top, you’ll see the den between the two boulders behind.”

“Thank you.” He did as he was told.

The head doe circled, going back toward the roar but far enough away from the hounds. She wasn’t worried about the hounds. She was more worried about the horses. Once a horse had dumped his rider, run to the deer, and joined them. She never forgot that, and probably the horse hadn’t either.

The young fox found the den. How wonderful, he thought, as it was very large with an exit in the rear. Best not to be in any den with only one way in and one way out. Best of all, leaves piled up from last year partly covered a rubber ball, a shiny toy truck, and a lead rope. Toys!

Parker reached the den after a scramble up the first covering rock.

“I know you’re in there.”

Feeling safe, the fox called out, “I am.”

The hounds joined Parker but they couldn’t even dig as it was all rock. The den was between two boulders that formed a crevice, but the den really was huge and tight as a tick. No rain or snow would get in.

Ardent, Asa’s son, peered into the den as best he could. “You did good for a kid,” the hound complimented him. “What’s your name?”

“Sarge.”

“Well, Sarge, we’ll see you again before this season is out.” Ardent turned, walked back over the first large rock, and jumped down.

The rest of the pack took turns jumping up on the first large rock; only three could fit onto it at a time. Everyone sang.

Shaker rode up. Tootie quickly came to him, taking Kilowatt’s reins as the huntsman dismounted. He walked to the large rock. “Good hounds. Good hounds.”

“He’s in there. If you just give me time, I’ll figure out how to bolt him,” young Pickens promised.

“Dream on,” Cora, the matriarch, this probably her last season, replied. “Nothing will get him out of there. He’s a smart little fellow.”

“I could wait him out. Surprise him,” Pickens, ever hopeful, said.

“Pickens, he can smell you just as easily as you can smell him. You’d have to hide about a quarter of a mile away,” the older and wiser Delia, mother of the D hounds, advised.

Sister, standing perhaps ten yards back so the field could have a close view, looked upward at lowering clouds. Bobby Franklin arranged Second Flight right by First so everyone could appreciate the ritual.

Shaker put the horn to his lips and blew the warbling, satisfying “Gone to Ground.”

Betty Franklin, slightly off on the right just in case the pack took a notion, turned her head.