Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

“I thought that’s what Second Flight was called. I’m trying to learn and I’ve worn out my daughter with questions. I’ll try not to prevail too much on you.” She smiled, teeth gleaming.

“Don’t mind a bit.”

“Thank you for escorting me. I know you hunt up front.”

“Sister may not have told you, but I just returned from a conference in Phoenix, plus I’ve pulled my back out. A little physical therapy will take care of that. I’ll be out in two weeks tops.”

“It’s a passion.” Yvonne smiled.

“A passion. An education, a chance to be with other people not riven with all manner of fears, and really, a way to imbibe beauty.” Walter heard a deep voice, then another. “We’ve got a line.”

He moved up, although still giving Second Flight plenty of room. Tootie, on the left, soared over a stout coop in the fence line on the left. Yvonne had never seen her daughter at work, so to speak. Her jaw dropped. Then Betty Franklin took the coop on the right, both women intently watching hounds as Tootie flanked them on the left.

“Why isn’t Betty over there with Tootie?”

“If the fox turns right, hounds will follow. No one will be there. So Tootie is covering the left side. If hounds go into that thick wood up there and turn farther left, then Betty will jump back over and get on their right side in the woods or wherever they go. But right now, she needs to be just where she is.”

The fox, a clever gray who had come to sneak by the red fox who lived behind the mill, realized the red fox wasn’t going to be the problem, as that big fellow would fuss since the gray was in his territory. The droppings of grain in the barn proved too enticing, so the younger fox figured he could easily outrun the older. Now he had to outrun the pack.

The mercury, not yet at 50°F, cooperated in holding scent, but the low cloud cover really helped. The sun wasn’t going to burn off anything and the temperature might stay down. Perfect hunting weather usually occurs with a low cloud cover and the temperature between, say, 38°F and 48°F. But good runs could be had in the 50s and 60s, especially down low by creek beds. The fox knows this, so on a sunny day he or she goes out into a pasture or onto a dirt road, sometimes even a macadam one, boogies along, and by the time the hounds reach the spot the scent has either evaporated or is rising over their heads.

Not today.

Sister, up front riding Aztec, her TB/QH cross, took the coop into the large pasture, then soared over the large log fence at the end of the newly mown field. She landed on a good wide path, good footing in the woods. Hounds at full cry tore up ahead of her. Betty had jumped back out onto the farm road and followed the pack on the road. If they turned farther left, which would be north, she could easily find a path into the woods, not as wide as the center path but she could get around. She knew the territory. Staff knows the territory often better than the people who own it.

“The creek,” Parker shouted, and put on the afterburners hoping to reach the swift-running creek before the fox, who was far ahead moving fast to faster.

Walter fastened his seat belt. “You’d better do the same. Once we leave the hayfield the road is rutted. If you have any loose fillings they’ll come out.”

“Thanks.” She looked for the Jesus strap and grabbed it.

Sure enough the fox headed straight down, for the land began to steeply incline to the creek. He jumped in and swam at a diagonal, crawled out on the other side, and took off.

Dragon reached the place where the fox entered the creek. Sniffing, he leapt into it, water breast high. He reached the other side. No scent.

“Move up or down,” his mother, Delia, ordered him.

Hardheaded though he was, Dragon listened to his mother. Staying in the water, he moved upstream first, up along the bank, sniffing. Twist, knowing older Delia knew her stuff, leapt into the creek and duplicated Dragon’s efforts moving downstream. Twist was a weedy hound—no matter what Sister and Shaker did, they couldn’t get much weight on the smallish fellow. Young, still learning, he could move with blinding speed which irritated Dragon, who wanted to be in front.

“Here!” The slender hound sang out, which really pissed off Dragon, who clambered out of the creek, flew to the spot, and opened before Twist could climb out.

The pack, in the creek, hurried out.

Thimble, Twist’s sister, now alongside him, praised him, “Good work.”

“I hate him. I really hate him.” Twist indicated Dragon now ahead of them all.

Shaker, on tried-and-true Showboat, jumped straight down into the creek, holding onto the mane as Showboat leapt up in the air to get out. He was such an athlete he hit the top of the bank, water flying off his legs, as Shaker sat deep and tight. Off they ran.

Tootie, already ahead, had the presence of mind to think the fox would cross, so she went to an easy crossing, as did Betty on the south side. Finding a decent path proved more difficult. If both whippers-in remained in the woods they’d be dodging trees and bramble, and really fall behind.

Betty, having hunted this territory since childhood, swerved hard right, found the well-trod deer trail, and kicked on. Tootie moved into the wide cleared path and thundered ahead of the huntsman. She hoped she’d see a cross path so she could move farther left. She needed to be on the outside of the pack, not behind them.

Meanwhile, Yvonne thanked heaven for the seat belt and Jesus strap. Otherwise, her head would have smashed up into the roof of the old 2008 Tahoe. Walter rolled down the rutted dirt road, the incline not giving comfort. Finally at the bottom, they roared across a ford, and Yvonne gave thanks they weren’t stuck in the creek bed. Walter knew what he was doing and moved along, his tires now creating mud tracks. Windows rolled down, he and Yvonne could hear the hound music as well as Shaker blowing “Gone Away.”

The huntsman also let out an encouraging scream to his pack.

Walter laughed. “We tell him he sounds like a girl when he does that.”

“It is high-pitched.”

“A high pitch excites the hounds, but that doesn’t mean we won’t torment Shaker.”

“I doubt anyone would mistake him for a girl.” Yvonne laughed, too.

“He’s the manly type. Huntsmen are, except for the lady huntsmen—but they are tough as the men.”

“I guess you would have to be to do this.” She shut up as he encountered another rut.

Walter pulled ahead as Second Flight followed Sister in the woods, where the sound ricocheted off the trees, the leaves muffling some of it.

Reaching open fields, uncut, he drove to where the rutted road intersected another rutted road, then turned around so the nose of the Tahoe faced the field and the woods, which were about a half mile away. The glorious sound came closer and closer.

“There.” Walter pointed to some broomstraw bending.

Sure enough the gray popped out of the field, ran right toward the Tahoe, passed it, and flew to a huge old storage building down the road. He ducked into his den, dug under and into the outbuilding, a perfect site for coziness in all kinds of weather.

Yvonne, thrilled to have seen the fox, twisted around to follow his progress. “He doesn’t look frightened.”

“He knows he’s got us beat. They usually do. Ah, here come the lead hounds.”

Dragon, Dasher, Twist, and Thimble shot by, immediately followed by the rest of the pack, Asa bringing up the rear. Being the oldest, Asa wisely would stop from time to time to check and make sure the fox hadn’t followed them and cut across the road or, worse, doubled back. Convinced the line was still true, he picked up speed, joining the rear of the pack.