Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

Sister came out, reaching the road. She moved by Walter and Yvonne, for Walter had parked to the side to give everyone room. Within about five minutes all of First Flight had gathered by the storage building. Then Second Flight joined them.

Shaker, already on foot, blew “Gone to Ground.”

“I was first.” Dragon pushed forward.

Shaker patted the braggart’s head, reached to each hound, praising, patting. “Good hounds. Well done.”

Parker and Pickens, still young, about wiggled themselves to death, they were so excited.

Easily swinging back up in the saddle, Shaker tooted a few notes, then moved down the road toward where the creek in the woods poured into a deeper, rougher creek. His idea was to draw back to the mill.

Walter followed. “We’re on a part of the land called Shootrough, because Peter Wheeler, who formerly owned all this, would bring out his cronies and they’d bird hunt. It’s pretty good bird hunting, which I’m sure our fox knows.”

“Tootie told me foxes are omnivorous.”

“It’s a good survival mechanism. We have it as well. Foxes are good hunters; they hunt much like cats do. But any animal will take the easy way out if you give it to them, and game gets scarce in winter, which is when we fill up all the feeder boxes. We have so much land, so many big fixtures that the kibble bill just for foxes can run about a thousand dollars a month, which is why we wait until winter. Clubs with smaller fixtures—which is to say most clubs north of the Mason-Dixon line, or even the Northern Virginia hunts these days—they might be able to feed year-round.” He turned to her. “Development. It’s a hunter’s curse, any hunter.”

“I read in one of the papers that the English are creating new villages. They have a housing shortage and they’re trying to make the new places look like old places, I guess. But it sounds environmentally forward.”

“Does. I expect some very smart young developers here will figure that out, but right now it’s just divide up the land into squares and slap up houses, even if they’re five-hundred-thousand-dollar houses. Not much thought goes into it.”

She nodded. “We’re so spoiled. We have so much land we forget to take care of it. I can’t say as I thought of that until we sent Tootie to Custis Hall. Visiting there, walking the grounds, actually going to some of the teachers’ lectures during parents’ weekend. I began reading.” She looked back at him. “There are greens in Chicago and people who want to protect the environment, but it’s not the same as here. Here you live it.”

“We try.”

A deep boom rang out. Then a higher squeak.

Walter beamed. “Asa. The squeak was a young entry honoring Big Daddy, so to speak. What a joy it is to watch a hound learn its trade. Well, kind of like being a parent, I guess.”

“I’m seeing Tootie in a new light.”

“She’s good, Yvonne, very good. Has the instinct for it as well as the physical ability. In truth, a whipper-in must ride better than anyone, better than the huntsman. However, most huntsmen started out as whippers-in so they can ride, and ride well, but you’re riding behind the hounds. It’s a different skill.”

“I had no idea foxhunting was so complicated. When did you learn?” She grabbed the strap again as they reached the deep creek.

She also prayed they would not be crossing it. She had not brought water wings.

“In 1984. I was twelve. We hadn’t much money but Sister and her husband, Ray, allowed me to ride their horses. Sister gave me lessons. I loved it from the first, and I loved her, too.”

“I can see why.” And she could.

Hounds would speak, then fall silent. Speak again as Shaker hunted them back toward the mill, which was anywhere from two to five miles depending on which way one rode.

Hunt and peck, hunt and peck. Hounds cut up turning toward the higher woods. Walter backed out, got on the road, turned left this time when he hit the intersection, then sat at the edge of the woods. Hounds moved through it. Opened again, and this time it stuck.

Walter crept along. They reached the edge of the fenced pastures. Betty jumped in from the woods while Tootie leapt first over a coop forty-five degrees away from Betty. The two whippers-in waited for the hounds to appear, then Betty took two o’clock and Tootie took ten o’clock. Hounds came out working slowly, noses to the ground, but speaking.

Walter informed Yvonne, “It’s a fading line. They’re working steadily. If it heats up we’ll have a good run. If not, the field will stay at a trot or walk, but this is good hound work.”

She watched attentively.

The line never heated up but it did hold, and the pack returned to the mill, going behind it to the den of the red fox.

“Buzz off, blowhard. I could hear you for the last forty-five minutes.” A voice wafted up from one of the den openings.

This so startled Pickens, Parker’s littermate, that he stepped back.

Cora stepped forward. “Rude.”

“You’re disturbing the peace. Go to the party wagon and leave me alone.”

The mill fox knew the drill inside and out, calling the hound trailer by the name the hounds and humans called it, “party wagon.”

“Come along. Good hounds. Good work.” Shaker sang out, they turned and followed.

“He didn’t have to be so rude,” Pickens complained.

“He’s a red fox,” Dasher said. “They think they’re the center of the universe.”

—

The breakfast, held in the old house that Walter, renting it for a ninety-nine-year lease, had rehabilitated, kept everyone eating, drinking, talking.

Walter introduced Yvonne to Margaret DuCharme as a colleague. She was a sports doctor, he was a cardiologist. He left the two women to talk while he made the rounds as host and Joint Master.

“DuCharme.” Yvonne thought. “Old Paradise. Tootie has told me about it. Very romantic.”

Margaret shook her head. “Yes and no. Crawford Howard has finally bought it from my father and uncle, who don’t speak, by the way, just so you know. At any rate, Crawford played a waiting game.” She took a deep breath. “It’s for the best. Since Tootie told you a bit about it, why don’t I give you the tour when you’re available?”

“I’d love that.”

They moved on to others. Sister came up to Margaret, who had taken up hunting only two years ago. As she was a natural athlete, it came easily. “Looking well.”

“As are you, Master.”

“How’s it going?”

“It’s really interesting. Of course, neither Dad nor I live in any of the dependencies anymore, but I can’t stay away. The old foundation of the big house, as you know, withstood everything because it’s cut stone, heavy thick stone, fitted together. Crawford has had it wrapped in heavy plastic, that awful blue stuff, and he’s dug around the outside.”

“Really?”

“He’s pouring in goo, for lack of a better word, to seal it. No water will ever seep through.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“He’ll be glad to do it.” Margaret teased her.

“Crawford thinks of everything.”

“I bet they’ve found stuff in the walls.”

Margaret nodded. “Pack rats.”

“Binky,” she mentioned her uncle, “now that he has money again, is being impossible. Bragging about how much the DuCharmes have done for the county since 1812.”

“Well, snobbery hasn’t done either your uncle or your father much good, has it?” Sister got right to the point.

Margaret laughed, then looked serious for a minute. “I’m tired of being the go-between. Now that they’ve sold Old Paradise, have gobs of money, the hell with it. I love Daddy but he’s set in his ways. Hates change.”