Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

People who don’t hunt don’t give foxes credit. Clearly, they’ve never read Aesop or writers from thousands of years ago. Throughout history, people have remarked on the intelligence of foxes. Even if they had read such materials, modern readers would assume this was all in the name of a good story.

Seeing is believing. Those people who hunted September 30, including those in the cars, would remember this day for the rest of their lives.

Tom was so overcome he couldn’t speak.

Diana reached the intersection, lifted her nose for a moment, took her bearings. Picking up a trot she returned to the big coop they’d jumped out of Old Paradise.

“Over!” She scrambled over, immediately followed by Parker.

The two packs rushed for the jump; other hounds wriggled under the board fencing. And yes, they found fresh scent. Running, stretched to the fullest, the extraordinary grace of a flying hound mesmerized the people even as they kept their legs on their horses, hands forward. If anyone feared a hard gallop they got over it.

Betty kept up on the right shoulder of the pack. Tootie, farther in the pasture, hung on the left. Sam Lorillard, the only whipper-in Skiff had, moved about a football field behind Tootie. An experienced whipper-in, Sam knew that should the pack reverse, he had to be there and he’d be up front. The burden would fall on him to protect them from the road.

Sister turned for a second. So far the field kept up, no stragglers, no one hit the ground. Farther behind, Bobby Franklin kept everyone together.

The music was deafening. Both Shaker and Skiff blew “All on” in unison. This meant all the hounds were on the line. Then they blew “Gone Away,” and a prettier sound was rarely heard.

Everyone’s blood was up. Another jump at the end of the pasture, three logs tied together, challenged them onto a cleared path in thick woods. The fox, having a sense of humor, ran them through an illegal still destroyed a few years back. Riders circumvented the debris, heading up. They were literally at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Then he turned. Well ahead and with time to think, he came back down and, stretched to the max, he launched into a hard-running creek, water coursing down between crevices in the eastern face of the mountains.

The otters, merry fellows, hearing the commotion, quickly disappeared into their dens.

A red-shouldered hawk, high up, watched everything, knowing mice would scamper everywhere once the horses had passed.

Hounds reached the creek. Dragon jumped in, swimming to the far bank. He began searching for scent. Others joined him. Diana walked along the creek side. Yes, the fox had leapt in where Dragon followed, but she knew he wouldn’t emerge directly opposite. Also, he could just as easily double back if he swam downstream.

She walked and walked but whatever he’d done, he’d skunked them.

Flanks heaved; people slipped a hand in a coat pocket retrieving a handkerchief to wipe their brows. As this was a well-trained field of people as well as a well-trained pack of hounds no one spoke. But the sounds of heavy breathing, riders petting the necks of their horses, horses blowing out their nostrils, kept the otters securely in their dens.

If only the people would leave, then they could play some more.

Shaker and Skiff conferred.

“Let’s head back to the open fields. I don’t want to climb the mountains, do you?” the attractive huntsman asked.

Shaker nodded. “Good call. It’s early in the season. Not everyone is quite hunting fit.”

Skiff peered at the field, turned her horse toward the path leading to the westernmost field. Took them twenty minutes to reach the field.

Shaker hopped down, opened a gate. No jump welcomed them in this fence line, nasty barbed wire. If they picked up another fox there’d be jumping enough, farther along. Save the horse.

He swung back into the saddle with enviable ease, calling over his shoulder, “Gate, please.”

Now the people chattered, as hounds weren’t working.

Ronnie Haslip, the treasurer, dapper, eyes wide, swore to his old grade-school friend Xavier, “My God, what a run.”

“The graveyard. How many years have we hunted with Sister? I have never seen anything like that.”

These two men, in their forties now, had been best friends with RayRay, Sister’s son. When the fourteen-year-old boy was killed in the farm accident in 1974, it hit the boys hard. They vowed to watch over Sister as RayRay would, if alive. They kept their vow, remembering to bring her gifts on special days, dropping by. She loved them beyond words.

Hounds moved within sight of the stable, trotting toward the southeast where Little Dalby and Beveridge Hundred lay. Had they continued east they would have been back at Chapel Cross but Tinsel stopped, her stern starting to move. Roger, one of Crawford’s hounds from his R litter, joined her. They opened, heading directly southeast. Now the pack was all on again, moving fast but not at blinding speed for scent proved tricky. All wound up at the rock outcropping where Sarge, Earl’s son, rested. He’d gone out early in the morning to a cutover cornfield on Old Paradise. His father, Earl, had stayed in the stable. Earl’s den, a disguised burrow, led under the tack room. He had another den in a stall. Life was good. This morning Sarge drew close, then saw the horse trailers so headed back to his new den in the boulders. He’d made improvements. No marauder could touch him.

“He’s in there,” Roger bellowed.

“He’ll stay in there, too,” Pookah grumbled.

Folks, hunting hard for two and a half hours, finally turned back to the trailers. Had the day been cool, say a February day, everyone hunting fit, maybe they’d have kept casting but hounds performed beautifully. Stop while you’re ahead.

Sister and Crawford rode side by side, reliving the hunt as was everyone behind them.

Ahead, Shaker and Skiff’s horses walked in step, reflecting the harmony between the two huntsmen. Although they had hunted hard, hounds, heads up, stepped with a lively spring. They, too, recounted the day.

A bit of scent pushed them into a trot, but it was over before it began.

Back at the trailers, before dismounting, the two huntsmen blew in unison “Going Home,” a long drawn-out melody, a touch mournful for it means the hunt is over.

In the distance, “Going Home” came back to them, deeper in tone.

Tootie, now on foot, helping Shaker load hounds, said, “That happened last time we were out here. What a strange echo.”

Sister listened. Most people heard it.

Tom Tipton, getting out of Sara’s car, remarked, “Sounds like a cowhorn. Who’s doing a cowhorn?”

Sara shrugged. “Probably a bounceback from the mountains. Shaker and Skiff blew quite a little toodle.”

Tom didn’t argue with her. He just added, “Hardly anyone knows how to blow a cowhorn anymore. Weevil was good at it.” He paused, smiled. “I used to think if a huntsman used the brass horn he was a Yankee.”

Sara teased him. “You would.”

Misty-eyed, he just tilted his head. “It’s all gone now. All so far away.”

Tables filled the center aisle of the main barn. Fried chicken, ham biscuits, sandwiches, sliced raw vegetables, and a variety of dips, and Crawford had a caterer slicing hot roast beef, which delighted everyone. Cooked carrots, tiny potatoes, asparagus, whatever you wanted, it was there. Most riders, having wiped down their horses, watered them, and put on a sweat sheet, zoomed straight for the bar.

A tub at the door of the stable was filled with raw carrots for the horses.

Tedi whispered in Sister’s ear, “A big success. That echo was odd, wasn’t it?”

“It’s the second time we’ve heard it out here.” Sister squared her shoulders. “We need to build on this success. Slowly, we’ve got to get Crawford to register with the MFHA as a farmer pack. That will solve a lot of problems.”