Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

They were listening now as Shaker encouraged them.

“Find your fox. He’s here.”

“Where?” Parker wailed.

“If you’d shut up and put your nose to ground, you big baby, you might find him,” Cora reprimanded him.

Tatoo, steady, not a flashy hound, walked northward. A tingle. He walked a bit faster. More tingle.

“Think I’ve got him.”

Cora loped over, putting her nose to ground. The two lovely animals walked shoulder to shoulder. Both made hounds, they didn’t want to open if they weren’t sure, or if the scent faded. Important to push a hot line in the direction in which the fox was moving. And no made hound wanted to run heel—which is to say backward—although they do it for a few moments to double-check their efforts, the intensity of scent.

Foxhounds, bred as we know them for over a thousand years—and more than that if one goes back to ancient Greece, where they might not be recognizable as our foxhounds but they were scent hounds—over all those centuries, the animal improved. A foxhound is born to hunt. That is what it lives to do.

Sister and some of those with her were also born to hunt, a drive unfathomable to many people in the so-called modern world. They couldn’t realize that the human is a medium-sized predator. It’s how we survive. It’s what we are.

So those foxhunters, rapt attention, observed the ancient ritual.

Even Marilyn Davidson, unaccustomed to the pace, watched. As she hadn’t parted company with her horse on that hard run, her own confidence soared.

Now Ardent joined Cora and Tatoo. Sterns waved slightly.

“A lot of back and forth,” Ardent commented.

“New fox,” Cora replied. “We haven’t picked him up before. He’ll learn we don’t give up.”

The fox, young, moved into the woods, ground falling away now. A vixen, Hortensia, who knew Mill Ruins well as pickings were good, called to the youngster.

“Come over here to me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The pack will find your scent again. You’ve never run before. I’ve never seen you here. This place is overrun with those stupid hounds about once every three weeks.”

“I came off the mountain. Too many coyote.”

“Follow me. Step in my footsteps if you can. We will reach another fork in the creek. You jump into the creek and swim as far as you can. I’ll lead them away.”

“Aren’t you scared?”

“What’s your name, son?”

“Ewald.” Noticing her raised eyebrows, he said, “Mother named me.”

“Well, Ewald, the hound doesn’t exist who is as smart as the fox. But you have to learn.” A loud song picked her head up; she listened. “Okay. They’ve found your line and they’re about seven minutes away. Jump in. Swim as long as you can and don’t worry, they’ll pick up my line. Climb out and if you swing back toward the mill, you’ll find an old abandoned outbuilding. Good place for a den. I take it your father threw you out?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“A little early for that. Usually you young fellows are sent on your way the end of October through November.” She listened again, as the whole pack was singing now. “Don’t leave the building until you hear the big trailers pull out. Rumbling engines—you’ll know. Make that your den. Been empty for years. Oh, one last thing. James is the big red fox who lives behind the mill. He’s a pain in the ass. Don’t fret. I’ll fix it if he becomes troublesome. He wants to tell everyone what to do. Go. Go now.”

Ewald jumped into the creek, swam upstream. Hortensia watched, waited until she could identify Dasher’s voice, then trotted due west, heard Cora, Ardent, Trooper, Tatoo, and broke into a flat-out run. This was going to be like taking candy from a baby.

Tootie, on the right of the creek, watched as Betty did from the left side of the creek. Dasher reached the spot where Ewald had leapt into the creek and Hortensia had turned right.

“Vixen! Hot, hot, hot!” he screamed.

The whole pack screamed behind him as the field turned right on a rutted farm road, the worse for the recent rain. After the rain the red clay was serviceable if slick. A few downed trees, trunks conveniently without limbs, provided impromptu jumps. Bobby Franklin had a devil of a time getting around a few of these.

On and on they ran as woods got thicker, the temperature slid downward.

Hortensia paused at an open meadow, then scorched the earth running to the other side, in which stood a two-acre crop of marijuana just ready to be harvested. She sped through plants as high as a horse’s head, laughing as she ran. On the other side of this botanical treasure, she, being a gray, easily climbed a tree, walked out on a thick branch, and dropped onto the heavy branch of another tree, where she flatted herself to watch the show.

Four minutes later, the entire pack blasted into the marijuana. Tootie rode to the right of the crop. Given the density of it, she couldn’t ride between rows so she rode at the edge. Betty, now on the other side of the creek, held up far down at the southern edge of the crop, in open pasture.

Sister held up as Shaker blew hounds to him.

“She’s here. The scent burns!” Twist was beside himself.

Hounds, baying, continued to thrash through the thick crop. Reaching the foot of the tree, no vixen.

Cora, wise, looked up. “How do you do?”

Hortensia grinned. “Lovely day.”

The conversation abruptly ended as a scythe of rat shot whooshed through the tall swaying plants.

The owner of this illegal crop, hearing the commotion, had been following it in his truck, now parked about forty yards back on the farm road.

Tootie, startled, as was Jujube, called out to the hounds, “Go to him!”

“Go to hell.” An irate, middle-aged man, cap pulled low over his head, cussed at her, then shot at the hounds again.

“Ow!” Tatoo screamed, blood now squirting from the rat shot in the hindquarters and leg.

The hounds melted into the marijuana to join Shaker.

Tootie dismounted and, reins in hand, walked to Tatoo, on the ground. “Good boy. Good hound.”

“I’ll kill that worthless cur!” The grower leveled the rifle at Tatoo’s head.

“No, you won’t.” A handsome blond man appeared behind the grower, wrapped both hands around his neck. “I’ll kill you first. Drop the goddamned rifle!”

The fellow did just that, choking for air.

“Hold hard, young lady. I’ll help you with the hound.” He then whispered in the grower’s ear, “If you ever harm a hound again or speak filth to a lady, I will kill you.” He tightened his grasp and the grower’s arms flailed. “Do you understand?”

All the man could do was try to nod his head.

Hortensia watched with great interest.

The handsome fellow pulled the man to the ground, picked up his rifle, and smashed the butt of it into his head as he, coughing, tried to crawl. Then he calmly wiped his fingerprints off the rifle, checked for a pulse, smiled at Tootie. “He’ll live, unfortunately. You walk your horse. I’ll carry the hound until we near the field. Are you all right?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Tootie, dazzled by this fellow, noticed he wore ratcatcher; a cowhorn on a rawhide string hung on his back, out of harm’s way.

Shaker sat still, worried, blowing hounds back. They hurried out of the field to him.

Sister, hearing the shots, held the field at a distance from the marijuana. Shaker couldn’t go into the crop because hounds would go where he did. Sister, keeping the people calm, resolved to go in if hounds did not come out and if she didn’t see Tootie. Hounds wouldn’t follow her. They would stay with Shaker.