Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

“Let’s be sure before we open. Scent will be tricky today. Good low. Will vanish high as the temperature rises and this is Aunt Netty’s signature. She knows everything,” Diana counseled.

“Here!” Dragon had run ahead.

“That ass!” Diana spat, ran up to check the spot.

Now all the hounds, sterns waving, walked in a line as the line literally heated up. Soon they trotted and finally they opened, but they weren’t running hard, working but not running flat-out.

The territory, expensive and manicured near the house, was easy going, but soon the line slipped into the woods, tidy near the house but the farther away they moved, the rougher it became.

“She’ll head for the forge,” Pickens predicted.

“Unless she goes to the Lorillard place for extra treats.” Taz knew his quarry.

Aunt Netty’s den, very impressive and very neat, was in Pattypan Forge. Uncle Yancy had two outside dens at the Lorillard place as well as his special nest on a wide plank above the mudroom door. Aunt Netty tried and tried again to horn in on it all. She said she’d clean for him. A big fib. She’d nag him to clean. So Uncle Yancy would buy her off with doughnut pieces, or yesterday’s T-bone, to take back to the forge. After wheedling, she would scoop up her bounty and head back, often eating it all before she arrived home. Then she’d fall asleep in her den. The old girl ate a lot but didn’t put on weight. She refused to reveal her secret.

Hounds stopped, for Aunt Netty had stopped. A conversation with a bobcat must have taken place. The two predators parted. Aunt Netty turned toward Pattypan Forge, across the creek, water flowing southward, a mile and a half away. The path narrowed.

The club cleaned up the trails just before cubbing. In the nineteenth century the road to the forge, wide enough for horse-drawn carts, had closed in after World War I, when the forge closed. But half a road remained open, thanks to the hard work of the club members and Walter Lungrun’s small Caterpillar bulldozer.

“Hotter,” Dragon, out front, called.

They opened, running hard on the solid dirt road. Goldfinches in bushes complained and flew up, which meant Aunt Netty had not passed by in the last fifteen minutes. On they ran, the footing good, the grade slightly downhill.

The forge appeared, wrapped in vines. Hounds sailed through the long windows, glass long gone on most of them.

They gathered around one of Aunt Netty’s entrances and exits. She prudently had a few. In the rafters, Athena observed the commotion below, blinking from time to time.

“Aunt Netty,” Giorgio called her.

Nothing.

“We know you’re in there.” Pickens stuck his nose in the den.

Not a peep.

Asa, deep voice, said, “Oh, come on out and show us your bottle-brush tail.”

A hiss floated up from the depths of the den. “You’ll pay for that, Asa. I used to have a full tail until I got that skin problem.”

“Why didn’t your fur grow back?” Zandy, in all innocence asked.

“How the hell should I know?” the red fox growled.

Asa, older, replied, “Netty, Sister put out sardines in an open can with medicine. You ate everything. She did this once a week. So you were cured. I think you shave your tail.” He baited her.

Shaker, off Gunpowder, walked into the forge. “Well done.”

“What’s so well done about it? They have noses, don’t they?” Aunt Netty bitched from her den.

Shaker, hearing the barking, couldn’t help but laugh. He blew “Gone to Ground,” then praised everyone as he led them out of the forge.

Athena laughed, too. “Hoo. Hoo. Hoo.”

As the hounds moved off—people, too—Aunt Netty emerged, looking up at the huge owl. “How can you laugh? They were so rude.”

Athena spread her tail feathers. “Tails are important.”

“Feathers don’t count. Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“Yours, of course, darling, but the young hound didn’t mean any harm.”

“He needs to learn his manners. This younger generation.” Aunt Netty turned up her nose and repaired to her den, where she had leftover pie crusts, such a delicacy.

Shaker headed toward the Lorillard place. Usually a bit of scent was there. His hope was he’d pick up scent, run for a good ten or fifteen minutes, then retrace his steps to see if Aunt Netty had gotten sloppy. He doubted she would, for he knew her, too. Everyone knew Aunt Netty, but hounds might pick up visiting fox, since the food supply drew them in. After All enticed foxes, bobcats, even bears, as there was a lot to eat. The berries ripened. Many were already stripped off the bushes and vines, but enough remained to bring in anyone who liked fruit. Foxes love grapes, berries, sweet treats. Bears do, too. The harvested cornfields delighted all but the obligate carnivores.

On the left side, Tootie faced fallen trees, thick woods. She picked her way through, as she had only a deer path for guidance. Sooner or later she’d come out near the old toolshed at the Lorillard place.

Betty, on the cleared roadside, had a much easier time. But if hounds turned west, Tootie had to be there.

All she heard was the crack of twigs, an occasional boo-hoo, but hounds didn’t open. If they did, she’d need to wiggle her way through all this.

She heard more twigs crack behind her, then slow hoofbeats.

Turning around she saw Weevil on Clipper, one of the Bancroft Thoroughbreds.

He squeezed alongside of her, tipped his hat. “Miss Harris.”

“How do you know my name?”

He pulled a fixture card from his tweed pocket.

“Do the Bancrofts know you’re on Clipper?”

“No. No one in the stables. I can tack up a horse in two minutes. I’ll take him back shortly. He’s a splendid fellow but then, they can afford the best.” He paused. “Still have to ride them, though—which they do.”

“Thank you for what you did for me. I’ve been trying to find out who you are and—” Now it was her turn to pause. “Sister showed me a video of you at the Museum of Hounds and Hunting. That was you, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” He trained his deep brown eyes on her.

Brown eyes and blond hair, a warm combination, which was not lost on Tootie, who found herself simply staring at him. Then she managed to say, “People say you disappeared in 1954. You’re a ghost.”

He heard the horn. “Follow me. I can show you a better way through this and you’ll wind up behind the house instead of the old shed.”

“You know this country.”

“I do, but anyone with good topographical maps can figure it out.”

“You’re not a ghost, are you?” Tootie smiled.

Weevil smiled back, clearly taken with her. “Give me a little time. I will tell you everything once I have matters settled.”

“Revenge?”

“Justice.” His voice was even. “Simple justice and honor. Come along. If they hit, we’ll be thrown out.”

He picked up a trot, ahead of her now, and she followed. They reached some large rotting fallen tree trunks, and jumped them, then Weevil stopped. He pointed to the earth off the path.

“See the old stone pile? It was once a marker, fallen down. In colonial times, here and in Canada, people piled stones at crossroads, or put up numbered squares. So go left—which seems wrong, as you are going away from the shed. Pick up a stronger trot. We have more ground to cover.”

She followed his lead and within seven minutes, at the edge of the woods she saw the back of the Lorillard house. She also saw Uncle Yancy sitting on the back porch. As hounds sounded louder, he circled the house, laying down fresh scent. Then he walked to the family graveyard, jumped on the stone wall, left more scent. Ran across the graveyard, jumped back up, retraced his steps exactly, and ducked under the large front porch, to one of his outside dens.