Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

The pack, moving westward, curling slightly south, baffled the whippers-in. Betty Franklin and Tootie Harris thought the hounds would sweep north toward the old Pattypan Forge, always a good spot. But noses down, silent, they pushed. The two humans knew they were working, but the scent wasn’t strong enough to speak. Perhaps in time it would heat up and they would open, sing.

Shaker Crown, the huntsman, in his early forties, liked letting his hounds solve problems. Some huntsmen were always picking up hounds, moving them to a place considered by the human more favorable. Foxes cared nothing for what humans considered favorable, but the incessant fiddling with a pack of hounds made them dependent on the humans. Given human shortcomings, never a good thing.

Sitting in the big cornfield, Comet ate succulent corn. Why bother hunting? He’d started out thinking catching a mouse would be bracing, but the sweetness of the corn, those large lower ears just waiting to be plucked, proved so much better than running about listening to the mice scream bloody murder to one another. Those high-pitched voices could be irritating. Full, Comet had been sloppy. He’d left the farm before the hound and horse trailers had, so he didn’t know where they were going. He knew it was a hunt day. He’d also seen the trailers, cleaned and ready to go. Sloppy. He knew perfectly well that After All was one of the hunt’s best fixtures, a place where a club could hunt. He also knew it was cubbing, and Sister Jane never liked to take her youngsters too far from the kennels. If a youngster wandered off, a rarity but it did happen, they would find their way home. If an older hound, used during cubbing to settle and train the youngsters, began to tire, he or she could return to the trailers or wait to be picked up by a road whip, a person in a special hound truck ready for any task. Today it was Betty’s husband, Bobby Franklin.

Well, the hounds nosed around the edge of the cornfield and by the time Comet heard them, Asa, the old gentleman with the basso profundo voice, opened.

“Gray!”

“Shit.” Comet cursed as kernels tumbled from his jaws.

Giorgio, in his second year hunting, crashed into the corn close behind Dasher, who didn’t mind as he was fast. The hounds strung out in the corn rows, the corn bending as they pushed through.

First Flight, led by Sister on Keepsake, a most sensible horse, skirted to the edge of the cornfield, following on the outside. No Master, or field member for that matter, ever wanted to destroy a farmer’s crop. Hunts lost territory through such thoughtlessness.

Shaker also kept clear of the unharvested corn; ahead of Sister, he listened to hound voices, each of which he recognized. Betty Franklin, way on the other side of the cornfield, where it abutted the woods, also listened as did Magellan, her Thoroughbred. Hearing the corn swish gave him a moment.

“There’s a monster in there.” The rangy fellow wavered.

“Magellan, calm yourself.” She patted him on his neck.

He trusted Betty, as most creatures did. He somewhat stopped tensing, but his ears swiveled all over the place.

Betty thought to herself that this was how a large prey animal survived. One should never punish a horse for being a horse. Instead, give him confidence. One did that by remaining calm, with a low voice, a pat, and just the tiniest picking up of the reins in case a buck occurred. Magellan, now past that, had been more than capable of launching you when younger.

Already over the hog’s-back jump, waiting in the wildflower field was the second whipper-in, Tootie Harris, age twenty-two. Given that she couldn’t go into the cornfield, she prudently galloped ahead, took the jump, turned her horse’s head toward the horn calls, and waited. She especially did not want to turn the fox. Given his path of running, she was pretty sure it was Comet. They’d become well acquainted with each other, as the gray lived under part of the old stone foundation, laid in 1787, of her newly built, “old” cabin.

Sure enough, she watched the wildflowers sway mightily. He was out of the corn. She counted. By the time she reached thirty, Dasher was in the wildflower field. She could just see his handsome head and his stern. Within seconds the rest of the pack pushed on. The field, moving fast alongside the corn, kept behind Shaker, who had slowed slightly, fearing he would step on one of the hounds. Couldn’t see a thing. The Bancrofts kept a riding path around all their crop fields, so Sister turned right, reached the midpoint of the field, checked Keepsake, turned left, and in two strides she was over the hog’s back, a jump that scared horses not accustomed to seeing one. Fortunately, everyone in the field this Tuesday was a Jefferson member, so the jump proved no obstacle. Those in Second Flight, the one with no jumping, continued on to a large gate. As always, the dismount, the opening, and two people staying behind to close took time, but Second Flight did catch up just in time to see everyone standing in front of the authentic-looking cabin.

Comet, secure under the foundation, watched as Pookah and Pansy, two hounds in their second year, dug at the large stones.

“Give it up, girls,” Comet barked.

“I knew it was you! I will get you. I will.” Pansy allowed herself a moment.

“You’re delusional. If you couldn’t reach me when I fell half asleep in the cornfield, you’ll never catch me. Never.”

Asa, now nose to nose with the girls, his voice mellow, replied, “True enough, smartass, but we made you run for it.”

A pause followed this. “Well, yes, you did.”

That pleased the hounds. Shaker blew “Gone to Ground,” and praised his hounds. “We’re home. We’ve been out for an hour and a half, heat’s coming up. Why don’t I just walk them to the kennels?”

“Good idea,” Sister agreed.

The pack, terribly pleased with itself, walked smartly to the kennels, which took all of seven minutes.

The riders who were not staff parked at After All. They turned to go back, led by Ed and Tedi Bancroft.

Tedi called over her shoulder, “You’ll be at the breakfast?”

Sister nodded to her friend and neighbor.

—

Hounds up, horses wiped down and turned out, Sister, Betty, Shaker, and Tootie piled into Shaker’s aging Land Cruiser, which he’d bought used. He loved that vehicle; it could churn through anything, fit six people inside if needed. He could flop down a seat and put a few hounds in the SUV, too. The gas mileage was a trial, but other than that the Land Cruiser was made for country people.

Gray Lorillard, Sister’s boyfriend, owned a new Land Cruiser. Just made Shaker’s mouth water.

—

The back verandah, people talking, the table laden with food, the serve-yourself bar not being used hard as most people would leave to go to work, bore testimony to the endless hospitality of the Bancrofts. A few outsiders sniffed that given all that inherited wealth they could afford to be gracious. However, many a rich family exhibited robust ungraciousness. The Bancrofts liked people. True WASPs, they kept their good works to themselves, but for four generations the Bancrofts had helped thousands of people, most especially through their bequests to hospitals and educational institutions.

Kasmir Barbhaiya, who had moved from India, chatted exuberantly with Tootie concerning Asa’s deep voice. The small group—it was a weekday hunt, so only about twenty people had come out—relived the hunt.

Sister kissed Tedi on the cheek. “When you were at Madeira you-all hunted around Virginia and Maryland, did you not?”

“What fun it was.” The attractive woman, in her mid-eighties, beamed.

Sister, her cellphone in the inside pocket of her light tweed, pulled it out. Marion, a technical whiz, had sent Sister a copy of Weevil at the museum. Marion had also taken this to the police department, which found it marginally interesting. A missing cowhorn from Morven Park appeared to endanger no one. Jake Carle, like Marion and Sister, was riveted. Marion and Jake decided not to send out a notice to museum members. Not that they would hide anything should someone notice a missing cowhorn, but better to wait. It was all too fantastic. Then again, the cowhorn could show up without undue detective work, which wasn’t going to come from law enforcement people.