Рита Браун - Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Across from this charming station, restored by Kasmir, sat the picturesque Chapel Cross on the northeast quadrant of the crossroads that bore its name. Apple orchards abounded along with pastures. Across from the church, shielded by pines, Binky and Milly DuCharme’s Gulf Station still sported the old blue and orange Gulf sign. His son, Art—in his midthirties, often called Doofus behind his back—sometimes acted as a go-between for the brothers, as did Margaret, Arthur’s daughter. The two cousins got along just fine, despite feuding fathers.

Horse trailers parked in the paved lot at the station. Sister knew the fixtures around here as well as her own farm. She’d hunted them for over forty years, thinking of her landowners as a large family, filled with old stories, resentments, loves, dreams.

Across from the fire station, Mud Fence was yet another fixture, so Sister had thousands of acres at her disposal, barring Old Paradise now controlled by Crawford. Recently, she’d also picked up some new fixtures.

The DuCharmes were desperate for money; what choice did they have but to turn out their old friend Sister when Crawford offered to pay big bucks to hunt there? This was also a violation of MFHA strictures. Land had to be offered, not paid for. Knowing this, Sister bore no grudge but she sorely missed Old Paradise. Crawford rented it, improved it, but did not own it … yet.

Phil Chetwynd, Mercer Laprade, Ronnie Haslip, Gray, the Bancrofts, were a few of the people whose trailers Sister had noticed as she drove in earlier. People were out in full force, for the day looked promising and February could wind up with snowstorms canceling hunt days. Why miss a good day?

Once everyone was mounted, Sister quietly said to Shaker, “Hounds, please,” the traditional request from Master to huntsman meaning, “Let’s go.”

Looking down at all those upturned faces, Shaker smiled, and replied, “Hup-hup.”

He trotted up the slight hill behind the station, calling out, “Lieu in,” then blew the note followed by four short ones. Hounds moved out in a semicircle going forward, noses down.

Trident spoke loudly. Never one to be outshone by any other hound, Dragon checked the line. Trident was right. Dragon, fussy because he didn’t go out Tuesday, tried to push ahead of the well-built tricolor but Trident was a touch younger and fast. All of Sister’s younger hounds had speed. She had deliberately picked up the pace in these last three hound litters.

The pack ran so close together one could have thrown a blanket over them, as the old foxhunting saying goes. The horses followed. Shaker rode Kilowatt, purchased for him by Kasmir, and felt as though he’d gone from 0 to 60 in three seconds. A few in the field parted company from their mounts, as the acceleration caught them off guard.

Bobby Franklin always assigned someone to ride tail to pick up the pieces. Fortunately, no one was hurt, but there’s always that delay for a person on the ground to mount, which is why someone stays back. The field must move on, and move on they did.

Happy for a fast start, Sister felt Aztec stretch out underneath her. Like so many Thoroughbreds, Aztec had a long stride, so compared to other horses in the field it looked as though he wasn’t laboring or trying very hard. And like all Thoroughbreds, he was born to run. The hounds charged into the thick woods a half mile from where they picked up the fox. Narrow trails necessitated slowing and taking some care, lest you leave your kneecap on a tree trunk.

Even with leaves off the deciduous trees, Sister couldn’t see well. Behind her, Bobby’s voice, loud and clear, stopped her short.

“Tallyho,” came his booming, deep voice.

This was followed by a chorus of the same.

Sister couldn’t easily turn around. She heard hoofbeats coming toward her. Aztec didn’t want to back into the woods with its low bushes, but a hard squeeze did the trick.

“Huntsman!” Sister shouted.

With difficulty, people got their horses into the woods, heads pointing outward. In this way, the huntsman and Kilowatt didn’t risk a kick. A hard kick could break a leg.

Flying as fast as he could given conditions, Shaker, mindful of the members, touched his crop to his cap. As he burst out into the open he saw Bobby, horse turned toward the north, cap off in his right hand, arm extended fully. This told the huntsman the line of the fox.

Sister was still in the woods and not liking it. She shot out of the underbrush to Aztec’s delight, then thundered past the people in the woods. Following by placement, one by one, they emerged. Phil Chetwynd, who had ridden right behind Sister, was the next out. Ronnie Haslip, the club’s treasurer, was next, and so they went. This is a sensible arrangement because usually horses in the rear are slower than horses in front, so if the people in the back came out first they would slow everyone down.

As she reached the pasture, Sister saw nothing. Bobby, as he should, followed the huntsman. She hit the rise, looked down and saw hounds, huntsman, Betty on the right, Sybil on the left, and Bobby leading Second Flight behind. As Sister rode down, hard, Bobby veered off to the side so she could slip behind Shaker, leaving a good forty yards between huntsman and herself. The faster you rode, the more space you left, just in case.

Once the entire First Flight emerged, Bobby fell in behind them. The fox, which no one saw, crossed the railroad tracks and cut north into Mud Fence farm.

The riders had to cross above the railroad tracks, then carefully cross the tertiary road, climb a small bank, take three steps, and pop over a coop that, having sunk with age, couldn’t have been more than two and a half feet high. Sister was over in a flash, as were those close behind her, including the Bancrofts who, nearing eighty, were always perfectly mounted for their abilities, high, and their ages, also high.

Bobby knew where a hand gate was. This cost him a good ten minutes even though the last person with a companion closed it so he could get forward. You never leave anyone alone at a gate when horses are moving off. So it’s always two people.

Bobby heard the horn blowing “Gone Away” again. Standing in his stirrups to see over the rise, he beheld all in front of him and pushed on.

Sister, flying, just flying, reveled, in her element. The fact that this was a fox they didn’t know also excited her. Given the hard winter, breeding season had been interrupted by heavy snows, so she was sure this was a visiting dog fox.

She passed a collapsed shed, then the entire pack, Trident still in front, turned west, headed for Chapel Cross. A narrow ditch divided the church land from Mud Fence and it was full of running water from melting snows higher up. Aztec leapt it. Sister didn’t look down. Never a good idea to look down.

They clattered by the graveyard, right past the small lovely church and had to cross the north/south road, which meant Sister was right at the Gulf station. Apron on, Milly stood in the picture window with DuCharme Garage written in the top. She waved to the people, which made a few horses shy.

Sister waved back but kept moving. The fox crossed the east/west road almost at the crossroads, shot into the edge of Old Paradise, and ran along the snake fencing. A roar above them announced Crawford Howard’s Dumfriesshire hounds, who joined them.

To Sister’s relief, the two packs ran together. The music was incredible. The cry of these hounds must have reverberated over the mountain all the way to Stuarts Draft.

The new, larger pack soared over the snake fencing, crossed the road again, this time a good mile from the crossroads. Trident was still in the lead and to Sister’s surprise, Dreamboat was pushing his way forward.

Sister was so proud of him. His great day at Oakside had emboldened him. He now believed he could lead and he was right up there.