Рита Браун - Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

She easily jumped over the snake fence, hit the road, slowed for a moment, then rode along the three-board fence marking Kasmir’s land. A new coop beckoned; it was stout. Again, as it was close to the road, she had only a few strides to hit it right and sail over, which she did; but like any rider, a little wiggle room was always desirable.

Within seconds she was right back in the woods and hounds just tore through those woods, finally losing their fox at a small meadow with large fallen trees on it bordered by a tributary feeding into a larger creek.

How did the fox lose them? Scent vanished.

Hounds cast about, Shaker patiently waited, moving a bit here, a bit there, but that boy was gone.

Everyone pulled up. Some slumped over, trying to catch a deep breath.

The two packs kept trying to pick up a lead. Shaker called them over and Crawford’s hounds followed, as though part of the Jefferson pack. He headed the group south, and try as he might for the next hour, their efforts were fruitless.

They’d been out for three hours, so Shaker turned back toward Tattenhall Station. Once again, hounds opened.

This brief run took them down to the larger creek. After fifteen blazing minutes, that was over.

Although she had hunted since childhood, Sister never deluded herself into thinking she understood scent. Only the fox understood scent. Hounds could smell it but they didn’t understand it either.

Oh, she knew the basics. She knew a fox could jump into the creek and run in the water to destroy scent, which this fox may well have done. A clever fox with some den openings into a creek bed could get in and out without leaving much of a trace, or so Sister thought. He could roll in running cedar or cow dung, which threw hounds off for a time. He could also, if he knew where one was, go straight to a carcass. That never failed to confuse hounds.

But those thoughts were the thoughts of reason. The fox didn’t care what she thought.

The group of humans chatted excitedly on the way back to Tattenhall Station. If hounds had spoken, the people would have quieted. Sister had them well trained. Crawford’s hounds merrily tagged along. A gabby field drove her bats. Her people respected tradition. The human voice can bring a hound’s head up, the last thing you want to do. They need their full powers of concentration. The only thing worse than bringing a hound’s head up was kicking one. Turning a fox back into the hound pack ranked right up there with these cardinal sins as it meant certain death for the fox. Sister didn’t want to kill foxes nor did most other Masters.

Fortunately The Jefferson Hunt people, most all of them, rode to hunt as opposed to hunting to ride. Observing hounds when they could was a goal for many of them.

Sister motioned for Tootie to catch up to her.

“See anything?” she asked.

The younger woman shook her head, then added, “Well, I did see Lila Repton take that coop on the road. Her horse didn’t.”

“She all right?”

“Yes. I stayed back to get her up.”

“Could she make the jump then?”

“She was a little put off so I jumped her horse over. She climbed on the coop and mounted up while I untied Lafayette from the fence line. He’s so good, that horse.”

“Well, that was good of you.”

“Lila is desperate to ride First Flight. I figured maybe this would help.”

“Mmm. Good run.” Sister beheld both packs walking quietly up ahead. “How long before he tears down here with his hound trailer and raises holy hell?”

Turns out, Crawford didn’t show up.

Sister, Shaker, and the whippers-in put up the Jefferson Hounds and Phil Chetwynd kindly allowed Crawford’s hounds to rest in his horse trailer. His horse and Mercer’s horse, Dixie Do—tied outside, happily munching away at feed bags—didn’t mind.

The station had a long kitchen at one side. Kasmir had outfitted the place so the club could enjoy hot breakfasts. Old railway benches pushed up to long tables provided seating. Once people selected what they wanted from the food tables outside the kitchen, they were glad to sit and not stand holding plates. There was also a cook in the old kitchen to scramble eggs, flip pancakes, fry bacon. This was pure luxury.

The old station exuded an ambience of time gone by. To Kasmir’s credit, he did not dispense with the sign over a door that said Ladies Waiting Room nor the old one that spelled out Colored. He talked to many hunt club people about it but Gray settled the issue for him. Gray simply said, “It’s our history. Let’s not hide it.”

History infused the place. As people excitedly replayed the hunt, some could imagine ladies in long dresses, bonnets, repairing to their waiting room where their delicate sensibilities would not be offended by the unwanted attentions of men.

The Southern concept is that every man surely wants to be in the company of a lady.

Sister figured there was some truth to that and she swept her eyes down the long tables to see the women, flushed from the exercise, exuberant. Even those not especially favored by nature became attractive. And then there were the ones like Tootie, so beautiful, so young and sweet, that she took a man’s breath away. Tootie had no idea of this. That made her even more beautiful.

Unfortunately, not enough young men hunted but when one did show up in the hunt field he gravitated toward her.

Tootie’s dream was to hunt hounds one day after becoming an equine vet, a dream that infuriated her ever-so-rich Chicago father and didn’t much please her socially-conscious mother either. Why would their beautiful, brilliant daughter want to operate on horses as well as be an unpaid amateur huntsman?

On and on the assemblage chattered. Sister, coat hanging on the rack at the door along with everyone else’s, pulled her grandfather’s gold pocket watch from her vest. Snapping it shut with a click, she laughed, for Phil, Mercer, Gray, and Betty had imitated her with their pocket watches.

“Grandfather’s.” Phil smiled. “I know that’s our grandfather’s.”

Betty chimed in. “Dad’s.”

“What about you, Mercer?” Sister asked.

“Bought it at Horse Country. You know the case of antique jewelry? Couldn’t resist.” Mercer smiled.

“The workmanship on those old pieces is, well, I don’t know if people can make jewelry like that anymore.” Sister again pulled out her grandfather’s pocket watch, admiring the filigree and his initials in script, JOF for Jack Orion Fitzrobin. Sister was a Fitzrobin on her mother’s side and an Overton on her father’s. She’d had a wonderful childhood of hunting with both grandfathers and grandmothers.

Betty, Phil, and Mercer again pulled out their pocket watches, opened them, and then all four clicked watches together, which gave them a good laugh.

After the breakfast, Sister kissed her Thoroughbred Aztec, then along with Betty and Sybil, rendezvoused at the hound trailer, also known as the party wagon.

Betty asked the obvious, “What do we do about Crawford’s hounds?”

“Take them to him. I think they’ll load into our trailer.” Sister put her hands on her hips. She had no desire to see Crawford. However, she would always help hounds.

As his trailer was near the hound trailer, Phil overheard. He and Mercer usually hauled their horses together using a top-of-the-line four-horse conveyance.

“Sister, I’ll take them to Crawford. I pass his farm on the way to mine and our guys will be fine with hounds all around them, plus we have the dividers. As long as they have their hay bags they don’t care.”

Dividers, a padded type of guard hung on a hinge, could be used to separate horses.

“That’s kind of you.”

“I don’t mind a bit.” Phil smiled broadly.