Рита Браун - Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

No reason for any hound to check Asa, the pack immediately rushed to him. Shaker didn’t even have to say, “Hark.”

Within seconds the whole pack opened, the young entry beside themselves with excitement.

On the south side, Betty kept at two o’clock. She wanted to be on somewhat higher ground, which afforded her a wider view. The First Whipper-in, which Betty was, often sees the fox first. If a cast is like the face of a clock, Shaker is in the middle where the two hands meet. Hounds start at twelve o’clock. Betty was to their right at two o’clock. Sybil would ride at ten o’clock. Once a fox tore off, the staff did their best to maintain those positions but ground conditions could make it difficult.

If a hunt is fortunate enough to have a professional whipper-in, that individual is usually given the title of First Whipper-in. A few hunts in North America carried three to four paid whippers-in—wonderful for them and really wonderful for a young person starting out, say, being given the slot of Fourth Whipper-in. There’s only one way to learn foxhunting, and that’s by doing it.

Sister occasionally dreamed of a paid whipper-in or even two, say, young men or women in their middle twenties, but her two honorary whippers-in—loyal, reliable, shrewd in the ways of quarry—could have been professionals. Sister was proud of Betty and Sybil and knew that putting Tootie out with them would fast-forward the young woman’s knowledge.

On a good trail in the woods, Sybil held hard, as did Tootie. A medium-sized red fox shot right in front of them, plunging deep down into a narrow crevice in the land. The two women counted to twenty, then bellowed, “Tallyho!”

The count to twenty is plenty sufficient for a fox.

Hearing the call, Shaker waited. His hounds were turning in that direction. In his mind, to pick them up and throw them into the woods would be to undermine them. Both Shaker and Sister wanted hounds to work on their own, be confident and not dependent on constant human interference.

Asa was no longer in the lead, as he wasn’t fast enough. He worked in the middle of the pack. Irritating though it was to fall back to the middle, he knew he did his job. One of the youngsters, Zorro, shot over the line, then pulled up, confused. He wailed.

“Shut up, Zorro,” Asa called to the tricolor in his deep voice. “Come back to the middle.”

Zorro wanted to be first but he returned to the middle, for he had an inkling he’d messed up.

In their prime, Tattoo and Pickens now led the pack with Dreamboat, Diana, and Dasher close behind, the rest of the pack just behind them. They all headed into the woods, where their voices ricocheted off the trees. All slid down into the crevice, then clambered out as the humans circled round, losing time in the process.

Sister knew her fixtures. No need to kick on Matador. Keeping a steady pace, Shaker and hounds in sight, she put the field in a good position. They splashed across the narrow creek, running down the wide path on the other side. Then … silence.

Sister pulled up to see the pack gathered at the base of a tree. A fox, a beautiful gray in full winter coat, sat on a wide branch above. This was not the fox Sybil and Tootie had seen. Hounds had been on another fox’s line that ended up at the tree.

Shaker blew “Gone to Ground” because there are no special notes for “Climbed a Tree.”

Zorro, Zane, and Zandy couldn’t believe a fox lounged over their heads. The other hounds, however, had seen this many times.

“You come down, this isn’t fair,” Zandy bitterly moaned in her high-pitched voice.

“Cheater,” Zane added to the disgust of his sister. “You’re a cheater.”

Smiling, the gray called down, “Well, why don’t you get right under me, stand on your hind legs. Maybe you can grab my tail and pull me down.”

“Yeah. Right.” Zorro did just that, with his two littermates now on their hind feet.

The fox taunted them a little more, swinging his butt over the tree limb and urinating all over them, laughing loudly.

“Ow, ow, ow. It stings!” Zorro blinked his eyes as the older hounds couldn’t believe the youngsters would do what a fox told them to do.

Sitting on his haunches, Asa declared, “Young and dumb.”

Hounds laughed, horses laughed, and the people laughed, although they had no idea what Asa had said.

Shaker, thumbs-up to the fox, turned his horse Showboat around. “Come along, hounds. Come along. No telling what he’ll do next.”

Having a girl moment, Tootsie wrinkled her nose at the humiliated Zandy. “Don’t get near me!”

Poor thing. Zandy dropped her ears, falling back in the pack where Pookah walked beside her without saying a word.

Shaker left the woods and rode up on the hill. The ponds below sparkled as a shaft of light sliced through the clouds; then, like quicksilver, disappeared.

He cast hounds up toward the schoolhouse. Fox scent led to it, a short burst with singing ended at the foundation. A pair lived inside and had no incentive to open the front door.

Shaker sat by the schoolhouse. Sister waited, as did the field. Gray rode up with Phil and Mercer. The Bancrofts rode right behind Sister. Kasmir and Alida rode together behind Gray. As with any hunt, the longer one is out, the more the well-mounted, fit rider and horse move forward. Because of the recent weather, many people had not been able to keep their horses in as good a shape as they wished, but right now, all was well. No one was winded. Bobby Franklin kept an eye on his group, especially since new people usually started in Second Flight. He watched their horses for them. If a horse began to lag or tuck up a bit, Bobby would kindly send them back, with a guide always, at a walk.

Shaker motioned for his whippers-in to come up to him. The pack sat, waiting.

“Betty, go down to the wildflower meadow,” he said. “If the pack crosses the road, you’ll be with them. Sybil, parallel me on the other side of the fence and Tootie, you take the right. I’m casting west then south once we reach the meadow. Wind’s come up a bit. We’ll head into it.”

He waited as they moved off, giving Betty an extra five minutes. Tootie, first time alone as a whipper-in, actually wasn’t nervous. She loved it.

“All right, lieu in.” Shaker asked the hounds to draw on the south side of the farm road.

They wiggled under the fence. Five minutes passed, ten, then fifteen. Shaker and Showboat walked on the farm road, ice crystals in the ruts.

A peep, then a bark sent the huntsman into a trot. Showboat took three strides to easily clear the coop, painted black like the fence. Sister and the field followed while Bobby trotted down to a large farm gate.

Hounds worked the line, not enough for a roaring chorus but the scent was warming.

The pack moved into the wildflower meadow, nothing but brown stalks now. Betty crashed through winter’s debris, staying tight on their left shoulder while Sybil came out of the woods above her, behind Shaker. As the pack headed straight for the road, so did Sybil.

Betty crossed with them. Sybil—who always rode effortlessly, no fuss—brought up the rear, making certain no hound lagged on the macadam highway. Given that all the young entry hunted today, Sybil correctly flew up there with extra vigilance.

Also over the farm-road coop, Tootie stayed on the right, crossing the road minutes after Sybil. Tootie found herself in the mess below Hangman’s Ridge. There was no easy way up or down on either side of the broad flat plateau. Given that she lived at Sister’s, she knew where the deer trails were. Finally, on one she headed upward. Already halfway up the steep incline, Betty marveled at the pack. Hangman’s Ridge harbors all manner of game and the youngsters, while being exposed to some of the scents, had not yet smelled others. They never took their noses or eyes off the correct line.