Рита Браун - Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

“I know, but I like some of them, and look at Inky. She lives in the old orchard and knows the silver-haired Master well. She gets treats all the time.”

Aunt Netty considered this. “That’s a Master and a Master takes care of foxes. By and large it’s best to be wary of humans, if for no other reason than that they are sublimely stupid. Name another animal that breeds past the food supply or uses up all the water. Remember the new people who ran their well dry, then dammed up the creek? See? No brains.”

“I don’t remember that.” He stopped, cocked his head. “The horn. They’re at the covered bridge.”

With her fabulous ears she, too, heard the hunting horn. The sound carried this morning. Using the farm roads, After All lay a mile and a half from the Lorillard place.

“They might pick up my line if they head east,” Aunt Netty said. “Doesn’t matter, we’re safe.”

The “we’re” alerted him. “You can’t stay.”

“I need the warmth.”

“Then take some rags and be gone. He’s got piles of them, the dirty ones and the neatly folded ones.”

“Throwing me out when hounds are running? You can’t be serious!” She fumed.

“After the hunt then.” He listened as Shaker blew for hounds to move off. “Let’s hide on the top shelf. In case Sam opens the mudroom door. He likes to hunt, but today he’s got old Auntie D with him.”

“She’s two years older than God.” Aunt Netty giggled as she leapt from shelf to shelf.

Yancy wanted to say, “So are you!” Then realized he was, too. He kept that to himself.

Seventy-one people rode out this Saturday as Sister had sent an e-mail asking members to come to honor Mercer with this joint meet with Woodford hounds. She also requested that The Jefferson Hunt members wear black armbands. Most everyone had to make one, but that was easy enough. Mercer would have been touched.

There were low clouds and decent footing—at least it wasn’t icy. A starting temperature of 42°F promised a good day, perhaps even a great one. Sister asked O.J. to ride up with her as always. Other First Flight Woodford people could also ride forward. The Bancrofts, Phil, Ronnie, Gray, Xavier, Kasmir, Alida, Freddie, and Felicity all rode up behind them. Lila Repton was trying First Flight again and After All Farm was a good place for a novice First Flight rider; the jumps were so well set, most creek crossings were solid. Second Flight found Bobby Franklin leading, and Ben Sidell rode with him. If necessary, Ben would move up.

The sheriff had men placed at strategic points in After All, Roughneck Farm, and the Lorillard place, as all abutted one another. He did not put any officers on the other side of Soldier Road, figuring the hunt would stay on the south side.

The clatter of seventy-one sets of hooves reverberated through the red-painted covered bridge. Hounds, sterns held high, couldn’t wait to be cast, but all their training ensured they didn’t scoot off.

On the right, Betty crossed the creek, as did Sybil on the left, neither one riding through the bridge. The steep crossings didn’t faze the whippers-in.

Shaker was on Kilowatt, a Thoroughbred of great power. He had planned to ride to the front fields of After All, then turn inward, avoiding the woods and riding toward Roughneck Farm. Then he would ultimately turn eastward again after drawing the Roughneck fields, jump back into After All and draw through the woods. Given the promising conditions, he thought this would allow people to see the hound work—at least in the beginning.

And they did, but not as Shaker planned.

Once cast, Diana loped into the middle of the field, streaks of snow still in the deeper folds. She stopped, stern upright. She blew out of her nostrils, then sucked air in. Pickens desperately wanted to be a forward hound, so he immediately ran over to the reliable, driven Diana.

Putting his nose down, he whimpered for a moment, “Umm.”

Diana sharply told him, “Open or shut up.”

She continued on, nose down, and he shut up but by now the whole pack spread out around her. Everyone knew she had something, but would it heat up or grow cold?

Aztec jigged a little. He wanted to go and so did Sister.

To Diana’s right, Thimble opened, followed by Diana who ran on the line up to where a bouquet of fox scent just burst into her nose. Everyone spoke at once, tore off at first in a line, then bunched up, running a bit like a rugby scrum.

The field witnessed this beautiful sight; it sends chills down a foxhunter’s spine and often does the same to someone seeing for the first time hounds work as a team.

The fast pace right off the mark thrilled Sister. Much as she loved hunting, there were times when she was eager to find a line, or disappointed on a poor day. Impatience, a fault with her, had to be curbed. A lovely jump—twenty-four feet long, three fence panels long—sat square in the fence line. Edward Bancroft had built this stone jump thirty-five years ago and it held up. He actually bought the stone because he wanted to practice stone fences. Sister and O.J., grinning and laughing—they couldn’t help it—took that fence as a pairs team, as did many of the riders behind them. If two or three people can clear an obstacle together, so much the better. That got everyone high; hearts beat faster. Poor Bobby had to hustle to a gate but many of the Second Flight people managed to catch up, observing the wonderful jumping in pairs and determining then and there they would be doing that next year.

Flying through the second large field, hounds hooked sharply left; they took the hog’s-back jump first, followed by Shaker, then Sister, then O.J.—as this jump was maybe twelve feet long. Although three feet by six and using thick railroad ties, it was not a solid jump; one could see through the ties. Not that it was terribly airy, but a horse not encountering a hog’s-back before might well put on the brakes. Not one did today because the pace was too good and The Jefferson Hunt horses had flown over this jump many a time. The Woodford horses were Thoroughbreds and that had to count for something.

Those seventy-one people thundered over the field, jumped a coop into the wildflower field between Sister’s and the Bancrofts’, roared up to the ruins, and stopped. Hounds crawled over the ruins.

Inside his den, Comet remained silent. He’d retreated to the deepest part of his lair. Happy for a rousing start, Shaker dismounted, blew “Gone to Ground,” and praised everyone. He took Kilowatt’s reins from Kasmir, who had ridden up at Sister’s direction to hold Shaker’s horse.

Stepping on the wall ruins, Shaker threw his leg over.

“Thanks, Kasmir.”

“My pleasure.” Kasmir slightly inclined his head, then rode back to Alida Dalzell. He was resplendent in a weazlebelly and top hat, riding his flaming chestnut mare, Lucille Ball. That mare had such a fluid stride the sight of her moving could bring tears to the eyes of any true horseman.

Sister smiled at O.J. As Masters, both knew to be asked to perform any service in the field was a singular honor. The harder, dirtier, or more dangerous the chore, the greater the honor. And while this was an easy chore, it did mean all eyes fell on Kasmir. He was marked by Shaker as a trusted man.

Sometimes, riding back to the trailers after a hard hunt, Sister would muse that this was one of the last sports where the warrior ethic prevailed. The point of foxhunting was not to make the sport easy but to make it superb sport enhanced by elegance. She could hear her mother’s words, “Jane, face danger with elegance!”

Not that the blazing run had been particularly dangerous. The footing was pretty good, no steep incline or decline troubled them. Nor had there been any difficult crossings, but people had to put on the afterburners and jump some decent jumps, interesting jumps.