Рита Браун - Fox Tracks

Closer and closer they came to the barn. Three hundred yards. Two hundred yards. One hundred yards. The fox dove under the side into his den, with hounds closing at fifty yards.

Before the hounds reached the barn, a blast hit a large tree behind Shaker as he barreled forward. Another shot rang out. The hounds stopped. Gunshots would usually stop them. Confused, they ran to Shaker.

“Good hounds. Good hounds.”

“What did we do wrong?” Diddy whined.

“Good hounds, well done, come with me,” Shaker said in a pleasant voice as yet another blast sprayed the branches overhead.

Shaker turned and met Sister, who stopped with six riders remaining close to her.

On the other side of the barn, Betty heard the shotgun. She knew it was coming from the hayloft, but whoever it was had opened the high hayloft door a crack, fired, then closed it. She saw no truck or vehicle nearby, but she couldn’t well look. She also turned to ride on the side of the hounds.

Sybil did likewise.

Sister wasted no words. “Let’s get out of here.”

They trotted back a mile, then walked. From where they picked up the fox’s scent to the shotgun blast had been twelve miles.

Inside the barn, the fox, Roger, heard footfalls coming down the ladder. Once he’d climbed in from his entrance outside, he stayed in his stall. Breathing hard, he desperately wanted the human to go away. A truck was parked inside the barn, and the human got in it, started it up, then turned it off. A minute later, he jumped out of the truck and left by the barn’s side door.

The barn owl fluttered down to Roger’s stall door.

“Jesus!” Roger caught his breath.

“Do you know there’s a Jesus lizard?” The barn owl turned her head almost upside down.

“Dear God,” was all Roger could muster.

The rear of First Flight and all of Second hadn’t witnessed the halt of the hounds’ approach, but everyone heard the shotgun blast.

Sister called to Shaker. She was worried about the hounds. “Let’s get them back and check them out.”

“I don’t think anyone is hit.” Sybil called from her side. “We’d have heard a yelp.”

“That son of a bitch put someone up there.” Sister swore. “Crawford had to have done it.”

“Maybe,” Betty called over. “But what are the chances of a run like that all the way from Little Dalby? Who would expect such a thing? It makes sense if the fixture is Tattenhall Station, but Little Dalby?”

Sister was so angry she couldn’t think straight. “How do we know he hasn’t paid someone to quote ‘manage’ the farm since the DuCharmes aren’t doing it? It’s his fixture now.”

“We don’t,” Shaker replied simply.

“We have a right to follow the hunted fox into another hunt’s territory,” Sybil responded, close to the hounds on her side.

Shaker shrugged. “What good does that do when you’re dealing with an outlaw pack?”

“I’m going to drive over to that SOB’s farm and—”

As only an old friend can, Betty said, “Janie, no, you’re not. Let’s get to the bottom of this first. Then we can handle it. Right now, I’m glad no one is hurt.”

Calming down, Sister pursed her lips. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”

“So, we’re not in trouble?” Diddy asked.

“No, we’re not,” Diana replied.

“But there is trouble.” Giorgio had hated the sound of that shotgun.

As they rode back to the trailers, they picked up people who had fallen off, pulled up, thrown a shoe, or just couldn’t keep up. The group was buzzing.

Back at the trailers, Shaker blew his horn for the riders to be silent.

Sister’s voice carried. She said, “This was an unfortunate incident but, as Betty said to me riding back, we are lucky no one was hurt, horse nor hound. I would appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourselves. First, I must inform my joint-master. As you know, Old Paradise isn’t our fixture anymore. So Walter and I need to discuss this incident with the DuCharmes, and then with Crawford. We need to find out who fired that shotgun. You can’t fault hounds for doing their job and that was one of the best runs we’ve had this season. So please, keep this to yourselves.”

They didn’t. Human nature being what it is, a few people almost immediately phoned their best friends and swore them to secrecy. Those best friends called more best friends.

Finally, someone called Crawford.

Sister, Betty, Shaker, and Tootie had done all the chores, which took longer after such an intense hunt. Their legs proved a little more tired than they’d realized during the energetic ride. All four of them had just emerged in front of the kennels when Crawford’s red Mercedes roared up Sister’s driveway.

Seeing them, he slammed on his brakes, bolted out of the car, shouting at the top of his lungs before he even closed the door.

He strode toward Sister. “Goddamn you, accusing me of shooting at your worthless hounds.”

She marched toward him and, without saying a word to one another, the three staff members came up right behind her.

He shook his finger in her face. “I’ll sue you. I’ll sue you goddamned snotty Virginian for libel.”

“I haven’t libeled you.”

He vented more, providing lurid details from a phone conversation, in which he refused to identify the caller who swore Sister said he hired someone to keep Jefferson Hunt off Old Paradise. Isn’t that always the way?

The more he recounted what he had heard, the hotter Crawford got.

When at last he had to pause to draw breath, Sister, unblinking, replied, “I said no such thing. I asked people to keep this quiet until we could investigate, and the first people I wished to call were the DuCharmes.”

“But that’s not what I heard,” said Crawford.

“That is what I said.”

“She did,” Betty seconded Sister forthrightly, and so did Shaker and Tootie.

“But since you are standing here,” said Sister, “I will ask you: Have you hired someone to keep us off Old Paradise?”

“Of course not,” he answered, still in a huff. “No. I don’t want you there, but I’m not going to shoot you.”

“All right then, you do know that under the Masters of Foxhounds Association rules, we have the right to stay on our hunted fox if that fox runs into your territory, the territory of any hunt?”

Face again red, he spit out, “I don’t give a damn what the MFHA says. A bunch of snobs. Not one of them can make a dime. They all inherited it.”

This was not true, but Sister knew little good would come of defending the MFHA, an organization with a big job.

“But you must understand we had to stay with our hounds,” Sister persisted.

“I don’t give a damn about your hounds,” said Crawford. “I don’t want to be accused of shooting at people. What do you think I was doing? Sitting up there in the hayloft? It’s absurd!”

“Someone was in that hayloft,” said Sister.

Tootie spoke up, which surprised Crawford. “Mr. Howard, is it possible someone wants you and Sister at each other’s throats?”

“I— Why?”

“I don’t know.” Sister looked straight in Crawford’s eyes. “This incident may have nothing to do with hunting. People jump to conclusions, and I confess my first thought was that you had hired a patrol. As I considered it, that seems absurd.”

“Of course, it’s ridiculous.”

“Nonetheless, we were shot at. Three blasts from a high-powered shotgun. Sounded like a twelve gauge. Someone doesn’t want us on Old Paradise.”

“Well, I am going to be hunting there on Saturday. Maybe they don’t want me there either.”

A long pause followed. Crawford had calmed down.