Рита Браун - Fox Tracks

When a horse refuses or you part company, you must return to the rear so as not to impede anyone else’s progress. Ronnie walked his horse back and mounted up. But when horses see another horse refuse a jump they are certain a horrid goblin lives under the coop. Today’s riders that were behind Ronnie had a devil of a time getting over that small obstacle. It quickly became clear who had a solid horse and who was a solid rider. The worst was when one horse rode right up to the jump, then slammed on the brakes. His rider took the jump. He didn’t.

Sister couldn’t wait for those who had fallen. To do so meant losing the hounds. Maybe the field master can find hounds and maybe she can’t, but if she winds up blowing the covert because she’s in the wrong place, there goes the hunt, or at least the hunt on that fox. The people in the rear of the field, now upset, strained to hear if the hounds had picked up the scent of a fox.

The person assigned to ride tail today was Ben Sidell, a fairly new rider but on a bombproof horse, Nonni. Ben had had his hands full at the coop. Fortunately, everyone was fine, as were their horses, but Ben couldn’t get into the woods until everyone was safely over.

When one lady’s horse refused three times, Ben said nicely, “Best you go back to Bobby Franklin.” Down the road at a gate, Bobby was in the pasture bordering the woods.

Without a word, the lady did as she was told. All very proper, but disappointing to the rider.

Snow fell heavier now, caps turned white, shoulders also. However, it didn’t feel as cold as a freezing rain or sleet, and the beauty of it, as well as the sound of snowflakes hitting tree limbs and pine needles, delighted most everyone.

Hounds moved along, a bit of scent here, a bit there, but not enough to open. They stuck to it. These are the situations that demonstrate the ability of a pack. Any group of hounds looks great when scent is burning. And there’s nothing a pack or the huntsman can do on those dead days, when nothing sticks. It’s the in-between times like today that are the test, and Jefferson Hounds were all business.

No one even grumbled.

Parker lifted his head once to see what everyone else was doing, then quickly put his nose to ground. The line, so light and teasing, would break. They’d have to widen their cast, pick up the faint reward, and push on.

The walk turned into a trot, but still no music. The woods opened up onto a rough pasture, broom straw sticking up through the cut hay stubble. It would take a good long time for Kasmir to focus his renovation labors back here—best to concentrate on the really good pastures near the roads. Also, the soil varied at Tattenhall Station. As Kasmir rode on his gorgeous Thoroughbred over the field being dusted with snow, he made a note to take soil samples back here.

Large fallen trees bore witness to high winds. Their split-open trunks showed they were old, and had weakened.

Hounds leapt over a sycamore down by a narrow stream. They crossed the stream, as did Shaker, then Sister. They met another woods, mostly hardwoods and a few pines. Hounds kept on, but still not speaking. The snow fell steadily.

The low pressure should help scent, but an old line is an old line. Shaker and the hounds hoped it would warm up. They emerged on a large eastern field, a giant walnut in the middle, so thick three men could maybe get their hands around the trunk. Its bare winter branches were black with vultures. They looked down at the horses, then toward the humans and horses moving toward them. None of them moved.

Sister had seen vultures in a denuded tree many times, although not in the snow. Sooner or later, they’d lift off, returning to better protection. She hoped they didn’t lift off as the horses rode by, for surely it would spook a few.

The birds stayed eerily still, continuing to watch.

The hounds lost the scent in the middle of the field. They cast like spokes in a wheel from the center, which was Shaker. But to no end.

Shaker figured they might as well hunt back. They’d been out an hour and a half. With a little luck there was still hope for another run. Shaker returned to the woods at a distance from the vultures, and drew the dogs along the edge of the woods. He patiently walked along, Betty and Tootie now in the middle of that field, battling winter winds.

Sybil was in the woods. She let out a holler. “Tallyho!”

Hounds moved toward her voice, as did Shaker, finding a path in. He caught a glimpse of his whipper-in, hat off, snow already on her hair, for it was coming down fast now. Sybil’s hat and the horse’s nose were pointing due north.

Quickly, Shaker got on the deer path, moving in that direction. Sister found the wider path, tractor-wide.

Within minutes, good old Asa opened, and off they ran, due north, straight into the snow and now light wind. Sister couldn’t see and really, Matador couldn’t see all that well either.

The hounds burst out of the woods and into another large pasture, but the fox was nowhere in sight. They blew through that, cleared a coop, as did Shaker, then Sister. Betty and Tootie jumped an old tiger trap farther up the fence line, but all still ran true north. Fifteen minutes later, the hounds crossed the east–west road and flew into Orchard Hill.

An unexpected siren jolted Sister, who held up the field at the roadside jump, which was three stout logs lashed together.

At first she thought it was the fire department, but then a squad car—sheriff’s department, sirens blasting, lights flashing, which Matador did not appreciate—screamed right by her. An ambulance raced behind.

She waited. Waited a bit more, for the snow seemed to soak up sound. Then she jumped the logs, crossed the road carefully, and jumped into Orchard Hill over a break in the three-board fence. Orchard Hill needed some help, but in these hard times so did a lot of other farms. As she moved along, she gave thanks that when she talked to the owners, they’d said they would not give way to Crawford.

Straining to hear the hounds, she finally picked up the sound. Ride to cry, which she did. Galloping through the orchard and the wide roads around the different types of apples, she made up the ground. This is when you want to be on a Thoroughbred. She scarcely felt the ground beneath his hooves, nor could she hear anyone behind her.

The hounds cut north. She caught a glimpse of Sybil, low on her horse, galloping straightaway.

Three tiers of square hay bales lashed together, now snow-covered, filled in for a jump. It was a nice jump, really. Matador had a split second of hesitation as he looked at all that white. He didn’t remember white, and horses remember everything. One good smack on his hindquarters with her crop and he sailed over, grateful that none of his stablemates had seen that split second. Matador was only a year into foxhunting so he still had a bit of learning to do. Still, his talent was above reproach, and he showed it as he flattened out.

Sister couldn’t remember the last time she rode so fast. Snow hit her more on the right side now, but she had to squint to see. She could still make out Sybil’s back as they blasted over an open field, then had to draw up and shift down into a trot. She’d run up right on Chapel Cross itself.

Hounds surrounded the foundation of the stone structure, the cross somewhat visible in the driving snow. A religious fox had dug a cozy den at the foundation. However, he wasn’t there.

Wise in the ways of hounds, the fox being chased had jumped into the unoccupied den, which had a tunnel opening farther down along that same foundation. The sly fox then hurried out and over to the graveyard surrounded by trees. If you positioned your den just right vis-à-vis the headstones, graveyard dens were cool in the summers and often warm in the winters. The hounds had no idea their quarry was only fifty yards behind them.