Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

“Hear, hear.” Cora seconded the stalwart Asa.

Staff surrounded the pack, no thongs down, just quietly waiting.

By seven-thirty in the morning, forty riders had turned out, seemingly as excited as the hounds. Given September’s heat—and often it was a dry month, too—it was best to start early: dew still on the meadows, temperature in the high fifties to low sixties. Hounds might pick up a fox but the run wouldn’t last long, for as the sun rose higher, the mercury rose with it and scent vanished.

Sister, knowing the riders to be the hard core of the hunt, simply said, “Good morning. Let’s go.”

Tootie and Val, down from Princeton even though it was a big football weekend, grinned. Judge Baker rode next to Daphne Wigg of Deep Run. Daphne, a strikingly good-looking woman, especially on a horse, kept him smiling; they were old friends. Everyone was smiling, especially Gray.

Much as Gray enjoyed hunting, it wasn’t the center of his life. Knowing it was life itself to Sister, and knowing how hard she and Shaker worked during the grueling summer days, he loved seeing her in her glory.

“Hounds, please.” Sister nodded to Shaker, who headed down the farm lane toward the old apple orchard, moving past the deep ruts in the track.

“Did you notice how the hounds waited?” Tootie whispered to Val.

“They always wait.” Val hunted to ride whereas Tootie rode to hunt.

“It’s a big step for young entry.” Tootie was so glad to be back on the farm she was verging on tears.

Georgia lounged outside her den after a night of gorging on the sweet feed the horses had dropped from the buckets hanging on the fence. The black fox had also consumed far too many sour balls that Sister left in the barn by mistake, package open.

“Bother.” She sighed, making no effort to pop back into her den.

Shaker couldn’t see Georgia. Leaves still festooned the trees, and her den sat smack in the middle of the orchard.

“Lieu in, there,” Shaker commanded, sending hounds into the orchard.

Sister waited on the road as Betty rode at ten o’clock and Sybil at two; their salt-colored sack coats, light linen, made them easy to see against the deep green.

“Here.” Tinsel found the line, and Cora checked it.

Within seconds, the entire pack roared and it was only seconds, too, before Georgia slipped into her den.

Hounds milled around the tidy opening.

Twist stuck her head into the den. “I know you; you visit the kennels at night.”

“Of course you know me, you twit. I come with my mother, Inky.”

“Come out and play.” Twist, first year, lacked a concept of a true hunt; she’d only worked at fox pen, where young hounds can be trained on fox scent.

“You must be joking, Twist. Will you kindly remove your face from my foyer?”

Before the confused but happy hound could reply, she felt a strong hand on her stern.

“Come on, young’un.” Shaker pulled her out. “Good work.”

Although the run only lasted seconds, Shaker blew Gone to Ground, for they did den their fox. Laughing, he could barely get the notes out.

After the garbled sounds, he patted the glossy heads, put his foot in the left stirrup iron, and swung up on Showboat, the horse chuckling, too.

Sister turned to the field. “World’s shortest run. Someone be sure to notify Guinness Book of World Records.”

Ben Sidell, in first flight for the first time, stuck close to Kasmir Barbhaiya, who promised to look out for him. Kasmir, generous in heart and pocketbook, was fast becoming a much-loved member. The Vajays, his friends from India originally, also rode first flight on lovely Thoroughbreds.

Riding behind Ben, Mitch Fisher wished he’d not worn his tattersall vest under his coat.

“Where to?” Diana looked up at Shaker.

Shaker stared down at his anchor hound and then looked up. No wind. Calm, mercury rising, not a cloud in the sky. These are not ideal hunting conditions. However, dew lay thick on the grass. If he punched down into the cool air currents that often follow creek beds, the pack would have a shot at another run and that would probably be it.

He jumped over the new coop in the fence line at the wildflower field. It was well sited, offering easy takeoff and landing. Some jumps can only be placed in difficult spots. A foxhunter must be able to ride off, his or her eye even turning sharply after a landing. Count strides and you’re dead.

The new coop, freshly painted black, put off some horses. Horses grow accustomed to seeing the same things, just like a person driving to work. They do it by rote. Introduce a new element and a horse will usually look. Is this a strange-appearing predator? Many creatures like horse meat, the French being among them. In these circumstances, a rider has to boot over the horse. Many a grunt and groan filled the air, with the humans grunting and not the horses. Ahead of the field, Sister occasionally heard a hard rap on the coop’s edge. Across the wildflower field they cantered, Shaker trying to get to the next cast before it was too hot. He soared over the hog’s-back jump that divided Sister’s land from the Bancrofts. Within a minute, Sister and Keepsake popped over.

The hounds reached Broad Creek shortly thereafter, the temperature already cooler from the heavy woods. At this location, two miles from the main house, Shaker most often cast west toward the mountains. Since wind usually came from the west this made good sense. However, this day was still as a tomb so he cast down the creek, southeast. The distinctive odor of water filled his nostrils. If Shaker could smell the water, he hoped hounds could smell whatever scent might be tagging a ride on the cool current.

Deer crashed out of the woods.

“Big!” Tattoo let out a yelp.

“Don’t even think about it,” Peanut warned, feeling herself a veteran now.

If Shaker had possessed a better nose, he would have picked up a scent smelling like old wet wood as they traveled downstream.

Dasher noticed it first. “What do I do?”

“Legitimate game,” Diana replied. She opened on the line and off they went.

Sister knew the hounds weren’t on deer, but they didn’t sound quite right, even factoring in the higher squeals of the young entry. Still, Shaker was blowing them on, so she squeezed her legs on Keepsake.

The path by the creek, wide and well worn, made for easy going. That, too, surprised her. A fox would have used the creek, picking those spots where the bed was deep and sharply cut, leaping off to swim to the other side, sometimes crisscrossing to foul scent before veering off into heavy covert, if it was available, or using the woods to slow pursuers.

None of this happened. Hounds roared down the creek path, noses down, intent. Betty, on the northeastern side of the water, for the creek bent sharply at that point, looked ahead and spurred Outlaw on.

Sybil, to the right, rode off the creek path in the thick woods, where she couldn’t see much. When Shaker got round the sharp turn, he put his horn to his lips, blowing three sharp blasts, then calling, “Hold up!”

Ahead of him, moving quickly for such a bulky animal, a black bear hurried along.

Sybil, hearing the three notes, moved toward the creek from the woods. Unfortunately, she came out in front of the bear, perhaps fifty yards away. Bombardier, a sensible Thoroughbred, nostrils wide open, caught one whiff of the big boy and started shaking all over.

“All right. All right.” Sybil patted him, but she had to stay where she was in case some hounds flew past the bear.

Fortunately, all returned to the huntsman, even the young entry, who had never seen such game.