Рита Браун - The Tell-Tale Horse

Horses stamped their feet, splatters of mud and snow squishing out from shod hooves. Tedi and Edward Bancroft rode immediately behind Sister. Four talented high school seniors from Custis Hall, a private girls’ academy, rode in the rear as was proper. Joining first flight, the jumpers, as a capper was Kasmir Barbhaiya in black tails (also called a weaselbelly coat), top hat, white cords, and custom-made boots. Riding one of the Vajay’s Thoroughbreds, Kasmir proved impressive. Behind them, grateful for the check and breathing time, stood second field, Bobby Franklin in charge. Everyone’s cheeks glowed with high color.

Dragon, a bold fourth-year hound ever impatient of leisure—and he considered a check leisure—grumbled. “There’s a fox behind the church at the crossroads. Why doesn’t Shaker take us there?”

Asa didn’t bother to look at the upstart hound. “Trust the huntsman.”

“We’ve only run for an hour.” Dragon stood.

“Shut your trap,” Cora, strike hound and leader growled. “Shaker will think we’re babbling.”

Dragon’s littermate Diana wondered how her brother could be so blockheaded when her other brother, Dasher, overflowed with good sense.

Even the first-year entry, taken out two at a time so as not to overload the pack with youngsters, displayed more good manners than Dragon.

A light breeze had picked up since first cast at nine o’clock. It blew from the west with a bite and the riders, sweating from the long hard run, felt a slow chill seep in.

Sister turned around. “Scent will hold, don’t you think, Tedi?”

“Stick like glue.” Tedi and Ed were perfectly turned out, as usual. Sister scanned the horses. None looked blown. While it is the riders’ responsibility to see to their mounts, an awful lot of riders were not horsemen. They really didn’t know when a horse had had enough and should be taken in. Sister would politely tell such persons that their horses were tucked up and they should return to the trailers. While she never rejoiced in a human being hurt, the mistreatment, even through ignorance, of a horse upset her more.

A trickle of sweat rolled down her backbone. She’d half turned from the wind. Her undershirt now felt like a cold compress against her skin.

The layers of clothing a foxhunter wears, tested by centuries of use, protects the rider, but sooner or later, a wet cold will creep in. The mercury, hanging at 40 degrees Fahrenheit, intensified the dampness. A snow, even though the temperature would be 32 degrees or colder, often felt warmer than these conditions.

Thick pewter clouds hung low. It surely was a good scenting day.

Flanking Shaker on the left was Betty Franklin on Magellan, tested and tried as a whipper-in; Sybil Bancroft Fawkes was on the right, riding Postman, still as a statue. Sybil, owner of two Thoroughbreds, loved the breed for their heart and stamina.

Horses adore this kind of weather. Since they originated in cool savannahs, forty to the low fifties feels like heaven to them. Humans prefer the low seventies, which feels too warm to horses, but they manage it.

Shaker, Betty, and Sybil counted heads.

“All on,” Shaker said, which meant all the hounds were together. “Let’s walk down toward Chapel Cross. We might pick up something along the way, and we’ll be heading cross wind.”

Both whippers-in nodded and moved a bit farther away from the pack. There was no need to speak, since a whipper-in does not question the judgment of the huntsman or the master. Oh, they may do so in private, but when hunting the protocol is much like that in battle: You obey your superior officer and get the job done.

Sister smiled when she observed Shaker turning the beautiful pack, a balanced and level pack, north toward Chapel Cross. It had taken her decades to create a level pack. Whatever some blowhard may say to the contrary, there is no shortcut to a great pack of hounds. A master breeds for nose, cry, biddability, good conformation, and, of course, drive. What’s the point of having a fabulous-looking pack of hounds, with voices like the bells of Moscow, if they don’t want to hunt?

Dragon was a smart-ass but his drive was exhilarating. He shot ahead of the pack.

“Back to ’em.” Betty spoke sharply to him, her crop held on the pack side of Magellan so hounds could see it.

“He’s a lot of work, that twit.” Magellan snorted, two streams of air shooting out from his flared nostrils.

Betty, somewhat understanding her fellow, patted him on the neck. After two years, they’d finally become a team, trusting each other.

The board-and-batten of the railroad buildings, white with Charleston-green trim, stood out from the muddy background, streaks of snow gleaming in crevices and the north sides of hills. Norfolk and Southern, the railroad company, had provided the point as a courtesy to local residents. Although Tattenhall Station had been abandoned in the 1960s, the locals maintained it and even decorated it for the holidays.

The pack had reached the railroad track and crossed it, with the small station, a little gingerbread on the eaves, now behind them, when Cora opened, “Here!”

The other hounds, noses down, honored her, and the whole pack, in full cry, flew over the lower meadow on the eastern side of the station and turned northward, again cross wind.

Sister, on Aztec, a young horse but quick to learn, kept at an easy gallop, behind the pack but not close enough to crowd them. They crossed the tertiary two-lane road and vaulted over a row of trimmed hedges, which made for a lovely jump, slippery on the other side.

The pace quickened. Aztec lengthened his stride and took a long three-foot-six-inch coop, which sagged a bit in the middle; perhaps it was only three-two there. His hind end skidded on the other side, but he quickly got his hooves under him and pushed off. Behind her, Sister could hear the splat of hooves as they sank into the mud and then gathered steam to surge forward.

The fox, whom no one could see, since he had a considerable head start, ran a huge serpentine S. Hounds had to work very hard to stick to his line, thanks to the wind changes, and in one low swale the wind swirled. Sister could see the little wind devil, small snow sparkles in the air, which then disappeared as she rode straight through it.

The fox headed toward Chapel Cross, no evasions now. A neck-or-nothing run saw hounds stretched flat out, sterns behind them, long sloping powerful shoulders illustrating the wisdom of good conformation, as the animals could reach far out with their front legs. Deep chests allowed plenty of heart girth and, behind, powerful loins and quarters, like a big engine in a Porsche, pushed them seemingly effortlessly forward.

The music filled the countryside. In the far distance, Sister saw Faye Spencer hurry out onto her front porch, pulling on a parka. Faye, widowed young when her husband was killed in the second Iraq War, waved. Sister took off her cap, two short ribbons streaming, and waved back. She made a mental note to stop by Faye’s for a visit; she hadn’t seen her since the hunt Christmas party. Where did the time go?

Faye, quite good-looking, hadn’t lacked for suitors once a year passed after Gregory’s death. She appeared in no hurry to favor anyone.

Valentina “Val” Smith, one of the students from Custis Hall, caught Cabel Harper shooting Faye the bird and raised her eyebrows.

A double fence line between two pastures loomed ahead, a coop in each fence and a bounce in between which meant no stride; the horse must clear one coop and then immediately launch to clear the second. Sister liked bounce jumps so long as she remembered to keep her leg on her horse. Sometimes she would become so enthralled with the hound work that she took a jump without realizing it. Thank God, her horses were fabulous and loved to hunt. They could think for her.