Рита Браун - The Hounds And The Fury

“Deerhounds. Pay them no mind,” Ardent counseled.

One black and tan, reversing herself to join the Jefferson hounds and run in the right direction, replied, “We’re foxhounds. We’re out here with a human who is a perfect fool.”

Dana, littermate to Delight, was about to reply, but the scent grew stronger. She stretched out, pushing off with her powerful loins supplying smooth power.

One by one, the black and tans reversed to fall into the tricolor pack. All the voices sang a crescendo of happiness that echoed off the mountains.

Sister now came up. Without faltering, she pushed Rickyroo on. “Jesus H. Christ on a raft.”

“Yeah, but isn’t the sound great?” Rickyroo flicked his ears back, then forward.

She laughed out loud because she loved him, because the pace was searing, the sound divine, the situation unique.

Just as Bobby moved out again, Jason Woods, perfectly turned out, galloped toward Betty. Hounds had turned toward him, so he pulled up, reversing with them.

Jason’s Kilowatt, though beautiful, was no match for Magellan, who pulled alongside, then sped by him. Jason labored to keep up.

Crawford appeared, hanging onto Czpaka for dear life. Marty, a better rider than her husband, rode on his right as a whipper-in, a position she had no burning desire to fulfill.

Crawford blew into his reed horn. A thin note escaped. Within seconds the doubled pack blasted right by him, as did Shaker, then Sister, then the field.

Sputtering, Crawford turned, only to find himself between first flight and the hilltoppers. As he tried to blow again, Bobby rode by him and hollered, “Don’t!”

“Who the hell are you to tell me how to handle my pack?”

“You look fool enough, Crawford. Don’t sound like a sick hen and make it worse.”

Furious, Crawford threw the reed horn onto the ground.

He had no choice but to fall behind Bobby, since he couldn’t catch up to first flight, now flying at Mach speed.

A fence row ahead, sagging, had a gap where one rail had long since fallen off. Hounds soared over, followed by Shaker forty yards later, then Sister, then the field.

Hounds screamed.

The fox, safely ahead, heard the music. This pack could wake the dead.

He cut sharply right, dipped into a wide ravine, popped back up, and skedaddled to the ruins of Paradise, its Corinthian columns majestic under gray, cottony clouds.

He slowed, flicked his impressive tail, and sauntered into his main entrance under the marble steps.

Four minutes later, all the hounds, jubilant, announced they had put their fox to ground.

Betty rode over but didn’t take HoJo when Shaker dismounted to praise hounds and blow “Gone to ground.”

Walter had ridden up to hold the reins, having been told to do so by Sister.

Given the cacophony and the strange hounds, Betty stayed outside the circle of hounds, as did Sybil on the other side.

Jason, breathing hard, rode up.

Betty said not one word.

Finally, Crawford rode up, Bobby hiding his laughter behind his gloved hand.

Crawford glared at his hounds, glared at Jason, and was about to bark at his own wife until he noticed she had a hound with her. Marty was the only one who did her job.

Sister smiled as her hounds watched Shaker for a sign.

The only ripple of discontent came from Dragon, who raised his hackles at a large, handsome dog hound.

“Dragon,” Shaker quietly called his name.

Dragon turned his face from the offending hound and walked over to his huntsman.

“Come along.” The hounds clustered around Shaker, but so did the black and tans.

“Where’s your horn?” Jason asked.

“Threw it away.” Red-faced, Crawford spat, now at the edge of the combined pack.

“Well, you’d better call your hounds out.” Jason stated the obvious.

“I know that!” Crawford, enraged, slunk down in his saddle, then bellowed, “Come on.”

Not one hound turned his or her head.

Crawford dismounted, so Czpaka walked over to Walter, HoJo, and Clemson. Crawford grabbed a hound roughly by the collar.

Sister, lifting her feet out of her stirrup irons, swung her right leg over, dismounting effortlessly.

“Don’t touch a hound like that!”

Crawford wheeled. “It’s my goddamn hound and I’ll do as I please.”

“You don’t deserve these hounds.”

“She’s got that right.” A beautiful black and tan bitch agreed.

Sister walked right up to Crawford as Shaker, still as a mouse, had all the hounds around him. “If you so much as touch one of my hounds, I will knock the stuffing right out of you!”

Crawford, vanity wounded and ego aflame, moved toward her. “Don’t tell me what to do, you old bitch!” He pushed little Diddy out of the way with his knee.

“Ouch,” Diddy cried.

Sister stepped forward with her left leg, her hands fast. She followed with a hard left, then a hard right, her whole weight in the punches.

Blood spurted from Crawford’s mouth. He spit out teeth as he staggered.

He rose and threw a wild punch.

Sister ducked and came up, swinging both fists as hard as she could into his gut.

He doubled over, then sank to his knees.

Walter, mesmerized by the sight, walked toward them, three horses in tow.

Shaker, pack still with him, moved toward her.

Both men were encumbered.

Jason leaped off his horse and ran between the two antagonists. “Crawford, we’d better leave.”

“I’ll sue your sorry ass,” Crawford cursed as he spurted blood.

“You just do that.” Sister was ready to belt him again.

Walter reached her and placed his hand on her right shoulder.

Crawford, helped up by Jason, cried, “Furthermore, you’re trying to lure my hounds away from me.”

“Smoking opium,” Cora said as all hounds laughed.

“I’ll sue you. I’ll see you bankrupt,” Crawford threatened.

Jason, loud enough for those close to hear, sensibly said, “Crawford, what do you think will happen when you testify that you were beaten up by a woman in her seventies?”

This had the desired effect.

Marty prudently turned her horse. “Come along, hounds.”

“We want to stay with them,” a large fellow replied.

Jason handed Czpaka to Crawford and held his hands together so the bloodied man could mount up. Czpaka, sense of humor intact, took a step as Crawford tried to put his right leg over the saddle. Jason had to run alongside propping up Crawford until he was finally in the saddle.

No sooner was Crawford mounted then down the main drive to Paradise, churning old snow and mud as she roared, came Margaret DuCharme. She skidded to a halt and got out, slamming the door of her little Forester.

Margaret pointed her finger at Jason and Crawford. “What are you doing on my land?”

Crawford looked down at her. “It’s not your land.”

Jason groaned, then turned on the charm, smiling broadly at Margaret. “We’d like to know the foxes, human and otherwise.”

Voice controlled, ice cold and loud enough for the entire field to hear, Margaret replied, “I will see you both dead before I let my parents sell Paradise.”

“Alfred wants to sell.” Crawford, rattled, had just let the cat out of the bag: he knew too much.

“We’ll see about that.”

Walter, Clemson and HoJo with him, walked over to Margaret. “It was one of the best runs of the season.” He smiled. “Thank you for allowing Jefferson Hunt on Paradise. Can I help you with anything?”

She liked Walter and replied quietly, “Thanks, Walter. Get these trespassers out of here, please, before I really lose it.”

“His hounds will follow ours. We’ll get them and him out.” Walter said this so Shaker could hear, too.