Рита Браун - The Hounds And The Fury

Sybil, who had ridden down ahead of her parents in order to help with hounds, leaned down to Sister. “Would you like Dad to throw him off?”

“No. Landowners can’t refuse a hunt member the right to hunt their land with the hunt. A landowner can refuse the hunt but not an individual. This isn’t to say it doesn’t happen, but it’s counter to proper practice. It’s the master’s responsibility to send a member home. The problem really gets ugly if you have a weak master.”

“Why can’t a landowner refuse permission?” Sybil, intent on being a good whipper-in, didn’t pay too much attention to MFHA policies not related to actual hunting.

“Because that member’s dues built jumps on the landowner’s land. And because every time someone gets into a spat it would affect who hunts where. Eventually you’d see fields of two people until one of them pissed off the other.” Sister pulled off her old gloves, cut off at the fingertips, to put on white string riding gloves. “Let’s say you and I had a fight. A big one. One would assume you wouldn’t come on my farm to hunt. You’d steer clear of that fixture because it makes life easier for everyone. But some people like being the center of attention. That kind of person would show up.” She shrugged as Jason’s rig came into view.

Sister mounted Aztec, ready to go and eager to prove to Rickyroo how good he was. He would tell all back at the barn. As the youngest hunter in the barn Aztec endured a lot of ribbing.

All the horses were keen to see how Matador would pan out. He was in work but had yet to hunt, since Sister didn’t want to hunt a new horse on bad ground. This pleased Lafayette, Keepsake, Rickyroo, and Aztec because it showed how much she trusted them.

Tedi and Edward clattered through the covered bridge and rode over to Sister.

Tedi raised an eyebrow.

Edward, a gentleman, quietly said, “Would you like me to go over there with you?”

“All clear,” she replied. “As you know, he apologized to me. I’ll give him credit for that.” Looking up into her old friend’s gray eyes, she shrugged. “You know how I think.”

He smiled. “I do.”

Tedi smiled as well, keeping her peace.

Sister gathered the small group to her. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Master,” came the reply, the same as it had been for centuries.

“As we have such a small field today, I would like to invite the Custis Hall girls to ride up front. Also, they are being allowed to come out weekdays with us if they each write a paper for their environmental studies class. Perhaps if they have questions after the hunt, you would answer them.”

Tootie on Iota, Val on Moneybags, and Felicity on Parson all glowed. To ride behind the master was a singular honor.

Walter rode next to Jason in the rear.

It was truly dawning on Jason that he hadn’t just offended Sister and Shaker; he’d pissed off the whole club.

Dragon, impatient, drifted toward Nola’s and Peppermint’s graves.

“Dragon,” Betty reprimanded him in a low tone.

“Bother,” he sassed, but he did rejoin the pack.

Sister and Shaker discussed the first cast the night before a hunt and reviewed it in the morning, often changing it when they reached the fixture, since winds and temperature might change.

The temperature had bounced up four degrees to thirty-four degrees Fahrenheit. After All was subject to the same northwest winds as Roughneck Farm. As the day wore on, the mercury might rise or fall, depending on whether a front was scudding in from the northwest, bringing a taste of Canada with it. While Sister checked thermometers and the Weather Channel, ultimately she relied on her bones.

Cora ignored Dragon, pushing by his side in the pale gray light.

At the stone wall around the graveyard, Dragon stopped. The pack put their noses down even though Shaker had yet to cast them.

The huntsman wisely worked with his hounds instead of insisting they stick to his program, which was to move into the woods and hunt east.

Tight pawprints were visible, now beginning to be covered by the lazy flakes falling on Nola’s grave.

Doughboy, a second-year entry who had been a little slower to catch on than his littermates, leaped over the low wall, nose to the pawprints.

At Nola’s grave, he said, “Charlene.”

In an instant, all the hounds opened, jumping into the little graveyard, then out the other side. Apart from being exciting for the humans, finding the line was a confidence builder for tricolor Doughboy.

Betty stayed parallel on the eastern side of the creek.

Sybil had faded off to the left, though she was still in sight on the undulating snow-covered pasture.

Charlene, shopping, had been walking along the creek heading back to her den when she heard the pack. Given the conditions, she didn’t dally hitting full speed.

The hounds moved faster as Charlene’s scent grew stronger.

Only the fox understands scent. Humans try to intellectualize it. They conduct experiments with barometers, moisture in the air, time of day, season, and moon phase. Hounds smell it and know what to do with it, but only the fox knows the good days, the bad days, and the in-between days.

This was a good day, so Charlene hurried on, her distinctive odor lifting up slightly.

Charlene, only a half mile from her den, ran up a fallen tree trunk, then dropped down. Lichens, running cedar, and other plants useful in foiling scent were covered with snow. She had to rely on speed today as well as using whatever obstacles presented themselves. Being forty-five pounds lighter than the hounds worked to her advantage.

She sped through the woods, the wide bridle path serving her well. Hearing hounds come closer, Charlene darted to a gopher hole, paused for a split second, then flew onward.

Trident reached the gopher hole just as the disturbed but slothful animal popped his head out.

“Beg pardon.” Trident sat down on his haunches.

“Leave him,” Diana ordered the second-year entry. “Just an old gopher.”

As the hounds moved away from him the gopher remarked, “I am not old. I just look old, and I’ve got rodent teeth. I can make a hole in you if I want to!”

Delia, older, solid as a rock, was bringing up the rear just as the gopher revealed his long teeth. “Terrified,” she laughed as she zoomed by him.

“Hateful canines.” The gopher watched the humans fly by, then added, “Another useless species.”

As Charlene ran the snow turned into sleet. Although the temperature rose four more degrees, the rain felt colder than the snow.

Sister was glad she’d put rubber reins on Aztec’s bridle. Strictly speaking, since she used a snaffle bit, she should have had lace reins but those rules had been formulated for hunting over the English countryside. The Virginia countryside was much wilder than most of England, the weather much more harsh, with great temperature swings between summer and winter. Some allowances needed to be made, and Sister, a stickler for tradition, knew when to make them.

The hanging tails on her hunt cap sprayed sleet.

Charlene scrambled over a snow-dappled stone fence. She dropped down as the land sank into a long wide plateau, six feet above the feeder creek into Broad Creek, aptly named. She ducked into her den under a mighty walnut tree.

Hounds put her to ground, but they didn’t bay in triumph, for Dragon raised his head and moved off toward the creek just as Shaker leaped over the stone fence.

“Coyote!” Dragon bellowed for them to follow the scorching, heavy scent.

Hounds flew straight as an arrow, launching off the bank down into Broad Creek.

Sister trotted downstream to look for a better crossing. A narrow deer trail snaked down the bank at a forty-five-degree angle. It would be slippery, but it was still better than jumping down five feet into a rock-bottomed creek.