Рита Браун - The Hounds And The Fury

“Must be hell to be popular.”

“I suffer.” She laughed.

They ate, chitchatting about the drop between the two ponds where Ronnie had broken his collarbone, the swirling wind currents down in the ravine, and the footing that alternated between hard ground and packed snow.

“Weatherman says three inches.” Ben dabbed his mouth with the napkin.

Golly, on a kitchen chair, head above the table, watched every move. “I’ll accept a votive offering, given that I denned a fox.”

“No fair. You get to sit on the chair,” Rooster complained.

“You get enough treats. In fact, Rooster, diet time.”

“Nasty—you can be so nasty.” Rooster put his head on his paws as he lay by Sister’s feet.

Raleigh, silent, sat on her other side. If he looked noble and patient, she might weaken.

“Here.” Sister tore a bit of ham for Golly, then gave some to the dogs. Raleigh’s ploy had worked.

“I’m closing in, Sister. If I make one wrong move, I’m going to lose our killer.”

“Yes. He’s highly intelligent. I suspect most killers aren’t.”

“Actually, most people in jail, men and women, are what’s called low-normals. Some are borderline retarded. A few truly are evil, but most of them can’t control their impulses. No sense of delayed gratification on any front.”

“Pity. We can’t afford the cost of incarcerating them, but we can’t afford them on the streets, either.”

“They’ll do it again.” He accepted a brownie. “That’s not what some people want to hear, but that’s the way it is. And always was.”

“I suppose so, but our killer doesn’t fall into that category.”

“When did you figure it out?”

“It’s been building. I had a vague feeling once we found Iffy. He never figured on a coyote. He’s not country.” She paused. “Today, we started on a bobcat. Think of Iffy. She’s your bobcat. Legitimate game and guilty as sin. Naturally we’d follow the scent.”

“Yes.” He realized he was holding the coffee cup to his lips but hadn’t drunk some, as he was intently listening.

“Then down in the thickest part of the covert, our true quarry crossed the line of the bobcat. Some second-year entry didn’t come right to the horn when Shaker swung the pack onto the fox. Betty pushed them back, and we had all on and a terrific finish. Our killer is the fox. We’ve got to swing onto his line. We can’t let him go to ground. He’s fooled us by using a bobcat to divert our attention.”

“I don’t have enough to convict him.” He appreciated her insight. “Do you think we can turn our fox?”

Occasionally a whipper-in will turn a fox. This takes a smart whipper-in because one can turn the fox back into the hounds, a dreadful thing to do. Usually, a fox should be turned if it, too, is heading for a major highway or if it is running out of the country. Betty Franklin could do it. The trick is to turn the fox at an angle, but not back to hounds. Then the whipper-in has to stay on the outside of the fox until the danger has passed. It’s extremely difficult to do because the fox isn’t trained to obey, whereas the hound is.

By turning the fox, you save your fox, your hounds, and your master, who might be facing an irate landowner.

“We can try,” said Sister. “Do I have your permission to inform Shaker, Betty, and Sybil?”

“Yes.”

“May they put .22 in their pistols instead of ratshot—just in case?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Who will be the bobcat?”

“I will.”

“Sister, I should do it. It’s dangerous.”

“So is foxhunting. Please don’t take this as an insult, Ben, but I ride better than you do.” She paused for a moment, then reached over to cover his hand with hers. “I take my chances. It’s the only way to live, and I really want to get this bastard. Forgive my French.” She added, “I suppose I should tell Gray. They meant to kill him, you know.”

“Don’t. I appreciate your concern, but the more people who know, the more chances for our fox to pick up the tension. Shaker, Betty, and Sybil are out there as staff. Gray will be in the field.”

“I understand.” She breathed in. “Saturday’s fixture is Paradise.”

“Funny, isn’t it?”

CHAPTER 29

Seven river otters played early Saturday morning on the feast of St. Agnes, January 21. Their philosophy of life contrasted sharply with that of the virgin martyr of Rome, dying in 305 AD. She refused marriage, for at thirteen she had consecrated her body to Christ. Her reward for such a gift was a sword straight through the throat. Like a lamb, agnus in Latin, pretty Agnes met her Maker.

The otters felt life should be frolic with a bit of sex in early spring. Mating, delightful as it could be, paled before running hard, flopping on one’s belly before reaching water’s edge, then sliding down at top speed to crash into the swift current, riding the little waves.

Bruce, the largest of the otters at thirty pounds, father of the brood, hit the cold water with a boom, sending two waves up at his sides. He bobbled along for fifty yards before swimming and scrambling out at an easy place.

“Whee!” One otter after another squealed as he or she roared toward the large creek’s edge then down the steep, slick slide they’d made.

Out they scrambled, each one hurrying to reach the starting place only to barrel down, hit the side of the bank, and fold forelegs next to the body. Down they’d go, furry toboggans loving every minute of life.

Crayfish, rockfish, all manner of delicious edibles swam in the deep, wide creek. Then, too, a berry now and then aided the digestion. The family, in splendid condition, had little competition for the food they prized.

Earl, a gray fox in his second year, sat on a log, the orange half moons of fungus protruding from the snow, more light snow still falling.

Trite though the phrase may be, it was a winter wonderland. As everyone sported thick fur coats with dense undercoats, the temperature was bracing.

Also watching the nonstop otter celebration were Athena and Bitsy, sitting high in a majestic spruce. Flying from Sister’s took them twenty minutes. For humans, hauling horses and dealing with roads that weren’t straight, the time from Roughneck Farm took forty minutes.

“Come on,” Bruce invited Earl.

“No, thanks. I only swim when I must,” the handsome fellow replied.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Lisa, the mother, revving her motors, called out.

“Do you think they’re simpleminded?” Bitsy asked Athena.

“No, just silly.”

“You’d think they didn’t have to work for a living,” Bitsy, fond of stirring the pot, remarked.

“They don’t. This place is one big supermarket for them.” Athena opened and closed her beak with a clicking sound.

Squirrels in the tree scurried along the boughs, snow falling off as they ran. They were not overly fond of Athena, who could kill and eat them if she wanted to. But they knew she was full, since she’d given everyone within earshot her menu. They leaped to the oak where they lived.

“Flying rats,” Bitsy giggled.

“Come on!” Bruce called Earl again.

“Nah, I need to save my energy.”

“You looking for a girlfriend?” Bruce thought keeping a mate the better course.

He thought a minute. “If I find the right vixen I have to help with food. I guess I can do it. I’m finally ready.”

“And a healthy young fellow you are,” Bruce complimented him, turned a flip, and reached the runway, speeding to zoom over the side.