Рита Браун: The Hounds And The Fury

Knowing that the club always needed money, the Bancrofts graciously rode behind Jason. As one of the main benefactors of the club, the Bancrofts hoped others would come through, especially now that Crawford had bagged it.

Sister nodded to Shaker when he remounted to go forward, then quietly turned to ask Jason behind her, “What do you think, red or gray?”

“Gray,” he replied, a smile crossing his handsome face.

“I do, too.” She smiled back.

If one studied fox tracks it didn’t take too much to discern the difference between a red’s foot and a gray’s, especially in winter. The red’s prints could be about two and a half inches long. The hindprint might be smaller, but the heavy fur around the paw would register on the ground or on snow. The toe marks and lobe of the pads would be a little indistinct.

The gray’s prints were an inch and a half long for a mature fox, the print sharper. The toes dug in deeper, it seemed, and if it weren’t for the toe marks, one could mistake the print for an overfed, much-loved pet cat like Golly.

She gave Jason credit for making the right call, but if he had studied prints all he had to do was look down at the snow. Still, thousands foxhunted and couldn’t recognize footprints or fox scat. He had done some homework.

She twisted all the way round to see if the field was together. They were, thanks to Walter and the girls pushing them up. If someone straggled, Walter sent them back to Bobby. No one in the field would disobey a master’s command if they wanted to keep hunting—not just with Jefferson Hunt but with any hunt. The masters would pass on who was a butthead as readily as they passed on who was a true foxhunter.

Bobby, hands full with green riders, green horses, and occasionally treacherous footing, just joined them as Shaker moved off. It seemed to go in spurts, the numbers of green riders or green horses, but shepherding them always fell to the hilltoppers’ master, the most unsung staff position in foxhunting.

Few would dream of going first flight if they couldn’t ride, especially at Jefferson Hunt. Sister enjoyed a formidable reputation—and who wanted to look a fool under her eyes?

The whippers-in usually rode hardest, but they were alone, an advantage under the circumstances. If they weren’t riding hard or trotting forward, they’d be immobile at a prime spot, and that spot always seemed to be the coldest damned place on earth.

The huntsman stayed with hounds as best he could. He, too, rode hard, but he rode straight behind the pack. Chances were, the whippers-in covered more territory than he did. This wasn’t to say he didn’t do things that Sister and the field would not. He did, but often no one saw him take a four-foot drop off a creek bed into the water. He stayed with his hounds if possible.

While Sister could do anything on a horse, her first responsibility was the field, not the hounds. Very few fields today were well mounted enough, with fearless riders, to do things that were routinely done thirty years ago. The reason was that so many people had taken up foxhunting who hadn’t grown up with horses. It wasn’t that they couldn’t clear the four-foot jump if they had the right horse, but only a few had the right horse. The right horse, nine times out of ten, was a thoroughbred or a thoroughbred cross, depending on territory. Those arriving late to the glories of riding often feared thoroughbreds. If you knew the animal, you loved its sensitivity and forward ways. If you didn’t, you thought you were on a runaway that would spook at a white stone pebble. The change in the field was as big a shift in foxhunting as the rise of the automobile, the sickening encroachments of suburbia.

As hounds searched for fresh scent, Sister looked behind again, noting that Gray was in the middle of the field, Ben back with Bobby. She was glad Ben had asked her not to tell Gray. He was right; Gray would have inched forward, sticking too close to Sister.

Athena and Bitsy peered down from a leafless sycamore, its distinctive multicolored patchy bark noticeable in a palette of white, gray, beige, and black.

“They’ll pick up Earl’s scent soon enough if they keep going in this direction,” Bitsy fretted.

“M-m-m.” Athena noticed Diddy tossing snow with her nose, then leaping up for it.

“This isn’t playtime,” Asa reprimanded the happy girl.

“Sorry.” Diddy reapplied herself to the task.

The treetops waved slightly as they dropped down a steep path to walk along the creek bed, flat and wide, the rushing water drowning other sounds.

“If we fly with the hounds, we won’t signal Earl’s position.” Athena was more worried than she cared to admit. “The crows will stay put. If Earl does need direction, we can move up to supply it.”

“Yes, yes.” Bitsy agreed, then lifted off to slowly fly along. No need for speed at this point.

A quarter mile down the creek bed they reached the otter slides.

“Gray, dog fox.” Dasher inhaled.

The otters, peeking out from under the big roots in the bank, listened as the hounds chimed in after Dasher.

They watched the whole pack go down their slide and hit the water, swimming across the frothy creek in one body.

“Bet they’ve made the slide bigger and slicker.” Bruce couldn’t wait to return to his game.

Darby, at the rear of the pack, heard Bruce’s voice and turned to see the otters looking at him. “You’re funny-looking,” the young hound blurted out.

“Not as funny as you are,” Lisa smartly replied as Shaker on Gunpowder jumped off the bank six feet away from the slide, where the grade was better for a horse.

The pack in full cry flew through the flatland on the other side of the creek and climbed up the gentle rise to higher ground to run southwards, wind at their rear, scent blowing away from them.

Earl knew enough to use the wind, but scent was strong and hounds were closing.

He kept on straight through the woods, but the pine needles, under snow, couldn’t help dissipate his scent. Hounds moved faster than he thought they could.

Nothing looked promising, so he picked up the pace, his brush now carried straight out. A rotted log ahead provided a break in his scent. He ran inside, straight through to the other end. He kept going.

A pocket meadow needed to be crossed quickly before he could escape into denser woods on the far side. He knew a few dens in there that could be used. If someone was in them, too bad. They’d be crowded for a time.

Snow lay eight inches in parts on the pocket meadow. He didn’t relish going across. At the last minute Earl skirted back into the woods, heading northeast, at a right angle to his former line of scent.

Old deer bones protruded from the snow. He ran into the middle of them, then sped away, turning again toward the meadow.

Hounds checked briefly at the bones.

Sister picked her spot and her moment.

“Jason, come up here beside me for a minute.”

He rode next to her, then stopped. “This corpse helped our fox, the reverse of Iffy’s corpse, which points her finger at you.”

Jason shrugged, laughing. “Sister, you have a good imagination.”

Hounds sped away. Sister followed. Jason fell in behind. Had she gotten it wrong?

This time Earl did go into the meadow, and it was his bad luck to founder in a deep spot that lay deceptively flat on the meadow. Struggling to extricate himself, he heard hounds draw closer, much too close. He could see them bursting into the meadow, clouds of snow churning up in front of their forelegs.

He finally clawed out of the hole, but the going was deep.

Athena and Bitsy flew over him now.