Рита Браун - Full Cry

Odd how talent appears in certain hounds, horses, and humans. Diana definitely had it. She now faced the sound of the splinter group, stern level, head lifted, nose in the air. Something was up.

Behind Sister, Dr. Walter Lungrun gratefully caught his breath. The run up to this point had been longer than he realized, and he needed a break. Wealthy Crawford Howard, convivial as well as scheming, passed his flask around. It was accepted with broad smiles from friend and foe alike. Crawford subscribed to the policy that a man should keep his friends close and his enemies closer still. His wife, Marty, an attractive and intelligent woman, also passed around her flask. Crawford’s potion was a mixture of blended scotch, Cointreau, a dash of bitters, with a few drops of fresh lemon juice. Liberally consumed, it hit like a sledgehammer.

Tedi and Edward Bancroft, impeccably turned out and true foxhunters, both in their seventh decade, listened keenly. Their daughter, Sybil, in her midforties, was the second whipper-in. She had her work cut out for her. They knew she was a bold rider, so they had no worries there. But Sybil, in her second year as an honorary whipper-in (as opposed to a professional) fretted over every mistake. Sybil’s parents and two sons would buoy her up after each hunt since she was terribly hard on herself.

Betty Franklin loved whipping-in, but she knew there were moments when Great God Almighty couldn’t control a hound with a notion. She was considerably more relaxed about her duties than Sybil.

Also passing around handblown glass flasks, silver caps engraved with their initials, were Henry Xavier (called Xavier or X), Clay Berry, and Ronnie Haslip—men in their middle forties. These high-spirited fellows had been childhood friends of Ray Arnold Jr. Sister’s son, born in 1960, had been killed in 1974 in a harvesting accident. The boys had been close, the Four Musketeers.

Sister had watched her son’s best friends grow up, graduate from college. Two had married, all succeeded in business. They were very dear to her.

After about five minutes, Shaker tapped his hat with his horn, leaned down, and spoke encouragingly to Cora, his strike hound. She rose up on her hind legs to get closer to this man she worshipped. Then he said, “Come long,” and his pack obediently followed as he rode out of the forest, taking the second tiger trap jump as Betty Franklin took the first. If the pack and the huntsman were a clock, the strike hound being at twelve, Betty stayed at ten o’clock, Sybil at two, the huntsman at six.

Sister, thirty yards behind Shaker, sailed over the tiger trap. Most of the other riders easily followed, but a few horses balked at the sight of the upright logs, leaning together just like a trap. The snow didn’t help the nervous; resting along the crevices, it created an obstacle that appeared new and different.

As riders passed the sugar maple, Cora began waving her stern. The other hounds became interested.

Dragon, a hotheaded but talented third-year hound and the brother to Diana, bellowed, “It’s her! It’s her!”

The thick odor of a vixen lifted off the snow.

Cora, older, and steady even though she was the strike hound, paused a moment. “Yes, it is a vixen, but something’s not quite right.”

Diana, her older brother, Dasher, and Asa and Ardent also paused. At nine, the oldest hound in the pack, Delia, mother of the D litters, usually brought up the rear. While her youthful speed had diminished, her knowledge was invaluable. Delia, too, put her nose to the snow.

The other hounds looked at her, even her brash son, Dragon. “It’s a vixen all right, but it is extremely peculiar,” Delia advised.

“Well, maybe she ate something strange,” Dragon impatiently spoke. “Our job is to chase foxes, and it doesn’t matter if they’re peculiar or not. I say we give this field another run for their money.”

Cora lifted her head to again look at Shaker. “Well, it is a vixen and whatever is wrong with the line, I guess we’ll find out.”

With the hounds opening, their vibrant voices filled the air with a music as lush to the ear of a foxhunter as the Brandenburg Concertos are to a musician.

No matter how many times she heard her pack in full cry, it always made the hair stand up on the back of Sister’s neck.

They glided across the hayfield, soared over the stone jumps on the other side, plunged into the woods as they headed for a deep creek that fed the apple orchards for which Orchard Hill was known.

The cardinal once again left off the millet and flew back up into the oak tree.

“Bother,” he grumbled to his mate.

“Maybe they’ll turn up more seed,” his shrewd helpmate answered.

The hounds, running close together, passed under the oak, followed by Shaker, then Sister and the field.

They ran flat out for twenty minutes, everyone sweating despite the cold. The baying of the pack now joined the baying of the splinter group.

It sounded queer.

Shaker squeezed Showboat. A true huntsman’s horse, Showboat would die before he’d join the rest of the field. He would be first and that was that.

“What in the goddamned hell!” Shaker shouted. He put his horn to his lips, blowing three long blasts. “Leave him! Leave him!”

The hounds stared up at Shaker. The vixen scent was so strong it made their eyes water, but they weren’t crawling over a vixen.

Betty rode up as did Sybil, each staying back a bit so as to contain the pack just in case. Each woman’s face registered disbelief. Betty put her gloved hand to her mouth to stifle a whoop of hilarity.

Sister rode up. There, curled into a ball, was deer hunter Donnie Sweigert. His expensive rifle with the one-thousand-dollar scope was clutched to his chest. His camouflage overalls and coat were encrusted with snow, slobber, and a drop or two of hound markings. She wondered where Donnie found the money for his expensive gear. He was a driver for Berry Storage.

Shaker kept calling back his pack, but they didn’t want to separate from the terrified Donnie.

“What’ll I do?” the cowering man hollered.

Shaker gruffly replied, “Put your head between your legs and kiss your ass good-bye, you blistering idiot!” He spoke sharply to his hounds now. “Leave him! Leave him!”

Shaker turned Showboat back toward the hayfield. The hounds, reluctant at first to leave this human drenched in vixen scent, did part from their odd treasure.

Dragon couldn’t resist a parting shot at Donnie. “And you think we’re dumb animals.”

Sister, as master, couldn’t tell Donnie that she thought covering his human scent with fox scent remarkably stupid. She needed to be a diplomat. “Don, are you in one piece?”

“Yes.” He unsteadily rose to his feet.

The fox scent, like a sweet skunk, was so overpowering even the members of the field could smell Donnie.

“Would you like help getting back to your truck?” She winked at Walter Lungrun. “Walter will take you back. And he’s a doctor, so if anything should be wrong, he’ll fix you right up.”

“I’m fine.” Donnie was still recovering from his fright.

“No one bit you. They would never bite anyone, Don, but, well, you have to admit, the situation is unique.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He sighed.

“Tell you what.” She smiled, and what an incandescent welcoming smile it was. “If you want to, come hunt Monday morning at my place back by the peach orchard. Maybe that will make up for our spoiling your sport today.”

He brightened. “Thank you, Sister.”

“And Don, don’t cover your scent with vixen, hear? Just stay on the backside of the wind. I’m sure you’ll get a big one.”