Рита Браун - Full Cry

He flared his wide nostrils, being rewarded with the clear but fading odor of bobcat. Bobcats, if hounds get on a line, will give a rough chase. They’ll shoot through the meanest, lowest ground cover. Hounds get shredded with thorns. It usually doesn’t take long for the bobcat to have his fill of it. Since the bobcat is not a sporting animal by nature, he or she then will climb a tree, viewing those below with thick disdain.

Hounds lifted their heads, winding.

Sister noticed, but no sterns moved. She inhaled deeply, smelling the beguiling odor from the pines, the distinctive moist scent of the millrace.

“Why aren’t you going over there?” Rassle, a precocious first-year entry, asked Dasher.

“Bobcat.”

“Ooh.” Rassle lifted his head higher. This was the first time he’d smelled such a varmint. Had he seen this particular customer, respect would have been his response. The male bobcat, a tight forty pounds, had padded down to the mill to snatch a little dog food. Walter put dog food and corn there and at other spots for the red foxes. For whatever reason, only reds lived at Mill Ruins.

While he could and would run, a bobcat wouldn’t shy from a fight. His fangs, his lightning reflexes, and his frightening claws could reduce animals far larger than himself to a bloody mess.

“Can we chase bobcat?” Ruthie, Rassle’s littermate, inquired.

“If there’s no fox, we can, but,” Asa warned, “you don’t get too close, and you’d better be prepared to go through hateful briars.”

“How about bear?” Ruthie was curious.

“Well, again, if there’s no fox, but it’s not recommended.” Dasher spoke low.

“And never forget, young ’un, it was a bear that killed the great Archie,” Cora called back from the front. “Before you were born. I say we leave bear to Plott hounds.” Plott hounds, larger and heavier than foxhounds, were used to track bear. They were slower than foxhounds, possessed deep voices, and never ever surrendered the line once they found scent.

“Hear, hear. ” Delia, Nellie, Ardent, Trident, and Tinsel agreed.

“Any more of this talk and we’ll be accused of babbling. Sister will get really upset with Mr. Meads here,” Diana wisely noted.

Even though they were not yet at the first cast, they were expected to move along quietly, focused on business. Shaker, hearing the chat, glowered at them, saying nothing. He wasn’t a huntsman to chide his hounds unless he felt they were doing wrong and would do so again. The invigorating early morning lifted the pack’s spirits. If they had a few words to say, he’d overlook it, but not encourage it.

They reached a small pocket meadow, perhaps ten acres. The slope eastward glistened as a light vapor lifted off the warming frost.

Shaker put horn to lips and blew “Draw the Cover”— one long blast and three short ones.

“Lieu in there! Lieu in there,” Shaker called, his voice light and high, as hounds associated higher notes with happiness and excitement. Low notes among themselves, a growl, generally signaled discipline or disagreement.

“I’ll get him first,” Dragon bragged.

Cora ignored him, nose to the swept-down grass. The coldness tingled. The competing scents of rabbits, the bobcat, and deer all lifted into her amazing nose. The other hounds, noses down, read the pocket meadow. A gaggle of turkey hens had pecked their way through not an hour ago, then flew off as the bobcat came too close. The deer, a large herd, an old doe in charge, moved west to east. A few dots here and there signaled crows had touched down, but for what reason neither Cora nor the other hounds could discern. In warmer weather, the hounds could identify other scents, even insects. No insects in this weather, no pungent earthworm trails. A lone beaver had waddled along the edge of the meadow before turning back to the creek, which fed the millrace.

The hounds carefully moved over the pocket meadow.

Rassle was so enchanted with the bobcat scent that he wandered a little too far to the east, where the meadow sloped downward. He stopped in his tracks. His stern flipped back and forth furiously: fox! Indeed, a fresh fox track, too. Rassle had never before found a line on his own, and he was just first year, but he’d been to the fox pen enough, and he had watched the big kids do their job. With astonishing confidence, the young tricolor let out a rip.

“Red! Big red!”

Cora flew to him. She put her nose down. “He’s right.”

The others quickly came to Cora, and Asa called, “Showtime!”

Marty leaned over to Crawford. “I just love that hound’s voice,” she whispered.

He nodded, having no time to reply because the hounds shot out of the meadow. Sister, never one to get left behind, shot with them.

Shaker tried to stay up with his lead hounds, Cora and Dragon, but as they’d gone into heavy woods, he skirted the thick part, emerging on an old deer trail. He squeezed Gunpowder, moving as fast as he could.

Betty on Magellan today—a big rangy thoroughbred given to her by Sorrel Buruss—rocked in his long fluid stride. She covered the left side, the creek side. Shaker, trusting her, figured if there was going to be rough or tough duty, it would be there.

“Ride to cry,” Shaker told his whippers-in if they couldn’t see the pack.

Sybil was getting it, though, and the more she whipped-in, the more she appreciated what a difficult, exhilarating task it was. She felt as though she had the best seat in the house.

“Tallyho!” Betty sang out as a big bushy-tailed red dog fox burst from the heavy woods into a cutover track that Walter hoped to turn into pasture this spring. Betty didn’t recognize the thick-coated fellow. She reasoned he wasn’t a local, so to speak, and she was correct.

No fool, the fox knew the cutover would make for heavy going for the horses and slow down the hounds, since they were sixty to seventy pounds heavier than he.

Betty, appreciating his guile, galloped to the old logging road, hoping to keep him in sight. He dashed through the cutover, twenty-five acres of slash, nimbly leapt over the old coop in the fence to the next, large meadow.

Magellan loved to jump and he took off farther back than Outlaw, Betty’s quarter horse mount. She got left behind, her hands popped up.

“Sorry, Magellan.”

“You’ll get the hang of me,” he kindly assured her. He was delighted to have her on his back. His former owner, a hard-riding man, possessed okay hands, but he was a squeeze and jerk rider, which upset Magellan. In fact, the less you interfered with the rangy thoroughbred, the better he performed.

The red fox, knowing Betty was there and alone, gave her a show. He had a perverse sense of humor. Also, he’d just visited a vixen, and he felt terrific. He pulled up sharp, sat down on the moss-covered rock outcropping in the meadow. A thin veneer of frost covered the bright green moss.

Betty and Magellan pulled up, too.

“The only reason men wear scarlet is to imitate foxes,” the fellow said. “All humans secretly want to be foxes.”

“Arrogant twit,” Magellan snorted.

To Betty it sounded like barking, but his insouciance made her laugh. She heard hounds in full cry perhaps half a mile back. To her complete astonishment, Jim Meads appeared at the edge of the meadow, stopped, and took photographs of the fox, Betty, and Magellan.

“My left side is my best.” The fox slowly turned to Jim. The silver-haired man, big smile on his face, snapped what he knew would be some of the best hunt pictures he’d ever taken, and he’d taken thousands.