Рита Браун - Full Cry

A dirt crossroads, a small stone chapel on its northeast corner, came into view. The red, now in plain sight, reached his den, snug under the foundation of the church.

The hounds started to dig, but Shaker pulled them off with Betty’s help. Walter and Ronnie rode up to hold their horses at Sister’s bidding. Much as Shaker liked to reward hounds with a bit of digging, it wouldn’t do to have the small Methodist church disgraced.

He blew “Gone to Ground,” praised his hounds extravagantly while noting the tiny red dots on Dragon’s rear end.

“You’ll learn, buddy, or you’ll be drafted out of here,” Shaker said in a low voice to Dragon, and then in a higher one, “Good hounds! Good hounds!”

He slipped his left foot in the stirrup, swinging up in one graceful motion. Betty swung up a little less gracefully, as Magellan was taller than Outlaw. Patiently the thoroughbred waited for her to wiggle herself settled in the seat.

“Be glad she’s lost weight,” Gunpowder said. “Used to be twenty-five pounds heavier.”

“She’s not bad.” Magellan liked Betty. “I’d put up with twenty-five more pounds. She’s a hell of a lot better than Fontaine ever was.” He mentioned his former owner.

The field stood; people breathed hard, as did a few horses. And there was Jim Meads, who had shadowed them on foot. Alice Ramy came out of the house when she saw him running. She offered him a ride in her car since the field showed no sign of slowing at that point. The instant he closed the door of her car, they chatted as if they’d known each other all their lives.

Sister thanked her hounds, thanked Shaker, thanked Alice, then turned to face the field.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have just put to ground a religious fox, and a Methodist at that. I suppose that means he doesn’t dance or drink.

“I myself am not a Methodist, and if any of you are, time to cover your eyes.” She held up her flask. “Lays the dust.”

The field laughed. People pulled out their flasks. The men fastened theirs on the left side of their saddle. Ladies’ flasks nestled in a small square sandwich box on the right rear of the saddle, usually. The ladies’ flasks contained less liquor than the men’s, so the gentlemen gallantly offered their flasks to the ladies first. It never hurts to get on the good side of a woman.

Sister offered her flask first to Betty, then to Walter, who had come up behind her.

“Thank you, Sister.” Walter took a sip, then offered his flask, which contained a mixture of scotch, orange juice, a dash Cointreau, and a secret ingredient he wouldn’t divulge. It hinted of bitters.

Hattie Baker Parrish offered Sam Lorillard her flask, then realized he couldn’t drink it. Sam, by chance, was just behind Xavier.

“Sam, I forgot.”

He smiled. “I brought iced tea.” He lifted his flask to his lips and, as he did so, loosened the reins. A movement behind the church made his horse turn his head, and, in so doing, the flecked foam from his mouth splattered Xavier.

Xavier turned, beheld Sam. His face turned beet red. He took his crop, scraped a white line of sweat off his own mount, flicking it right in Sam’s face. “Yours, I believe, sir.”

“You’re an ass, Henry Xavier,” Sam shot back.

That fast, Xavier—as big as he was—was off his horse, pulling Sam from his. The two started whaling the living shit out of each other; Xavier, bigger, landed more telling blows. Sam, small and slight, bobbed and weaved as best he could, but he was too mad to care about getting hurt, and he landed a few.

Gray dismounted, as did Walter, Ronnie, and Clay Berry. It took Clay and Walter to pull off Xavier. Gray managed to grab his brother’s upper arms and drag him backwards.

“I will have satisfaction!” Xavier struggled.

“Chill,” Walter advised, his voice calm. “Dueling days are over.”

Meanwhile, Meads caught it all on film.

Gray put his hand over his brother’s mouth because Sam had a mean tongue when he felt like it. Anything coming out of his mouth would only make a bad situation worse.

The humans, hounds, and horses observed this drama with great interest, none more so than Sister. As the master, she couldn’t let it slide.

She rode to Xavier. “X, I know there’s bad blood, but I can’t allow this kind of behavior in the hunt field. You are excused. I will speak to you later when we are both in a better frame of mind.”

Shocked, as he had never once been reprimanded, and still angry but beginning to recognize he had done a really dumb thing, Xavier wordlessly remounted. He turned for the long ride back to Mill Ruins. Ronnie, a friend always, turned with him after saying, as was proper, “Good night, Master. Thank you for a glorious day.”

“Good night, Ronnie.”

Sam, head down, Gray still holding his upper arms, now looked up at Sister. “I’m sorry.”

“He provoked it, I know that; but Sam, you, too, are excused. I advise you to ride a good distance behind Xavier and Ronnie or, if you prefer, to ride at a distance from the field because we’re going in. I will speak with you later.”

“Yes, Master.” He bowed his head again. “Good night, Master.”

She nodded to him as Gray looked up at her. “Good night, Master.”

“Night, Gray.”

The brothers waited for the field to move off, then slowly walked behind them.

Walter, abreast with Sister, finally said, “Unforgettable day.”

She smiled. “The phone lines will be burning up tonight.”

Cranking on members wasn’t natural to Sister, but like so many people before her, she had learned that if you are going to lead, you must be fair, firm, and decisive. If a master tolerates bad behavior once, she or he will be certain to see it twice. And if a Board of Governors or the field senses a weak master, mischief multiplies like fleas in summer.

Humans, like hounds, need a strong leader. Sister was strong. She hoped she was fair.

“Thank you for your help, Walter. It could have been worse.”

“You know, I am always glad to help you or the hunt any way I can,” he said, meaning every word.

“If your schedule isn’t too busy this week, let me take you to breakfast, lunch, or dinner, whatever you prefer. I’d like to have your undivided attention.” She smiled, not wanting him to think it would be a difficult meeting. Actually, she hoped it would be positive.

“Tuesday, lunch.”

“At the club or will you be in scrubs? I can meet you close to the hospital.”

“The club. I look forward to it.”

Tedi and Edward winked at Sybil as she rode on the right side of the pack. She’d glanced back at them. They were proud that she had performed so well in a difficult situation.

Shaker complimented her, as did Betty. No one threw compliments around idly on staff. If you heard one, you knew you did a good job.

Cora growled at Dragon, “You are nine miles of bad road.”

He didn’t reply.

“Well, at least we know there’s a coyote here,” young Rassle said.

“I’m not arguing that, Rassle, but you’d better damn well know the difference between coyote scent and fox scent, and you must try for fox first. We were right behind our fox. You could have thrown a blanket over us all. We threw up at the badger den, but he had to be close, scent had to be hot. It demanded a bit of patience to cast a wide net and pick him up. Obviously, he walked into the creek, but he came out, now, didn’t he?” Cora sounded like a schoolteacher.

“Yes, ma’am.” Rassle listened.

Asa couldn’t resist. He hissed at Dragon, “Pizza butt.”