Рита Браун - Full Cry

Sister figured the day would be start and stop, hunt and peck, since last night was a full moon. Contented, stuffed, most foxes were curled up in their dens, a tidy pile of bones and fur outside the opening. Inky had buried her debris, not an unusual habit, though most foxes kept their own open garbage pit.

A field of fifty-nine showed up, formal attire creating a timeless tableaux of elegance. Bobby counted twenty-three Hilltoppers. He asked Ben Sidell if he would mind riding tail along with Sari Rasmussen, who volunteered for gate duty today. Jennifer rode tail with First Flight. Sister liked having someone to close the back door, as she put it. Also, if the field straggled; it wasn’t good. They might turn a fox or, if the pack turned, hounds would have to run through horses. So Sari pushed up the Hilltoppers while Jennifer pushed up First Flight. Much as the girls liked being in First Flight, as close to the front as they could get without offending the adults, these days doing tail duty led to squeals of laughter back in the barn when they recounted what occurred. The tail rider sees everything: the misdeeds, the bobble in the saddle, the split britches, the bad fences.

When the field walks out, a hierarchy lines up behind the field master. For the Jefferson Hunt, this meant that Tedi and Edward rode in the master’s pocket. As the oldest members with colors, they were entitled to pride of place. Also, they rode divine horses, so they could keep up. As the hunt unfolded, this hierarchy altered. Whoever could really ride, whoever was well mounted, could move up without censure, although few ever passed the Bancrofts. Occasionally Tedi would pull back if she sensed someone behind her who was antsy or who couldn’t control his or her horse.

During joint meets, the visiting master, if that master did not hunt hounds, rode with Sister. Guests then rode forward as Jefferson members graciously fell back for them. Again, once the hunt unfolded, if some guests weren’t well mounted, the Jefferson Hunt members could pass them without being considered rude.

The American way of hunting, most particularly in the South, involved manners, hospitality, and strict attention to the pleasure of one’s guests. Hunts in other parts of the country could be equally as welcoming, but the southern hunts believed they performed these services better than anyone. And of course, the Virginia hunts took it as an article of faith that they towered over all other hunts, a fact not lost on other states, nor especially admired.

Many was the time that Sister repented being a Virginia master when she hunted, say, in Kentucky. So keen were those masters to show their mettle that they gleefully rode out in twelve-degree snowstorms, taking three- or four-foot stone fences.

The “By God, I’ll show these Virginia snobs” attitude meant that the Virginians had to ride quite well in order to survive. Yet it was all in good fun. There is not a sport as companionable as foxhunting.

Sister looked over her shoulder at the line of well-turned-out riders snaking behind her as they briskly walked toward the peach orchard next to the farm road.

She remembered hunting in Ireland one fall after she and Ray had been married four years. The Irish rode right over them. She never forgot her first hedgerow jump with the yawning ditch on the other side. That night she thanked God for two things: One, she was an American. Two, she had rented a superb horse who took care of her.

Clay and Xavier whispered between themselves as hounds were not yet cast. Ronnie, riding just ahead, paid no attention. He’d listened to Xavier’s wails of frustration over his poundage every day. Just because X was his best friend didn’t mean there weren’t times when X bored him to tears. He always thought that Dee was a saint, and he envied X his partner in life. Funny, too, for of all the original four friends, X, average-looking, would have seemed to be the last one to attract a marvelous woman.

Ronnie liked Izzy well enough, but she was impressed with her beauty and impressed with money a bit too much for him. His eyes darted over the field today. He’d known some of these people all his life. The newer ones brought fresh ideas and energy, and he had to admit that he learned from them. Pretty much he liked everyone out there, although Crawford irritated him. He wasn’t overfond of Dalton Hill either.

Hounds reached the field across from the peach orchard, the low gray clouds offering hope of moisture and scent. The temperature clung to a steady thirty-nine degrees. The layer of fresh snow had had enough time to settle in, pack down a bit. The going might be icy in spots but mostly, if the horses had borium on their shoes, they should be okay.

A blacksmith charged $105 to shoe with borium, a bit of metal powder put onto the shoes. Some people put caulks in their horses’ shoes, a kind of stud. Some could even be screwed in and then screwed out. Sister hated studs, refusing to use them. Like most horsemen, she had strong likes and dislikes. She had visions of her horse tearing the hell out of himself with studs if he overreached or stumbled, then scrambled, hitting his forefeet with his hind or catching the back of his foreleg. It wouldn’t do.

As she watched Shaker cast hounds into the field, a wave of envy swept over her. Shaker was right. Once you hunt the hounds, you never want to go back. Still, she was a sensible woman. He was a gifted huntsman, and Jefferson Hunt was lucky to have him. She’d content herself with leading the field.

Trident picked his way over the snow. Trudy, Tinsel, and Trinity were out, along with Darby, Doughboy, Dreamboat, Dana, Delight, Diddy, Ribot, Rassle, and Ruthie.

Cora hoped the youngsters would keep it together. She, like Sister, felt good about their progress. A day like today could be tricky. The conditions seemed favorable, but the full moon last night generally made for a dull hunt. Cora hoped they could pick up a visiting red dog fox.

Nellie, Diana, Delia, Dasher, Dragon, Asa, Ardent, and the other veterans, like a scrimmage line sweeping forward, moved over the terrain.

Back in the house, Raleigh and Rooster were furious because Sister locked their dog door to the outside. Both dogs would shadow the hounds if they could, and they had no business doing that. Golly relished their misery.

“Maybe we’ll pick up Grace?” Trident said.

“Too far for her on a cold night like last night. She’s over there at Foxglove by the water wheel.” Asa had a fondness for the small red.

“What about Aunt Netty?” Ribot inhaled rabbit odor.

“Figure that any scent you get will most likely be dog fox,” Delia instructed Ribot. “The vixens sit because they know the dog foxes will come to them. If you do get a vixen’s trail, chances are she hunted a bit; you’re picking her up going back to her den, especially now.”

“Then why did we get long runs on vixens in late October?” Ruthie puzzled over this.

“The young fox entry, so to speak, left home to find their own dens. Don’t you worry over that now,” Delia instructed. “I’m telling you what I’ve learned over the years, though if there is one thing I have learned about foxes, it’s to expect the unexpected. For all I know, Ruthie, a vixen will show up and give us a ripping go today. They are peculiar creatures, foxes.”

Nellie, another old girl, giggled. “That’s what Shaker says about women: They’re as peculiar as foxes.”

“Hasn’t said much like that since he took a fancy to Lorraine.” Ardent laughed.

The hounds laughed with him. If the humans heard, it would have sounded as though they were letting their breath out in little bursts.