Рита Браун - Hotspur

“Because the wind has shifted. He’s pushing us into the wind,” Delia answered.

“Why don’t we just go right down here by the water?” Tinsel asked, a good question.

“The trees, the underbrush are cutting the wind. But up there” —Delia cocked her head toward higher ground— “it’s a little stiffer. And if we pick it up there, we’ll follow it wherever it goes, and if we can’t get anything heading into the wind we can always come back here where it will be cooler longer. Trust Shaker.”

“Do the other humans know this stuff?” Trident asked.

Delia laughed. “No, dear, they’re just trying to stay on their horses.”

“Do the whippers-in know?” Trudy crossed the stream, the clear water chilly.

“Some understand. Others just ride hard,” Delia said.

Asa, now with them, spoke, his voice deep. “It’s an article of faith that every whipper-in believes he or she can hunt hounds—until they have the horn to their lips.”

“Why?” Trinity gracefully leapt an old log.

“Kind of like the difference between a strike hound and an anchor hound. The anchor hound has to know where everyone is and what the fox and humans might do. Remember, they’re always behind us. The strike hound pushes out to get the line. That’s all that hound has to do, have a great nose and great drive. Doesn’t have to have a brain in its head, which I am here to tell you Dragon does not. So don’t imitate that ass.”

The young ones giggled.

Delia added, “But Cora is smart. She’s got brains and athletic ability. What a nose that girl has.”

Just then Cora found. “Got one!”

Dragon skidded up to her. “Yo yo yo. It’s good.”

“God, I just hate him,” Asa grumbled as the youngsters flew up ahead, all excited.

Delia laughed as she ran with Asa.

Diana, nose down, figured the scent was about an hour old but holding. They’d better make the most of it. She didn’t know who it was. Often she did.

They clambered up the banks, leaving the stream behind, and came into a huge hayfield, sixty acres of cut hay rolled up in huge round bales. This was galloping country.

Sister popped over the tiger trap jump that Walter had built in the fence line. The logs, upright, created a coop, but it looked formidable. In this case it was because Walter was overzealous when he built it. The trap was three feet six inches but looked like four feet. A few people decided to join the Hilltoppers then and there. The rest squeezed hard, grabbed mane, and over they soared.

St. Just swooped overhead one more time, screaming about the fox with the sore paw, but no one was listening. Furious, he pooped on a brand-new velvet cap, then flew away.

Keepsake stretched out, head low, covering ground effortlessly. How he loved open fields, as did Sister. They moved so fast, she had tears in her eyes.

One of Ronnie Haslip’s contact lenses blew out. He cursed but kept right up. He’d jump with that eye closed.

Betty, wisely using the territory, cleared a jump, three large logs lashed together with heavy rope, at the end of the big field. She listened intently. Shaker had blown “Gone Away” when the hounds all broke out of the covert on the line.

Now and then Shaker shouted encouragement. Why ruin the beautiful music of the hounds by blowing all the time?

The riders thundered across the field, took the three-log jump into another pasture, smaller, maybe twentyfive acres.

Hounds ran right out of it, crawling under the fence on the far side or just taking the triple-wide coop in the fence line. The jump, about three feet tall, was a glorious twenty-four feet long.

Shaker and Gunpowder glided over, as did Sister and Keepsake. Behind her, Sister could hear the sound of hooves hitting the earth, the slight jingle of curb chains on bits, the occasional sharp exhalation of breath. She never looked back. Her job was to stay behind the huntsman.

Ron and Xavier took the wide jump in tandem. Neither could resist a little warble of victory. A few people cheered behind them.

The fox, Prescott, one of Target and Charlene’s new litter, hit top speed and hooked sharply left in the woods on the other side of the triple-wide jump.

He dashed over moss, rocks, then ducked into a den carefully placed under the roots of a massive walnut. Earth thrown out everywhere announced his abode.

Hounds marked him.

The T youngsters pushed right up front and Trident even dug in the den.

Shaker dismounted, blowing the triumphant notes of victory as the field rode up.

Within five minutes, after much praise, he was back up on Gunpowder.

“Thought I’d go back to the big meadow, hit the south side where Walter planted corn.”

“Good enough,” Sister answered, smiling.

They jumped back over the three logs, trotted over the smaller pasture, jumped the triple-wide coop. Others thought this a good opportunity to try jumping in tandem or even in threes, like a hunt team.

Since hounds weren’t casting, Sister had pulled up to the side to watch the fun. As masters go, she was strict but not a killjoy. The attempts of the makeshift teams to hit the jump stride for stride was fun to watch. Ron and Xavier got their timing just right.

Ken, Tedi, and Edward almost managed it, and they received big smiles for their efforts.

Sister could hear the light chatter behind her. She knew they’d stop once hounds were cast.

“Remember when Nola and Guy took that jump holding hands?” Ron recalled, laughing.

“I think that was one of the few times I was really jealous,” Ken said. “Sybil and I tried but couldn’t do it.”

Xavier handed his flask around. “Funny. You know what made me jealous? That Guy’s nickname was Hotspur. Ralph and I hated that name. Ever notice how people have to live up or down to their names? Hotspur, impetuous valor. Went right to his head.”

“Who first called him that?” Ken tried to remember.

“I think Nola started it.” Ron licked his lips. Xavier put good stuff in his flask.

“She always had nicknames for everyone,” Xavier said.

“Mustache. That was mine. Shaved it off once we knew she wasn’t coming home.”

A beat followed this.

“Mine was Zorro,” Ron said with a slightly embarrassed grin.

“The Gay Blade?” Ken couldn’t resist.

“I could die laughing.” Ron, sarcastic, handed Xavier back his flask. “No. Because I got into a fistfight at the Phi Delt house and got two black eyes. She said it looked like I wore a mask. Zorro was okay by me.”

“She called Sister ‘Artemis,’ ” Ken remembered.

“And she called you Di Maggio,” Xavier reminded him.

“Oh, she did not.” Ken’s face reddened.

“Big stick.” Ron laughed.

“Like she would know.” Ken really was embarrassed.

“Oh, those tight breeches.” Ron rolled his eyes. “And I’ve only got one contact in, but Ken, the bulge is noticeable.”

“See, I was right, Zorro, the Gay Blade.” Ken laughed.

“Let’s see, she called Sybil ‘Puffin’ when they were little, but I don’t remember any nickname when they were older,” Xavier recalled.

“Big Sis,” Ken replied. “Not original, but it fit. You know, I’ve only glimpsed her once today. Hope she remembers the territory.”

“Sybil? You kidding?” Ron adored Sybil.

“What do you know, Cyclops?” Ken teased him.

“Hey, I can jump better with one eye closed than you can with two open.” Ron winked as he said it.