Рита Браун - Hotspur

Cindy would watch through her binoculars. Grace’s Christmas present was a juicy salmon placed outside her den.

“Rooster, come on.” Raleigh loped toward the sound of the horn. “See you later, Inky.”

The two house dogs hurried past the stable, past the freshly painted outbuildings, down the fenced paddocks, and out into the larger pasture. They need not have hurried, for the hounds were drawing northward in a thin line of trees lining the creek, twenty yards at the widest point.

A heavy gray cloud cover began to creep over the Blue Ridge Mountains. This would help hold scent down— and the temperature.

Uncle Yancy heard them coming. He waited by the fence line at the chestnut tree pasture. He’d give them another five minutes, then he’d walk across the pasture, mark the chestnut tree, trot to the in and out jumps on the road, go over them, and then run all the way to the old schoolhouse. He’d dive into the den under the schoolhouse. That ought to get everyone’s blood up.

Back in the covert, Ruthie wrinkled her nose. “What’s this?” Tears filled her eyes.

Delia touched her nose to the spot. “Skunk. Don’t go there, dear. ”

Her brother took a whiff and his eyes watered, too.

“Mmm.” Cora inhaled the musky fox odor of Yancy.

Dasher ran past his brother, irritating him, put his nose down, then bellowed, “Dog fox! Yippee.”

“Just wants to show off for the Saturday crowd,” grumbled the king of show-offs, Dragon.

“You poor baby.” Asa bumped him as he ran by, which only irritated Dragon more.

Seeing the handsome young hound snarl, Betty, on the left bank of the narrow creek, said quietly, “Dragon.”

“I know. I know.” He put his nose down and hollered in his pleasing voice, “Good. Good. Good.”

Shaker blew three sharp “rat-ta-tats,” which brought together the other hounds that had been fanning away from that spot. They all ran in, put their noses to the ground, then opened, honoring Dasher and Cora.

Dasher, now in the front, was quite proud. He usually deferred to his brother, a bully, but today the glory was his, and Cora let him have it. Even if she picked the line first, it was okay that he opened, it would build his confidence.

Shaker now blew “Gone Away,” one of the happiest series of notes a human can blow on a horn. Each longish one-note blast is topped by doubled or tripled notes. Usually three such bars suffice, but in his excitement, a huntsman who is a true windbag can go on and on and on. You’d think they’d pass out from light-headedness.

The members of the field squared their shoulders. The Hilltoppers, right behind them, also put their heels down and lifted their chins.

Sister waited until the last hound, Tinsel, cleared the covert. Having somehow gotten turned around in the excitement, Tinsel finally went right and Sister then squeezed Lafayette. Off they flew.

Lafayette, her usual Saturday horse, earned that honor by virtue of his brains, his beauty, and his smooth gait. Aztec and Rickyroo were still young and learning their trade. Keepsake, at eight, was a wonderful horse who did whatever Sister asked of him. She took Keepsake to other hunts because he would ride in the field without fussing. Lafayette had to be first. He believed deep in his heart that everyone was there to see him.

Over the cut hay pasture, over the coop in the fence line, over the still uncut hayfield with the chestnut tree, over the in and out with the usual rubs and tumps and oomphs. Over the next field and over its jump and down into the thin, parked out woods, the underbrush cleared away, with another trickly creek. Splashing through the creek, cantering alongside the fence, then over the sliprail jump, a little airy, and down a steep incline to another jump at the bottom. This one usually scared the bejesus out of people since you approached at a slight drop and you landed on a bigger drop. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the only way. Down and over Sister and Lafayette went. Oh, how Lafayette loved drop jumps, because they let him stay airborne longer. And on to another hayfield cut so trim, it looked like a front lawn. The three-board fence around it had a freshly painted black coop.

Sister could see Jennifer way at the other side of this field on her right. There was a coop there, and the girl took it in good form as she moved along with hounds but far out of their way. Jennifer was having the time of her life.

Shaker, in his element, screamed encouragement to the hounds, his horn tucked between the first and second button of his brown tweed jacket, his forest green tie a little bunched up behind the horn.

After Sister and Lafayette cleared the coop, she turned to glance behind. Mary Robertson was right behind her. She thought to herself how good her field was. They put the visitors before themselves, and no one had to be told to do it.

As she approached the swale, frothing with mist, she slowed to trot along the edge before heading down into it.

As they had planned, Walter rode up out of the mist onto the far side of this low pasture.

She saw him out of the corner of her eye. On a horse like A. P. Hill, a stout handsome hunter, Walter looked so much like Raymond, she couldn’t hold back a tear.

She pressed on. A murmur behind her swelled and she heard a gasp.

Xavier’s voice came out of the mist. “Did you see that?”

Tedi simply replied, “I’m not sure. It’s too strange.”

By the time the field came up out of the swale, the schoolhouse now in view, a few riders were bug-eyed. Sybil came up alongside her mother; they were still cantering.

“Mother, did you—”

“Yes.”

As the pace again increased, conversation decreased.

Uncle Yancy paused at the door to the schoolhouse long enough for everyone to admire him, then he ducked under the stone steps into the den.

“Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum,” he sang in his reedy voice.

Dragon, there first, started digging. “Yancy, you push your luck.”

“Three blind hounds, three blind hounds, see how they run, see how they run— ” Yancy threw in vibrato for effect.

“Come on out!” Diana called in as she dug next to her brother.

“When the deep purple falls over sleepy garden walls.” Yancy loved the sound of his own voice.

“Good hounds, Good hounds.” Shaker praised them, then blew “Gone to Ground.”

Jennifer held Hojo’s reins. Usually Shaker took Gunpowder on Saturdays, but he wanted to see how his younger horse would handle the crowd. Handled it just fine. Shaker scanned the field, saw a few of them whispering excitedly. A few wondering whether to speak to Sister about what they thought they’d seen.

“Dragon, come on, boy.”

“Yancy! Yancy, you’re a coward. Show your face.”

“When I’m calling you-oo-oo-oo,” Yancy imitated Nelson Eddy. It was not a success.

Dragon blinked as he heard the “oo-oo-oo.”

Shaker pulled his tail. “Dragon, come on, fella. You’re a good hound.”

“Some of us don’t agree,” Asa barked.

Out came Dragon, dirt all over his face, to the cheers of the humans. He looked around at the other hounds, then at the humans. “I am the greatest!”

Shaker patted each head, sure to let the young entry know they could not have accomplished this victory without them. Then he nimbly vaulted up into the saddle, winked at Sister, called his charges, and headed northwest into the breeze, exactly as planned. By now, the cloud cover was overhead, but the eastern sky was still clear. The effect was dramatic.