Рита Браун - Outfoxed

“You’re a good whip, Peter.”

“Tell you one thing, pretty girl, if there’s not foxhunting in heaven, I’m not going.” He laughed; his eyes sparkled.

She remembered him when he was younger, when his hair was pitch-black. Peter Wheeler was a handsome man to have in the field or in the bed.

“I hope you won’t be going any time soon even though I bet the foxes are grand. Foxes from the great runs in England during the nineteenth century. Now there’s a thought.”

He beamed at her. “When you were seventeen, I predicted you would be master someday. You had it even then, Jane.” He reached in the pocket of his flannel shirt for a cigar, a Macanudo for a mild early-morning smoke. “It’s an inborn thing. Can’t be taught. Can’t be bought.”

“Thank you.”

“And I’ll tell you something else. You’re still a fine-looking woman. I’m glad you didn’t dye your hair or tie up your face. Looks stupid and fake. Hate to see that on a woman. Silver hair makes you look distinguished. More like a master.” He chuckled. “And a word of advice—and that’s the great thing about being two years older than God—I can say whatever I damn well please. To hell with the rules, Janie, do as you please. Time’s a-wasting.” He laughed. “Go seduce some fellow half your age. You can, you know. Here comes Shaker. Like the cat that ate the canary. And look at those hounds, will you. Just as pleased with themselves as Shaker. My, how I’d love to be on the back of a horse.” He was so excited he stood up, energy racing through him.

The field buzzed behind the master, happy to have such a good beginning and happy to have a moment for gossip, pass the flask, take a few furtive puffs on a cigarette, and quickly grind it out on the bottom of a boot. The horses chatted, too.

Sister rode over to Shaker. “Well done.”

“Not bad. I’ll cast in the other direction, up toward the graveyard.”

“Fine.”

She turned back to her field, took her place in the front as Crawford edged up behind her. He dearly wanted to ride in the master’s pocket, the most coveted position in the field.

Czapaka murmured to Lafayette, “I’ll try not to bump you. He can’t hold me, you know, but I don’t want to go first. You’ve got more guts than I do. You go first.”

True, Lafayette did have to negotiate obstacles and terrain first, but Showboat was in front of him on those times when he could see him. That gave him a good idea of the footing. If Showboat and Shaker were out of sight, he used his judgment, which was solid. Lafayette took Sister Jane to the jump. She didn’t have to squeeze him over.

“If it gets too bad just dump him,” Lafayette advised. Being a thoroughbred, he had no tolerance for someone with bad hands.

They waved good-bye to Peter as they walked north. A yip now and then meant a faint, faint scent lingered, but they crept for about a half hour, arriving at the graveyard, headstones so old the writing had worn down to curves and straight lines. The years still read clear. Those resting within were Wheelers, Jacksons, and Japazaws, descended from an Indian leader of the last half of the seventeenth century, the first half of the eighteenth. It was always a source of pride and defiance among the Wheelers, Jacksons, and Japazaws that they claimed their blood. Many a settler denied sexual congress with the native peoples, much less married them.

Archie walked through the open wrought-iron gate, twelve feet high with a scroll at the top. “Half hour.”

Cora joined him. “Let’s make certain.”

They deliberately walked through the graveyard, feathers scattered behind a large monument. A bobwhite had provided a feast for their fox.

“There’s another one.” Archie sniffed a crossing scent. “About the same time.”

“Arch, I’ll go to the edge of the graveyard with this one and you go to the edge with the other. Let’s come back and compare. If we leave the graveyard, the whips will come in thinking we’ve split but I don’t know which line is better.”

“Okay.” Archie moved north.

Cora moved south, taking the pack with her before some young one got impatient, although Dragon’s disgrace seemed to have sunk in.

Within a few minutes the pack was at the southern edge of the graveyard, which opened onto a rolling fifty-acre pasture. Archie halted at the northern end, cut over about ten years ago. A border of mature trees had been left around the graveyard.

Cora called out, “It’s about the same. The scent.”

“Same here,” Archie replied. “But if we go into the cutover we have a better chance of staying with it. The scent will surely be dissipated on the pasture.” Archie knew the territory better than anyone.

“Come on, kids.” Cora swung the pack around. They fell in behind Archie, slipped through the wrought iron, and headed into the tangles.

The young ones had been trained to go into rough country during their hound walks but this was the real thing.

A lovely young bitch hesitated.

“Get your butt in there,” Archie growled. “You don’t want Shaker to push you in.”

She scooted in.

Douglas up ahead viewed, letting out a holler.

Shaker didn’t bother his hounds. They were working well; they needed no encouragement. To speak to them would bring their heads up. Besides which the hounds could hear Douglas better than he could. They knew what it meant.

The field followed along a farm road. The brush, thick, inhibited horses going in after the hounds. They covered a lot of ground at a steady trot. The cutover acres gave way to a bog. The road, higher, got them through. Sister saw hounds on both sides of the bog, in a line, moving forward, working hard because there couldn’t have been much to go on in that mess. Once out of the bog they fanned out, picking up the scent on the moss at the bottom of a fiddle oak.

“Fading fast.” Cora urged the others, “Try to keep your head down more, youngsters, even though it will slow you down. It’s so easy to overrun the line in these conditions.”

Once out of the bog they entered a high meadow; a cool wind caught them on the spine of the meadow. The hounds dipped their heads under it, although Dasher would stick his nose up. True, he got wind of heavy scent, but it wasn’t fox.

“Don’t even think about it,” Archie snapped.

Dasher dropped his head obediently, even though the deer scent sorely vexed him.

Diana stopped at the highest point looking to the east. There, sunning herself on a rock, was a luxurious vixen, gray. She had little interest in the proceedings.

“Look.”

Archie stopped to see the fox. “She’s not the hunted fox. But oh, this is tempting.”

The pack came to a halt. Sister, too, saw the sunbathing vixen.

She paused, waiting for her hounds, and Crawford, the damned fool, bellowed, “Tallyho.”

This brought a chorus of tallyhos behind her. The hounds all brought their heads up. Shaker stopped; the hounds stopped, then turned. The gray fox, disgusted, shot off her rock. The hounds picked up the scent, red-hot, and ran full speed ahead.

Sister squeezed Lafayette. They roared over the meadow, cleared the four slip-rail fence into the next meadow, and approached a trick drop jump at the edge of that. The slope on the other side was mossy, which meant horses slipped. The drop wasn’t all that steep; it was the footing. Of course, the horses collected themselves in no time. It was the people that didn’t.

Sister gracefully leapt over, barely leaning back in the saddle. She stayed over Lafayette’s center of gravity regardless of the jump.