Рита Браун - Outfoxed

“Can’t.” Target swished his tail around.

“He can lead the hounds to you, Target. Pride goeth before a fall,” Netty warned.

“I’ll get him before he gets me.”

As the young foxes gathered up the debris of their meal, Aunt Netty scolded: “What are you all doing here, anyway? You should be in your own dens.” Her speech was clipped. “Charlene, you spoil these children. Why, the grays are already in their new homes, even that little black thing. She has a pretty face. She’ll need it with that black coat.”

“Who cares what the grays do?” Reynard, parroting his father, said.

“I do. They aren’t stupid, you know.” Netty, who’d seen a lot in her day, couldn’t help but sound superior. “They’ve taken the good new dens near the cornfields. Makes it that much harder for you. You should have found a place last week.”

“I’ll chase one out and take his den,” Reynard bragged.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” Aunt Netty had no time for youthful folly. “Opening hunt is not but ten days away. You’d better get yourself situated.”

“We can dust those guys.” Charlie, the good-natured son, laughed.

“And so you can but what if you duck in a den and find Comet there? He’s a young gray but he’s tough, very tough, just like his father. You’ll have a fight on your paws and hounds at your heels. Prepare now.” Having imparted enough wisdom for one day, Netty closed her eyes, curling her tail around her nose.

Charlie picked up a drumstick; Reynard, some feathers. Grace batted the neck around and Patsy picked up the backbone. They walked outside, scattering the bones. The sun filtered through the trees.

“Why do they start formal hunting in early November?” Grace asked.

“Because we’re looking for dens. They’ll get better runs. That’s what Mom says,” Charlie answered.

“It’s because there’s frost on the ground. Usually. The first frost comes around the middle of October but some years not until later. By November the frost is here until April. Scent holds,” Patsy said.

“Maybe it’s both things.” Grace walked toward the creek. She liked to watch the fish. She’d seen bear catch them and she thought if a dumb bear could do it, she could do it.

Reynard dashed by her. Charlie ran after him. Patsy bumped into Grace just to hear her squeal. A perfect October day was meant for play. They could worry about hunting later.

CHAPTER 26

The last label peeled off the sheet of paper was smacked onto the envelopes. Formal invitations to opening hunt had already been mailed the first of October. This mailing was the fixture cards.

Fixture cards listed the time and place of each hunt. Often at the top of a fixture card was printed the phrase “Hounds will meet.”

Scheduling fixtures drove many a master to drink. Even with the fixtures scheduled, last-minute changes wreaked havoc. A hard rain might prompt a farmer to request no one ride over his fields and with good reason. A crop of winter wheat could get cut up or the slipping and sliding of trailers could turn a pasture into brown waves, which, when frozen, were hell to negotiate.

The ladies of a hunting club usually did the mailings. Gentlemen built fences. Both genders cleared trails. However, as those lines blurred, the new order was whoever could do the job, did it.

The ladies, gathered in Sister’s living room, laughed, gossiped, teased one another.

Golly sorted the mail. Raleigh slept by the fireplace.

A knock on the front door brought Sister to her feet.

Crawford asked to come in. The ladies said hello.

“Perfect timing.” He smiled. “I’ll take the fixture cards and run them through my postage meter.”

“Why thank you, Crawford,” Sister said.

“Martha wasn’t here, was she?”

“No,” Betty Franklin, sitting cross-legged on the floor, remarked. “She got tied up at work. Called about an hour ago.”

“Oh.” He wanted to say something but whatever it was it stuck in his throat.

“A libation?” Sister reached for his jacket.

“No. I’ll do this right now and drop them at the main post office. Oh, I forgot to tell you, thirty coop flats with top boards will be dropped over at Rumble Bars tomorrow. Had the lumber yard knock them together.”

There were many ways to build coops but if the sides were built, then carried to the site, they could be leaned against one another, braced, a top board put on, and then painted. It saved time building the flats off-site.

“Crawford, that’s wonderful.” Sister was pleased. He allowed himself a smile. “When we know how the fox runs we can put up more. This is a good beginning. What a wonderful surprise. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink?”

“No. No. I really need to go.” He picked up the cards all in their envelopes in cartons according to zip codes. Out he went.

“H-m-m,” was all Betty Franklin said.

Before that subject could warm up, Sister deftly said, “Did I tell you girls the caterer called this morning and said I’d better switch from spoon bread to corn bread? I mean how can you have a hunt breakfast without spoon bread, ham biscuits, gravy—well, I’ll make us hungry. Anyway, he said there are now so many Yankees in Virginia that every time he makes spoon bread there’s a dreadful mess.”

“What does he mean, a dreadful mess?” Georgia Vann asked.

“Yankees pick it up with their fingers. They think it’s undercooked corn bread.” Sister emitted tinkling laughter.

“No!” Betty howled.

“I can’t believe that. How can you not know how to eat spoon bread? I mean, it’s called spoon bread.” Lottie Fisher shook her head, then laughed.

“That’s what he said.” Sister laughed more.

“The hell with the Yankees.” Lottie waved the rebel flag figuratively.

“You know, we give foxhunting clinics in the beginning of cubbing. Maybe we should run a hunt breakfast clinic or a southern cooking demonstration,” Betty merrily suggested.

“As long as you organize it,” Sister said.

“Spoken like a true master.” Betty giggled some more.

“Isn’t it glorious to be superior to Federals?” Georgia teased.

“Like Crawford.” Lottie had to get back to that. “I wonder what he’s about? I mean, I heard he’s trying to win back Martha. If I were her, I’d slap him right in the face.”

“She did that already,” Betty dryly said.

“Shotgun,” Georgia laconically said as she reached for a piece of pound cake with fresh vanilla icing dribbled over it.

“He’s not worth going to jail over.” Betty thought the pound cake looked pretty good, too. This was her third piece.

“Maybe he’s learned something,” Sister said. “More coffee? Drinks?”

“You sit. You threw this together after hound walk. You must be tired by now.” Georgia got up, walked over to the gleaming silver coffeepot, and poured into the cups handed her.

“If I had a nickel for every time I wanted to shoot Bobby Franklin, I’d be rich.” Betty laughed at herself. “Who knows what Crawford and Martha have to work out together. It’s hard for a middle-aged woman to make it alone. Let’s not forget that, girls.”

A quiet murmur rippled across the gathering.

“Sister, you know I can’t keep my mouth shut. Are you really going to make Crawford a joint-master? You must know the club’s abuzz with speculation.” Georgia blushed.

“I don’t know. Crawford and Fontaine have a lot to offer.”

“And a lot to sidestep.” Lottie hated Crawford. She thought he was a rich oaf who tried to buy his way into everything. He didn’t belong here.