Рита Браун - Outfoxed

Children, barely able to breathe with anticipation, mounted their ponies. Adults heaved themselves up, the older and wiser ones bringing mounting blocks. Once up, a friend on the ground gave their boots a last-minute flick of the towel.

On they rode, up the hill, a pageant timeless in beauty, a passion older than the walls of Troy.

“Hold up,” Shaker gently spoke to his hounds.

Thirty couple, tricolor, medium-height American hounds carrying sculpted heads looked up at the huntsman and then back to the master.

“What beautiful children,” Sister said, beaming.

As the humans gathered round the hanging tree, Sister counted heads: 92 mounted and perhaps 130 on the ground. She couldn’t be sure, as more were climbing the hill. Thank god she’d ordered twelve cases of champagne for the breakfast, plus the usual bar. She laughed to herself because some of these people would rush to the bar with a siphon. How they lived to middle age or beyond amazed her.

Walter Lungrun was perfectly turned out. She smiled at him and he tipped his cap.

Fontaine wore a black weaselbelly, since he knew Sister loved the look. His white cords were set off even more by the rich, black coat. His top hat, smoothed and brushed, suited him.

Crawford wore a scarlet swallowtail with a white vest and his top hat was also perfect, with a scarlet cord attached to his coat. Men would kill for that scarlet cord, as they searched years for them. Most had to make do with a black hat cord, which strictly speaking was not proper. There was Crawford, his hat cord correctly in place, his boots direct from Lobb in London, costing him somewhere between $5,000 and $6,000, depending on the exchange rate. Everyone else got along with Dehners or Vogels, not cheap but at least under $1,000. But there was Crawford in the best boots money could buy in the world. His gloves, handmade by a glover also in London, were composed of more than thirty pieces of leather, matched, stitched so that he couldn’t feel the seams. No one in America even knew how to make such gloves anymore. His breeches, his shirt, his stock tie—all bespoke his wealth and, in his favor, his taste.

Martha, wearing a deep navy frock coat made by hand in Hospital, Ireland, surely was the best turned out of the ladies. Like her ex, everything on her body had been made expressly for her. Ravishing, she smiled both because she knew she looked good and because Crawford was courting her as though they were young again.

Once Peter Wheeler was in place, Sister stood in her stirrups. “Gather round.” As they moved up closer she looked at each person, acknowledging their presence. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here today. This is the one hundred and twenty-first time that the Jefferson Hunt has gone out, save for 1917 and 1918. We are thankful to be here yet again. I know of no sport as exciting. I know of no people quite as brave, occasionally foolish, and always gallant as foxhunters. The words ‘gallant,’ ‘glory,’ and ‘honor’ seem to have disappeared from our language and certainly from our behavior. Foxhunters may be the only people left who understand and live by those words. We are the last humans to practice chivalry. Therefore we wish our quarry a good day and may we never catch him. We wish our hounds a good day’s sport and we thank our horses for their spirit and their patience with us. I wish each of you a splendid day, a day you will forever remember with happiness and pride.” She paused. “Hilltoppers ride with Bobby Franklin. Field, come with me. Huntsman.” She nodded to Shaker, who placed his cap on his head, ribbons streaming down, as were Sister’s.

“Hounds ready?” Shaker asked.

“Yes!”

Smiling, Shaker rode down the side path of the ridge to the cornfield.

Crawford’s horse, Czapaka, hopped around a bit, as did others.

“I am the best-looking horse here,” Czapaka bragged.

“Shut up, asshole,” Cochise, Martha’s tough leopard Appaloosa, ordered.

Clemson, not the prettiest of horses but one of the wisest, Walter on board, simply said, “You have yet to finish a hunt the way you started it, buddy.”

The humans chattered, too, until they reached the bottom of the ridge, the cornfield beckoning.

The field halted. Doug was already on the far side, the north side of the cornfield. Betty took the left side but farther away, halfway up the ridge on the trail. Cody stayed in the meadows but was near the fence line.

“He’s in there.” Shaker’s voice encouraged the hounds. He lifted the horn, blowing a few notes.

“Yahoo!” Dragon plunged right in.

“You’re still wet behind the ears. You stay behind me,” Cora growled as she sped past him, the drying corn leaves rattling as she brushed them.

No sooner were all the hounds in the corn than Target trotted out the north side. Doug saw him, removed his cap, and pointed his cap and Rickyroo in the direction that the enormous red was traveling.

Not satisfied with being viewed by the first whip, Target moved away from the corn and brazenly sat down in the field.

A child in the rear of the field screamed, “The fox.” His mother, mortified, reached down, putting her hand over his mouth. “Sh-h-h. He’s too close to tallyho.”

By now the field had spied him. Happy with this, Target trotted away until Cora burst out of the other side of the cornfield, her lovely voice booming.

Archie, anchoring and still in the corn, replied, “I’m behind. Go on, Cora.”

“It’s him. It’s him.” Dasher was so excited, his nostrils full of hot, fresh fox scent, that he yipped like a puppy.

Target, about two hundred yards ahead of the strike hound, put on the afterburners. He scorched the meadow, jumped Fontaine’s coop, to the thrill of the field and the foot followers on the ridge. Then he ran hard through the woods.

The field followed Sister, surprised at the fast pace, for she didn’t think scent would be good but then she didn’t think they’d jump a fox and stay so close either.

Lafayette, smooth and always balanced, arced over Fontaine’s coop. Most everyone made it and those few who didn’t cursed under their breath, rode to the rear, and hoped to boot their horses over. Everyone did but one poor little lady, a picture of frustration. She gave up and joined Bobby Franklin as he leaned over to flip up the kiwi gate latch.

The music carried up to the ridge. Peter Wheeler stood on the back of his pickup and kept repeating, “Can you beat that? Can you beat that? Biggest damn red I ever saw in my life!”

Sitting atop the hanging tree, St. Just also watched everything. Usually he flew low over the red fox, cawing loudly for the hounds to close the gap. His jet-black feathers shone iridescent, his deep-yellow beak opened and closed, revealing his tongue, but he made little noise.

Target charged straight for Aunt Netty’s den. He lingered a bit too long in the field, showing off, and he needed to widen the gap between himself and Cora. He glanced back, seeing Dragon running neck and neck with Cora.

“I hate that hound,” he thought to himself, wishing the snake had killed Dragon.

Target ran through a rotted log knowing that would slow Cora and Dragon for a moment. Dasher, Diana, and other hounds were only a few paces behind the lead hounds.

This gave him just enough time to warn Aunt Netty as she reposed on the log fallen across the creek.

“Netty, go on now. They’re too close!”

She scrambled up the other side of the bank and headed off at a burning clip. Target ran halfway across the log, then jumped into the water. This was a slight variation on the plan but the only way to keep the hounds from the mouth of the den. He swam down the creek, then climbed up the bank into the opening.