Рита Браун - Outfoxed

As planned, the hounds, noses to the ground, streaked across the fallen log.

Blinding speed had served the slender, cagey Netty all her days. She put further distance between herself and the hounds as she zigzagged through the woods, emerging onto the back meadows still deep green.

A sizable hog’s-back jump punctuated the fence line, an old three-rail. Shaker cleared it right behind his hounds. Sister, fifty yards behind her huntsman, also sailed over.

As they thundered through the fields she heard hooves moving up too fast behind her.

Lafayette put back his ears. He slightly turned his head. “Bug off,” he warned Czapaka.

Crawford couldn’t hold the big Holsteiner.

Just as Czapaka’s nose drew even with Lafayette’s, Sister unleashed her whip, which she’d switched to her left hand. The thong and cracker snapped right in front of Czapaka’s nose. The warm-blood, startled, half reared, then stopped dead. Crawford slammed up on his neck, then slid off to the side as the entire field passed him.

Bunky Jenkins, riding tail this day, perceived that Crawford was fine. He didn’t stop to help him, which only made Crawford even more furious.

With reluctance, Martha turned back. He mounted up and then they had to fly to catch up because the pace accelerated. An upright jump, four logs stacked on top of the other, guarded the other side of the field. Cochise popped over and Czapaka with a whip and a spur followed.

They reached the back of the field. Fontaine had moved up right in Sister’s pocket, the most prestigious place in the field. Crawford choked on his fury.

Aunt Netty burst out from the woods, ran almost to Soldier Road, and then doubled back on her own tracks. Those people on the top of Hangman’s Ridge could see her as she doubled, then sped off first south, then zigzagged north as she headed toward the ridge. Then she veered back again. She knew the hounds were a quarter mile behind. She was pleased with herself.

Grace waited at the still.

“They’re in fine fettle today, Grace. Go now.”

“Cora first?” Grace had been told to fear Cora’s speed.

“And that arrogant young entry, Dragon. He’s fast. Very fast but fortunately he’s not very bright. Go on.”

Grace trotted toward the old farm path, then picked up her speed.

Cora stopped at the still. “Aunt Netty, I know you’re in there.”

“Go to the right. You’ll pick up Grace’s scent. We’ll make this a good day for Sister. After that, it’s business as usual.”

“To ground! To ground!” Dragon lifted his head back as he ran up and almost over Cora.

“Forget it.” Cora moved to the right.

“But I’ve put a fox to ground!” Dragon wanted to be a star.

“Scent is tough today, you fool. It’s warmed up. There’s a light breeze. The ground is drying out. Don’t spoil the plan.”

“I put a fox to ground,” he bellowed.

Lightning fast before the other hounds joined them, Cora leapt up and turned sideways like a marlin on a line. She crashed into Dragon. He hit the ground with a thud, the wind knocked out of him. Then Cora seized him by the throat and shook him. She dropped him and ran to the right, picking up Grace’s scent.

“Over here. Over here.”

The rest of the pack followed her as Dragon, choking, stood up, shook himself, coughed, then sullenly hitched up with the rest of the pack.

Sister and Lafayette leapt over a fallen tree trunk as a shortcut to the farm road. She’d heard Cora and then the pack turn. As she glanced behind her she saw her field strung out, the attrition rate rising.

“Stay with the hounds,” she thought to herself, and wondered when she’d had this long a run, this fast.

Grace ran back over Target’s evaporated scent, making a semicircle. She flew over Fontaine’s coop, not knowing the grays were in the trees watching her. She ran straight into the cornfield and then in a change of plan, because she was young and got confused, she blasted out the back of the cornfield with Uncle Yancy.

“What do I do?”

“Stay with me. There’s no den up here, Grace. You’ll have to run with me. You okay?”

“I’m not tired. I’ve only covered a half mile.”

Grace and Yancy skirted the fence line into the woods, a deep ravine in the far distance. Just to make life interesting, totally confuse the humans, they ran two large, loopy figure eights in the woods. The humans would think they were on grays until someone caught sight of them.

Lottie Fisher’s horse stumbled. Fontaine, who happened to be looking back, pulled up Gunpowder. Lottie, quite good-looking, brushed herself off as she checked her horse.

“You need company?” Fontaine reined in Gunpowder, lightly dismounting and removing his top hat. “Gets so lonesome in these woods.”

She blushed. “Thank you. I’m fine. He’s fine, too.” She patted the gelding’s sleek neck.

“How about a leg up, then?” He cupped his hand under her right leg. “One, two, three.” He pushed her up into the saddle.

Then he swung up on Gunpowder, top hat back on his head.

“Thank you so much, Fontaine.”

“The pleasure was all mine.” He grinned. “Shall we join them?”

Off they galloped on the last loop of the figure eight. The coop up ahead led into the meadow.

Lottie didn’t realize Fontaine was not behind her until she came right up on the rear of the first flight. She didn’t think a thing of it.

Together, Grace and Yancy dashed straight up the ridge, right to the hanging tree, dodging the screaming people, some of whom yelled “tallyho” to no avail. They scooted under Peter Wheeler’s truck.

Old Peter, on his feet, slapped his thigh with his hat. “Yip, yip yoo.” He belted out a rebel yell. “Yip, yip yoo. I never saw anything like this in my life. Two red foxes. Yip, yip yoo. Janie, where in the hell are you?”

Sister had just cleared Fontaine’s coop with Georgia Vann now riding in her pocket. But the entire field was feeling the effects of the long run. The staff horses, in fine condition, felt loosened up. But other horses who should have been conditioned but weren’t really began to labor, drenched in creamy white sweat.

Crawford stopped at the back of Hangman’s Ridge. “He feels lame.”

“Looks lame.” Martha confirmed his opinion.

“You go on. I’ll walk him to the trailers,” he instructed.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure. I’ll take the shortcut around to the trailers.”

“Crawford, you might want to stay in the meadow even though it takes longer. You don’t run the risk of fouling scent quite so much.”

He glared at her, for he hated to be told what to do. “Fine.”

“I’ll see you back at the trailers. Hope he’s okay.” She trotted off. Then, when far enough away from Czapaka, she broke into a canter.

Crawford thought all this talk about fouling scent was bullshit, hunters showing off. He headed straight into the shortcut.

Overhead, St. Just flew low, startling Czapaka.

By the time Sister reached the hanging tree she, as a show of respect, stopped to ask Peter what happened.

“Two! Two, Janie, and two different than the first one you flushed out of the cornfield. I never! I never!” Then he turned his aged body, pointed with his hat to the direction the two foxes ran, the hounds already on.

“Thank you. You’re my best whip.” She smiled, squeezed Lafayette, and they were off again.

She leaned back as she cantered, slowly, straight down the ridge. No time to fiddle with the old farm road and bypaths now. A few more people rolled onto the earth with a thud. Loose horses ran about, finally stopping to graze.