Рита Браун - Outfoxed

“Do you want to take the field or whip today?” Doug asked her.

“Take the field. After what happened Tuesday, I think I’d better be right there. Not that Bobby Franklin isn’t a good field master—he is. We’re lucky to have him on Tuesdays. Anyway, he was ahead, as he should have been, right behind the hounds, so this little contretemps happened behind him. No one was riding tail that day either.” It was common practice to have a staff person or trusted person ride at the rear of the field to pick up stragglers, loose horses, loose people.

“I heard that Fontaine is spending money in every store owned by a club member.”

“Fontaine is one of the most consistently underrated men you’ll ever meet. That’s the pity of it. He could have amounted to something.”

“Being master of Jefferson Hunt amounts to something.”

“Yes, it does, but I meant out there in the world. He’s a good-looking man, so talented in his field, but the money he inherited made a bum out of him in a way. Pulled his fangs.”

“Seems to do that to people.”

“I’m beginning to think if you want to destroy your children, let them inherit a lot of money.”

“Not my problem.” Douglas laughed.

“Money brings tremendous responsibility and worry. People think if they have a lot of money they won’t have any troubles. Well, any problem that can be fixed by money isn’t a problem.” She smiled. “Who knows, maybe you’ll wind up rich.”

Doug threw a white saddle pad on Lafayette. “I learn something from you every day. I’m going to remember that.”

“Scrape and save now. Learn everything you can from everybody. I promise you, you’ll use every single bit of it in this life.” She walked outside Lafayette’s stall, took her saddle and saddle pad off the saddle rack, and put them on his back. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m dispensing advice like a sob sister. You know, I think that damned whatever I saw and you saw has gotten under my skin. I’m afraid, Doug. You know I believe in fate, but it’s something else. Something vague.”

“I feel it, too.”

“Oh, well,” she sighed, “it’s going to be a wild morning. They’ll be popping off like toast and blaming me for going out on such a day.”

“Not like the old days.”

“No. The days of a master inviting only certain people to ride during cubbing season—long gone. You’ve got to invite them all, which makes it a holy horror because most of those folks haven’t a clue as to what we’re doing or why. Furthermore, I am considering cutting their tongues out. Actually, they’ve gotten much better about babbling in the hunt field. I’m being a crank.”

“No, just being a master.” He laughed.

Cubbing, a six-week to two-month period before formal hunting, existed to teach young hounds the whys and wherefores of hunting. It also served the same purpose for green horses and now, against most masters’ better judgment, green people. The most interesting part of cubbing, though, was it also taught the young foxes what was expected of them, how hounds ran, the calls of the horn, and where to look for cover if they couldn’t get back to their home den.

As older hounds brought along the young ones, so older foxes passed on their tricks to their children.

Douglas and Sister faced each other, checking out their gear.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

CHAPTER 4

As the drizzle turned into a steady rain Sister had ample time to repent her enthusiasm. The hack to the other side of Whiskey Ridge, twenty minutes, soaked her back because she hadn’t fastened tight the collar of her raincoat.

Carefully, Sister, Shaker, and Doug crossed Soldier Road, picking up the gravel road leading to the abandoned tobacco barn where they would first cast hounds.

The hounds, anchored by Cora, a mature female, behaved beautifully. Sister worried that the cooler temperature might encourage the young hounds to consider unplanned excursions but they didn’t. Even Dragon, by nature wild and flashy, kept to the middle of the pack.

The few trailers parked by the side of the road testified to the fact that only the diehards would cub on this early morning.

Betty Franklin huddled in her trailer with Outlaw, her dependable, handsome quarter horse.

Jennifer, in the trailer tack room, called out, “Mom, I can’t find my heavy socks.”

“They’re hanging on the end of my nose,” Betty replied.

“Oh, Mom,” Jennifer grumbled.

Betty heard her rummaging around. So did Jennifer’s horse, Magellan.

“That kid can’t get organized. We go through this every time.” Magellan sighed.

“It’s because they wear clothes. They can never find them. Really, they should go naked,” Outlaw said.

“They’d get pretty cold.” Magellan laughed. “And it’s bad enough to see some of them fully clothed. I’m not sure I could stand seeing all that hairless flesh.”

“Found them!” A note of triumph blared from Jennifer.

“Where were they?” Betty asked.

“In the bottom of the feed bucket.”

“That’s an excellent place for them, my dear.”

Jennifer chose not to reply.

The staff and hounds gathered at the tobacco barn, black in the rain, as Betty and Jennifer emerged.

The only other people there were Marty Howard and Cody Jean Franklin.

Cody, on her own now, had bought an ancient two-horse trailer, paint peeling, and an equally ancient truck but both were serviceable. She made it to the meets on time. And she was glad to see her mother and sister.

Marty, borrowing Fontaine’s aluminum rig, not only wore a dark brown oilskin raincoat, she wore brown Gore-Tex pants as well, neatly tucked into her high rubber boots.

“Sister, I know this isn’t proper but . . .”

Sister waved her off. “It’s cubbing and it’s raining and let me know if the pants work.” To herself she thought that Marty would be like an olive in a Greek salad; the material was too slick. “Since there are so few of us and aren’t we surprised,” Sister laughed, “if Cody or Jennifer would like to whip, you are certainly invited to do so.”

“Yay.” Jennifer trotted over to Shaker for her orders.

“I’ll stay with you,” Cody said, for she often whipped-in and thought she’d enjoy riding with the master.

Douglas tipped his hat to the ladies, paused a second longer in Cody’s direction, and then moved a hundred yards to the north, as Shaker directed him to do. Shaker placed Jennifer behind him and Betty to his right.

“Ma’am.” Shaker, proper even in the rain, cradled his hat in his lap. A huntsman shouldn’t put his cap on his head until the master gives the signal to cast hounds.

“Oh, Shaker. I’m sorry. Of course we can move off.”

He nodded at the master, clapped his hat on his wet auburn curls, and said to his hounds, “Hounds ready?”

“Yes!” came the tumultuous reply.

“All right then, let’s be off.” Shaker didn’t blow his horn. As long as the hounds could hear his voice he kept his horn in his coat front between the second and third buttons. Besides, Sister loathed a noisy huntsman and whips. The quickest way to draw a reprimand from her was to blather.

The hounds moved ahead of Shaker. They lingered at the tobacco barn for an instant, a rich source of fox scent but it was fading fast.

“Come along now.”

Obediently they trotted across the meadow, slick to the edge of the woods. He urged them into the covert as he waited outside.

“He’s been here!” Dragon triumphantly barked.

Archie, older and pessimistic by nature, therefore the perfect anchor hound, sharply said, “Of course he’s been here, you twit. But he was here at three this morning. Before you run a cold scent look for a fresh one.”