Rita Brown - Whiskers in the Dark

Moses and Sam had been followed by another cart, one with a canvas top stretched over four supports. This had canvas sides, too, so the three men could sleep inside, Moses, Sam, and the other driver. It was of ingenious construction.

Ard carefully studied this. He would draw it later, presenting it to Mr. Finney as his own idea. Ralston watched Ard watching. He realized if he worked with this fellow, helped him along, he, too, might benefit.

Moses, swaying in the makeshift carriage, would have two days to wonder why Ralston ran away from Cloverfields and how he wound up at Royal Oak. He was happy to hear about his father. It had never occurred to him that his path would cross Ralston’s now or in the future.

31

April 27, 2018

Friday

“I feel like I should sing like a canary.” Harry, reins in her hands, swayed as the cart pulled along, one wonderful mule doing the honors.

Arlene, as the director, watched every competitor. She would get closer than the spectators. She didn’t want engine noise to disturb the bassets. Also, the smell of gasoline, depending on the weather, offended her and them.

The weather was a light rain, cool, perfect for hunting.

The first draw at 7:30 A.M. was Rachel Cain with her Reedy Creek Bassets. Using three whippers-in, one on each side of her and one behind, she cast into the wind.

A huntsman prefers casting into the wind, for the game’s scent will blow into their nostrils. Casting with the wind at their tails does the opposite. However, this being Virginia, the wind could and did change. A huntsman needed to be alert and calm. No point shifting every time the wind did. One needed to watch and make a judgment. Often one’s hounds made the judgment for you.

Rachel’s four girls hunted like stars. Noses down, fierce concentration, plus they got a good draw, they opened within five minutes of being cast. Arlene, letting Harry hold the reins so she could concentrate, used binoculars. Being the director, in case of a dispute or confusion between judges, she made the decision. Decisions came naturally to her. The Army taught her to lead and she did.

The spectators, veterans, some mobile, others more compromised, wore light raincoats; some pulled rain caps low on their heads. As many of these people had hunted before service, most of them knew what was going on. A few, new to the game, had interpreters, and a few of those interpreters were handsome or pretty, working with a serviceman or -woman. Happy people.

The deep, resonant voices of Rachel’s two couples ricocheted off the woods. They slowly worked their way west of the Institute building, then hooked north, picking up speed as they trotted.

Clare and Susan, also in the canary-colored cart, occasionally wiped down Arlene’s binoculars. They kept the coolers between their feet. No telling what would happen out there, so a bottle of water or cola might be necessary.

“Tallyho,” Arlene quietly called out, pointing in the direction where the rabbit broke out.

The three other women watched as the rabbit, fast and evasive, quickly disappeared into dense underbrush.

Rachel, running now, reached the underbrush. Those basset tails moved like windshield wipers as their huntsman and best friend encouraged them.

“Oops.” Clare giggled, pointing beyond the underbrush.

“That devil.” Susan smiled, for the rabbit burst from cover, hightailed it to what had to be his or her den, because before you could say “Jack Rabbit,” all that could be viewed was a white tail popping down into a little den.

The bassets patiently worked, moving all around the underbrush. They hunted well together and with drive. They were sisters and when one opened, the other put her nose down to open, too. Reaching the place where the rabbit had disappeared, they marked the den but couldn’t flush out the rabbit.

Harry’s watch beeped. She wore one of those watches that gives the wearer’s steps, their heartbeat, stairs, the time, even worked as a stopwatch.

Hearing the beep, Arlene put her grandfather’s big cow horn to her lips, blowing deep, mournful notes that they probably heard all the way to Middleburg.

Rachel called her bassets to her, the whippers-in quickly on either side and the third whipper-in bringing up the rear.

“That was a damn good run,” Clare said low.

“Well, we’ll have a long day, but I would be surprised if the judges didn’t give Reedy Creek Bassets a high score. Rachel has a nice touch.” Arlene sat down on the hard seat. “This wasn’t built for comfort.”

“We should have brought pillows,” Clare remarked.

“At least we don’t carry around a lot of padding back there.” Susan laughed as Harry turned the mule, Madam, back toward the Institute, where they would go out with the second team, this one from North Carolina.

The two American Kennel Club judges walked together, discussing the run. They’d be pooped by the end of the day. This wasn’t a job for sissies.

“Clare, Jason gave me a long story about this yellow cart. Said the original was built in 1790 by Studebaker and it is indestructible,” Harry said. “This is a replica. The original is in the Studebaker Museum.”

“True. You know how he was about automotive history. It was built in York County, Pennsylvania, but I guess the son or grandson of the Studebaker who built this moved to Ohio, then the western territory, to build carts and, in good time, the cars.”

“Isn’t the history of this nation something?” Susan enthused. “Even pottery has a story.”

“Here they come.” Arlene focused on four dark-colored bassets.

Harry waited for the team to pass her. The huntsman, a young man, which was always a good sign for the future, carried the horn. He was perfectly turned out, too.

“Is that Milton Riddle’s son?” Clare wondered.

“Is. He’s got a good draw, too, and I’m sure he heard how well Rachel’s girls hunted. His blood will be up.”

So was that of his hounds, who hit right off the mark flying, truly flying up the hill toward the east as the rain intensified a bit.

As the wind, slight from the east, blew right into those sensitive basset noses, Nattie Riddle ran like the devil to keep up. One of his whippers-in could match him, a young woman, Caitlin, but on his right side an older man fell behind.

This age disparity played out in all forms of hunting with hounds. Hunting on foot, one needed to be strong. The older fellow was, but he’d lost his speed. Why use an older person? Because of what they knew. They’d seen it all and a word from a wise old hunter could save a huntsman many miseries.

The older man, Jake Deloria, kept behind the pair. He couldn’t move up to the side, for they picked up more speed, stopped, lost scent, cast themselves before Nattie reached them.

Clare muttered, “I’m not sure he has control of that pack.”

Her words, prophetic, made Arlene, Harry, and Susan sit bolt upright. Sure enough, the hounds took off, flat out took off, and no amount of blowing or cracking a whip could bring them back.

“Shall I try to follow?” Harry asked the director.

“Yes. It’s rather hard to be discreet in this yellow cart,” Arlene wryly replied.

Harry clucked to Madam.

Hounds crested the hill, running straight as an arrow. Up ahead two rabbits ran together. Not all that common but not unusual either. No one saw them break cover so the hounds weren’t rioting, but they were not listening to their huntsman and this would cost points.