The Hounds and the Fury (22 page)

By turning the fox, you save your fox, your hounds, and your master, who might be facing an irate landowner.

“We can try,” said Sister. “Do I have your permission to inform Shaker, Betty, and Sybil?”

“Yes.”

“May they put .22 in their pistols instead of ratshot—just in case?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Who will be the bobcat?”

“I will.”

“Sister, I should do it. It’s dangerous.”

“So is foxhunting. Please don’t take this as an insult, Ben, but I ride better than you do.” She paused for a moment, then reached over to cover his hand with hers. “I take my chances. It’s the only way to live, and I really want to get this bastard. Forgive my French.” She added, “I suppose I should tell Gray. They meant to kill him, you know.”

“Don’t. I appreciate your concern, but the more people who know, the more chances for our fox to pick up the tension. Shaker, Betty, and Sybil are out there as staff. Gray will be in the field.”

“I understand.” She breathed in. “Saturday’s fixture is Paradise.”

“Funny, isn’t it?”

CHAPTER 29

S
even river otters played early Saturday morning on the feast of St. Agnes, January 21. Their philosophy of life contrasted sharply with that of the virgin martyr of Rome, dying in 305
AD
. She refused marriage, for at thirteen she had consecrated her body to Christ. Her reward for such a gift was a sword straight through the throat. Like a lamb,
agnus
in Latin, pretty Agnes met her Maker.

The otters felt life should be frolic with a bit of sex in early spring. Mating, delightful as it could be, paled before running hard, flopping on one’s belly before reaching water’s edge, then sliding down at top speed to crash into the swift current, riding the little waves.

Bruce, the largest of the otters at thirty pounds, father of the brood, hit the cold water with a boom, sending two waves up at his sides. He bobbled along for fifty yards before swimming and scrambling out at an easy place.

“Whee!”
One otter after another squealed as he or she roared toward the large creek’s edge then down the steep, slick slide they’d made.

Out they scrambled, each one hurrying to reach the starting place only to barrel down, hit the side of the bank, and fold forelegs next to the body. Down they’d go, furry toboggans loving every minute of life.

Crayfish, rockfish, all manner of delicious edibles swam in the deep, wide creek. Then, too, a berry now and then aided the digestion. The family, in splendid condition, had little competition for the food they prized.

Earl, a gray fox in his second year, sat on a log, the orange half moons of fungus protruding from the snow, more light snow still falling.

Trite though the phrase may be, it was a winter wonderland. As everyone sported thick fur coats with dense undercoats, the temperature was bracing.

Also watching the nonstop otter celebration were Athena and Bitsy, sitting high in a majestic spruce. Flying from Sister’s took them twenty minutes. For humans, hauling horses and dealing with roads that weren’t straight, the time from Roughneck Farm took forty minutes.

“Come on,”
Bruce invited Earl.

“No, thanks. I only swim when I must,”
the handsome fellow replied.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,”
Lisa, the mother, revving her motors, called out.

“Do you think they’re simpleminded?”
Bitsy asked Athena.

“No, just silly.”

“You’d think they didn’t have to work for a living,”
Bitsy, fond of stirring the pot, remarked.

“They don’t. This place is one big supermarket for them.”
Athena opened and closed her beak with a clicking sound.

Squirrels in the tree scurried along the boughs, snow falling off as they ran. They were not overly fond of Athena, who could kill and eat them if she wanted to. But they knew she was full, since she’d given everyone within earshot her menu. They leaped to the oak where they lived.

“Flying rats,”
Bitsy giggled.

“Come on!”
Bruce called Earl again.

“Nah, I need to save my energy.”

“You looking for a girlfriend?”
Bruce thought keeping a mate the better course.

He thought a minute.
“If I find the right vixen I have to help with food. I guess I can do it. I’m finally ready.”

“And a healthy young fellow you are,”
Bruce complimented him, turned a flip, and reached the runway, speeding to zoom over the side.

Athena, eyes half closed, opened them wide. Swiveling her head, she listened closely. Bitsy, her ear tufts at full attention, mimicked the big owl.

“Trotting,”
Bitsy said.

“Short stride, but hooves, yes, hooves. Every now and then you’ll hear the hooves hit a stone. The wind blows some places clean.”

“Deer.”
Bitsy fluffed.

“No. Different cadence.”
Athena thought hard, then said,
“Haven’t heard that in many a year.”

“What is it?”

“A wild boar. A big one,”
Athena replied.

“I thought wild pigs traveled in herds,”
Bitsy commented.
“Not that I’ve run into any, mind you.”

“Sow and her young, they do. They join up with other sows; but no, this is one boar alone. It’s mating season. Actually, it’s mating season for just about everyone. I heard you threatened to lay an egg or two at the end of the month.”

“It’s so much trouble. Laying the eggs isn’t so bad, it’s feeding them.”
Bitsy, having never been a mother, thought it might be an enchanting experience and then again, it might not. She had bragged to Target and Inky that she intended to lay two eggs. She wished she’d kept her beak shut.

Athena chortled, a raspy sound.
“True, so true.”
Her deep voice filling the snow-covered woods, she informed the animals below,
“There’s a boar heading this way at a fast trot. One boar, so I expect it’s a male.”

“He’s not going to eat us.”
A saucy little otter raced for the slide.

“Root, hog, or die,”
Earl remarked.
“Guess it’s hard to root in the snow.”

“He can smell what’s underground, snow or no snow. He likes potatoes, turnips, and acorns.”
Athena respected wild pigs, finding them highly intelligent—not in her class, but intelligent.

Way in the distance, two miles away, the piercing note of Shaker’s horn sounded “Gone away.”

Athena swiveled her head again, eyes black and full. “
Foxhunters.”

“You mean they’ll shoot me?”
Earl asked, horrified.

“No, you silly twit. They’ll chase you with hounds, American foxhounds to be exact. Very logical animals, but you’re far more clever. Run
about, use water, foil your scent. If hounds get close, zigzag. And above all, don’t run into deep snow,”
Athena counseled.

“In fact, you can crisscross this otter scent should hounds come this way. They’re on a fox now.”
Bitsy loved the chase.

“How come I don’t know about this?”
the young gray asked, troubled.

“Haven’t used this fixture for years. Problems with the DuCharme brothers. Foxhunters were here two weeks ago, but way on the other side of Paradise. You haven’t been prepared by cubbing. That’s when the humans in charge train the young hounds and young foxes, too. But if you do as I say, you should be fine. Duck into a den, any den, when you’ve had enough. Oh, hounds will dig and sing and curse you, but they can’t do squat. The huntsman will dismount and blow a funny, wiggly sound, and then they’ll leave. It’s harmless, really,”
Athena reported.

Bitsy, eager to dispense information, told the gray fox,
“There’s a tall, slender lady who rides up front. She leads the humans. Silver hair, even more silver than yours, and if you make friends with her, she’ll feed you.”

“How can I make friends with her if she’s chasing me?”
Earl sensibly asked.

“She’ll be back, now that they have this fixture. She’ll probably be on horseback or in an ATV, and she might be with the huntsman, who has dark red curly hair, or she’ll be with her friend, Betty, who rides on the edges. It’s complicated, this foxhunting.”
Bitsy puffed out her little chest.

“It’s a sacred thing to the humans.”
Athena opened wide her fearsome beak.
“Holy. You do your part and Sister will care for you.”

Way off, all the animals could hear hounds, a ghostly sound at this distance.

“Sounds like they are coming our way.”
Bruce glanced at his family.

“Will they hurt us, those nasty hounds?”
a youngster inquired.

“Hounds stick to fox scent. They won’t fuss you up.”
Bitsy used a colloquial expression.

“It’s not the hounds you need to worry about; it’s the humans.”
Athena burst out laughing.
“The horses will be slipping and sliding. The humans will be lurching around up there, and you might even see a few go splat.”

“Oh, my, my, yes,”
Bitsy seconded her heroine.

Hounds moved closer.

Lisa called to Bruce, who was still bodysurfing,
“We’d better go home.”

“One more slide!”
He quickly climbed out, graceful in his fashion.

“No, I don’t want to take any chances,”
she insisted.

“You’re right.”
He genially agreed, having learned it’s better to agree with your spouse.

Earl watched as the happy group walked to their den, which had overgrown entrances near the base of a large tree hanging over the creek. Thick roots, eight to twelve inches in diameter, burst through the banks where the water had eroded the soil. Entrances and exits were hidden under the roots on the bank side, too.

“You might want to head toward your den or a den you’ve seen along the way. The hounds track your scent. They don’t need to see you,”
Athena told Earl.

“How far away do you live?”
Bitsy asked.

“Mile and a half, southwards.”

The horn sounded closer now, perhaps a mile away.

“If you’re lucky they’re on a vixen, and she’ll duck in somewhere between here and where she is now. Then you won’t have to go far to find her.”
Athena looked on the bright side.
“But Bitsy is right; you’d best be going.”

“Thanks for the advice.”
Earl used the otters’ slide and swam across the creek. Given the current, he climbed out thirty yards downstream.

“Worried about him?”
Bitsy asked.

“A little.”
Athena frowned, opened her wings, dropped off the branch, and with one downward sweep of her enormous wings glided over Earl. “
If you encounter problems, run with deer. Use any other animal. You can’t mask your scent. It’s a good day for scent.”

Bitsy, needing many more flaps, caught up with the great horned owl.
“Maybe we should stick with him?”

“Might bring those damned crows. You know how they like to mob foxes. Of course, I’d be happy to kill a few.”

Bitsy, saying nothing, stayed with Athena. She’d not forgotten her close call at pattypan forge.

Athena and Bitsy passed over a gray vixen, who raced through a large expanse of running cedar, much of it partially exposed from last night’s wind. Although it was calm enough now, with gentle flakes coming down, the scent would be true, not blown yards off. The vixen made use of the terrain, then ducked into a den, a few bones on the low pile outside announcing her gourmet tastes.

Cora reached the den first, and within half a minute everyone else crowded around.

Betty, on the right, stayed over in the meadow to the edge of the woods where the den was located. Sybil, on the left, stopped on ground level with the den as Shaker rode up.

The field, seventy people, enjoyed the spectacle of thrilled hounds, the blowing of “Gone to ground,” and the happy knowledge that hounds had accounted for their fox.

Sister, on Aztec, smiled.

The Custis Hall girls rode in the rear with Walter. Sister had asked Tedi and Edward whether they would mind if Jason rode behind her. She wanted to observe him to see whether he knew as much as he said he did. If nothing else, she’d be seeing his hunting manners close up.

Knowing that the club always needed money, the Bancrofts graciously rode behind Jason. As one of the main benefactors of the club, the Bancrofts hoped others would come through, especially now that Crawford had bagged it.

Sister nodded to Shaker when he remounted to go forward, then quietly turned to ask Jason behind her, “What do you think, red or gray?”

“Gray,” he replied, a smile crossing his handsome face.

“I do, too.” She smiled back.

If one studied fox tracks it didn’t take too much to discern the difference between a red’s foot and a gray’s, especially in winter. The red’s prints could be about two and a half inches long. The hindprint might be smaller, but the heavy fur around the paw would register on the ground or on snow. The toe marks and lobe of the pads would be a little indistinct.

The gray’s prints were an inch and a half long for a mature fox, the print sharper. The toes dug in deeper, it seemed, and if it weren’t for the toe marks, one could mistake the print for an overfed, much-loved pet cat like Golly.

She gave Jason credit for making the right call, but if he had studied prints all he had to do was look down at the snow. Still, thousands foxhunted and couldn’t recognize footprints or fox scat. He had done some homework.

She twisted all the way round to see if the field was together. They were, thanks to Walter and the girls pushing them up. If someone straggled, Walter sent them back to Bobby. No one in the field would disobey a master’s command if they wanted to keep hunting—not just with Jefferson Hunt but with any hunt. The masters would pass on who was a butthead as readily as they passed on who was a true foxhunter.

Bobby, hands full with green riders, green horses, and occasionally treacherous footing, just joined them as Shaker moved off. It seemed to go in spurts, the numbers of green riders or green horses, but shepherding them always fell to the hilltoppers’ master, the most unsung staff position in foxhunting.

Few would dream of going first flight if they couldn’t ride, especially at Jefferson Hunt. Sister enjoyed a formidable reputation—and who wanted to look a fool under her eyes?

The whippers-in usually rode hardest, but they were alone, an advantage under the circumstances. If they weren’t riding hard or trotting forward, they’d be immobile at a prime spot, and that spot always seemed to be the coldest damned place on earth.

The huntsman stayed with hounds as best he could. He, too, rode hard, but he rode straight behind the pack. Chances were, the whippers-in covered more territory than he did. This wasn’t to say he didn’t do things that Sister and the field would not. He did, but often no one saw him take a four-foot drop off a creek bed into the water. He stayed with his hounds if possible.

While Sister could do anything on a horse, her first responsibility was the field, not the hounds. Very few fields today were well mounted enough, with fearless riders, to do things that were routinely done thirty years ago. The reason was that so many people had taken up foxhunting who hadn’t grown up with horses. It wasn’t that they couldn’t clear the four-foot jump if they had the right horse, but only a few had the right horse. The right horse, nine times out of ten, was a thoroughbred or a thoroughbred cross, depending on territory. Those arriving late to the glories of riding often feared thoroughbreds. If you knew the animal, you loved its sensitivity and forward ways. If you didn’t, you thought you were on a runaway that would spook at a white stone pebble. The change in the field was as big a shift in foxhunting as the rise of the automobile, the sickening encroachments of suburbia.