“This is my first year, too, so I only know what my parents have told me and cubbing … I like cubbing. It was funny when you stuck your nose in the den. My brother wanted to bite you. He’s like that.” Inky giggled.
“Glad he didn’t. My nose is very sensitive.”
Golly backed down the apple tree. She sauntered toward the kennel.
“I’d better go. She gave me a fair warning.”
Diana pricked up her ears.“Golliwog can be very fierce. She scares me.”
“You know we will all be leaving our dens in a few weeks. Right about the time of opening hunt. There will be good runs then. You’ll have fun. My dad says opening hunt is like a three-ring circus. I’m going to climb a tree and watch.”
“Where will you go?”
“Already found my place. On the other side of Broad Creek. There’s so much corn and game, my father said it’s all right to live close. He said if hard times come then I might have to push on.”
“I’m nervous about opening hunt,” Diana confessed.
“Stay away from the people. And if you’re on Target, the huge red with lots of white tip, be real careful. He’s very smart. My father says he’s incredibly smart but cruel. Target will try to lead you to your death. His son, Reynard, can be cruel, too.” Diana shuddered so Inky added,“Stick to a hound that knows what she’s doing. You’ll be safe then.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll wave if you go by.” Inky giggled again, then picked up her apple and skedaddled, for Golly was bearing down on her, picking up speed.
The imposing calico stopped.“Diana, you’re loose as ashes. You can’t believe one word from a fox’s mouth.”
Diana dropped her head.“Yes, ma’am.”
Satisfied that she had imparted wisdom as well as put that lower life-form, the hound, in her place, Golly strolled, tail swaying to and fro, back to the main house. The night was too damp for her. She was going in the house to snuggle up next to Sister, who was sound asleep. She might clean off her muddy paws and then again she might not. Walking across the old Persian carpets so prized by Sister would get the mud off fast enough.
CHAPTER 12
A stiff tiger trap, cut logs shining in the morning mist, like giant’s teeth, slowed Dragon for a moment as he scrambled over, the pack ahead of him. The tiger trap jump, like a coop but with vertical logs, often backed off riders. Sidetracked by an unfamiliar smell, Dragon snapped to when he heard Cora’s authoritative call.
Twenty couple hounds, forty individuals, had been carried in their special trailer to Beveridge Hundred, an old plantation five miles west of Sister’s house as the crow flies.
But today it wasn’t the crow flying, it was the hounds. Shaker cast them in the classic triangle cast. Sending hounds on their mission was truly like a fisherman casting his net. Hence, the term “cast.” Most huntsmen threw their hounds straight into the wind, figuring the scent would carry and they’d be offin a hurry. That was a better idea for flat country than for the hills, ravines, pastures, and deep creeks of Jefferson Hunt territory. Shaker liked to give his hounds about fifteen minutes to settle; then he’d cut the corner and move up the side of the triangle into the wind. He planned his huntand hunted his plan, always dividing the territory to be hunted into a series of triangles.
The pack struck quickly, running straight. Their quarry ran perhaps seven to ten minutes ahead. The scent held on the still-wet earth. The light shone scarlet as the sun’s rim loomed over the horizon.
Shaker doubled his blasts as he plunged into a stand of black birches, shot out into the thirty-acre hay field just as hounds crossed over the middle of the cut field.
Sister galloped about fifty yards behind Shaker. He soared over the tiger trap; Sister and Lafayette easily cleared the big jump. Cody made it, as did Fontaine, who kept his eyes glued to Cody’s perfect butt in the saddle.
Gunsmoke, Fontaine’s half-bred, thought the horse Cody was trying for Fontaine, Keepsake, a rangy thoroughbred, was doing great so far. But then thoroughbreds always did better when the field was moving fast.
Marty, Crawford, and finally Bobby safely landed in the hay field.
Three visitors from Bull Run Hunt kept up with the small Tuesday group.
At the edge of the hay field the hounds split. Cora headed left toward The Rocks, an outcropping of boulders, while Archie headed right through double-lined rows of cedars into another hay field.
“Archie, two foxes. Stick with me,” Cora called, her bel canto lilt floating over the mists still not rising.
This brought Archie’s head up.
Dragon shot his mouth off.“This scent is hot.”
“Yes it is, son, but if the fox can split us, we’ll wind up in East Jesus, the whips will be going in two directions, and each fox can further mislead us. We’re on Target. They’re on Aunt Netty.” Archie knew his foxes by the patterns they ran.“Reds.”
“I’m not leaving this scent,” Dragon howled, nose to the ground.“Cora’s an old bitch, anyway.”
“Good way to get drafted out, you fool.” Archie turned, flat out now, belly low to the ground, tail stretched out behind him as he streaked for Cora.
Without hesitation the other hounds, including Diana on her first flaming run, followed Archie. He cut across the hay field, crawled under the old wire cow fence, catapulting over the sunken farm road worn down by three hundred years of use. With one bound he was over the loose stone wall, heading, flying, flashing down to The Rocks.
Moving in the opposite direction, Dragon touched the earth with his nose, bawled for all he was worth, and charged into a smaller pasture. Hay rolled in large round bales dotted the verdant expanse.
“Moron!” a taunting voice called.
Dragon jerked his head up. Sitting on top of the hay round were Target and Reynard, magnificent, shining, as red as the scarlet sunrise.
“I’ll tear you to shreds!” Dragon bared his fangs, bouncing toward father and son.
“You fierce beast.” Target, falsetto-voiced, mocked him, while Reynard watched the older, wiser fox sucker in the hound.
When Dragon was two strides from the hay round, Target casually jumped down, darting into a burrow in the bale. Reynard followed. His tail flicked into this makeshift den just as Target skidded around the bale.
Growling, saliva dripping, Dragon bumped into the bale as his hind end gave out under him from the force of his sharp turn. His head nearly hit the ground, his two front legs splayed out. He was eyeball to eyeball with a mature copperhead still drowsy and not amused.
Like lightning the snake struck, sinking her fangs, almost as large as Dragon’s, into his left cheek. He shook his head but she didn’t let go until she’d released her venom to the last drop.
“Oh, God, it hurts,” Dragon screamed as the snake finally let go.
“Moron.” Target laughed as Dragon, weeping, tried to outrun the pain. At least he had sense enough to go for the sound of the hounds, maybe a mile off by now.
Hounds, horses, huntsman were stymied at The Rocks, water spilling down over the sides in a gentle waterfall.
Aunt Netty, on a ledge behind the waterfall, cleaned her claws embedded with mud. She’d run over the rocks leading up to the small waterfall. Her scent would last for only a few moments on the rock but the morning was damp, the mists were low, and the hounds were close. To be safe she ducked behind the water. She didn’t mind getting a little wet. She knew her scent had been wiped out by the waterfall.
Cora, a trifle overweight, panted.“Aunt Netty works her magic act.”
In the distance they could hear Bobby Franklin, who’d fallen far behind, talk to his horse, Oreo. “Not so fast. Not so fast. I hate running on rock!”