“Stop worrying, you fat pig,” the horse replied.“My sense of balance is better than yours.”
“Everyone in one piece?” Sister laughingly asked.
“Is it always like this?” one of the visitors asked.
“Sure,” Fontaine lied, winking.
A rustling noise coming through the woods captured their attention. Dragon joined them in a few moments. He shook his head, he cried, he rolled over.
Shaker dismounted as Sister held his reins.“Snakebite,” he tersely informed her.
“His head will blow up like a pumpkin,” Cody said.
“Killed my Jack Russell. Remember Darth Vader?” Fontaine said that, which, under the circumstances, was not a helpful recollection.
Crawford, hoping for brownie points, dismounted from Czapaka. He walked over to Shaker, who didn’t look up but kept his gaze on Dragon.
“I can throw the hound over my saddle.”
“No need,” Shaker replied evenly.
“He’s better off walking back.” Douglas Kinser had ridden in from his outpost.
“Sister, do you mind if I have Doug walk Dragon back?”
“No. Betty’s out on your left. Can you get by with one whip?”
“Two’s better.”
“I’ll go.” Cody smiled.
“No, you won’t. I haven’t bought that horse yet, and who knows what you’ll get into. It’s already been a wild morning,” Fontaine commanded.
“I’ll whip. I’m not the best rider in the world but I can do it. I know most of the hounds by sight,” Marty volunteered.
“Good.”
“Fine.” Shaker seconded Sister. “You take the right. Three blasts, short and high of equal duration, means come in to me. You know the other signals?”
“Well, Shaker, if I don’t you all can come out and find me. Just don’t leave me out until sundown.”
Crawford, jealous of Marty for the chance to whip, mounted up. He smiled at her but was secretly miserable that he wasn’t a strong enough rider to whip. And he hadn’t a clue as to how to rate hounds. He thought all a whip had to do was ride hard. In Crawford’s case, ignorance was bliss. How he longed to say at some fancy Virginia party, “Oh, yes, I whip-in at Jefferson Hunt.” It would be even more delicious to drop the information into a cocktail party in Manhattan. They’d think it had something to do with sexual practices. He’d then get to fire off a double entendre or two, after which he could declaim about foxhunting.
As it was, Crawford could have used Velcro in his saddle.
“Sister?” Shaker worked closely with his master. She’d carried the horn in her youth when the then huntsman died unexpectedly and violently in a bar fight Saturday night. She had a great eye for terrain and a good sense of casting hounds. Not a professional huntsman by a long shot, but she was no slouch either.
She inhaled deeply, the heavy air filling her lungs.“Warming fast.”
“Northern edge of the woods?” He swung gracefully up in the saddle.
“Good idea.”
As the hounds packed in and trotted to the next cast Diana whispered,“Is Dragon in trouble?”
Dasher, her litter mate, as was Dragon, whispered back,“If not with the people then with the snake. Boy, is he going to be sick.”
Jefferson Hunt named their hounds using the first letter of the bitch’s name. Dasher, Dragon, and Diana had been born to Delia, an old lady now retired to laze in the sun.
“If that copperhead hadn’t bit him, I would have!” Archie exclaimed.
Shaker stared down at Arch.“What are you talking about?”
“Sorry,” the steady fellow apologized. Wouldn’t do for him to be accused of babbling.
“How do you know it was a copperhead?” Dasher whispered.
“Head already getting fat. A nonpoisonous snake would have left two fang marks and that’s about it.”
“Rattler,” Cora quietly said.
“He’d be dead by now.” Archie tried not to gloat.
At the northern edge Shaker pushed the hounds toward the hay field. They picked up a fading scent moving at a trot. The next hour the hounds worked diligently with a few small bursts as their reward.
Sister lifted hounds and they happily walked back to the trailers.
“Bobby, dear, we could hear you all the way down to The Rocks,” his wife chided him.
“Oh.” His face reddened.
Behind them Crawford rode in silence, Fontaine behind him. Fontaine was studying Czapaka intently, especially his hindquarters. Confirmation, the way a horse is put together, reveals a lot about the horse’s potential use and longevity of service. Cody observed this.
“Nice horse.”
Fontaine turned his head back. Cody drew alongside him so they could speak without shouting.“Yes, he is a nice horse.”
“Quick with his hind feet?” Fontaine called up to Crawford, meaning “Does the horse kick?”
With disdain, Crawford, not even turning his head, called back.“No, but I am.”
“I’ll remember that.” Fontaine smiled broadly and benevolently for all to see.
“What’s Fontaine up to?” Cody thought to herself.
Walking back to the trailers, Target was a deadly foe.
CHAPTER 13
“Going to be a great year. One of the best. They go in cycles.” Lafayette dropped some of his hay, reaching down to snatch it up.
Rickyroo, in the next stall, stuck his nose between the iron stall divider bars.“We were right behind Aunt Netty.”
“Could you see her?”
“No. She vanished. The usual.” Rickyroo picked up his red play ball with a handle. He threw it over his head.
Ricky, full of energy, found things to do, things that were upsetting to the humans. If a bridle hung on the stall door, he’d play with it until he had pulled the reins into his stall; then he’d chew them to pieces.
He tore off other horses’ blankets when they were turned out in the field.
He also tore a flap off Cody Jean Franklin’s frock coat last year because he felt like it.
The humans called him a handful. The horses thought of him as a joker.
Aztec, a graceful five-year-old light bay, a blaze down her face, said,“It’s not fair. You two go and I stay home.”
“You’ll go out in the field, Az. Sister believes in bringing along horses slow,” Lafayette counseled her.
“I’m as big as you are.”
“And so you are, but I’ve seen a lot more than you have. The last thing we need is you spooking all over the place with Sister on your back. She’s a good rider but she’s no spring chicken.”
“I’m not going to spook. I hilltopped last year.” She referred to the practice of hunting but not taking the jumps.
“Be patient,”Rickyroo advised.
“You’re not,” Aztec grumbled.
“I know what I’m doing.” He threw the ball at the bars between them.
Golliwog strolled in during the conversation, Raleigh behind her.“If you knew what you were doing, you wouldn’t be playing with that stupid ball.”
“Raleigh plays with balls,” came the retort from the dark bay.
“My point exactly.” Golliwog sat down on a hay bale, picked the tip of her tail up with her paw, and began grooming.
Raleigh, an exceedingly good-natured dog, said,“Golly, you’re such a snot.”
“Cats,” was all Lafayette said.
“You’re jealous. You’re all jealous. You have to work for a living whereas I simply exist to be beautiful and catch the occasional offensive mouse.”
“You’re doing a piss-poor job of it.” Aztec laughed.
“Oh, really?” Golly dropped her tail.“Do you have any idea how many places there are for mice to hide? Shall I list them, grass-eater, eyes-on-the-side-of-your-head, big fat flat teeth, no-good … !”
“We’re scared.” Lafayette reached for more hay in his hayrack.
“I could scratch your eyes out if I wanted to. You’re lucky that I like you—basically.”
“Golly, cool it.” The sleek Doberman nudged the cat.“We all know that you are the most beautiful, the smartest cat that ever lived. Even smarter than Dick Whittington’s cat.”