Aztec flicked her ears back and forth. The scent of mountain lion puzzled and frightened her a bit. The two riders behind her moving up irritated her. She felt Sister’s right hand stroke her from her poll down to her withers as they flew along and she thought to herself,“It’s okay. Sister would never ask me to do anything that would hurt me.” She focused again on the road.
Sister held her hand up like a right-hand-turn signal.“Hold hard!”
Crawford bumped into Fontaine, who turned around and cursed.“Hold your horse, fool.”
Sister, without turning her head, rebuked them by saying,“Gentlemen.”
Martha and Walter, the only other two in the field, sat still behind the two rivals, whose shoulders had tensed up.
“They’re to your left, Master,” Crawford prattled.
“I know that.” Sister wanted to say, “You flaming asshole. What I don’t know is if they’re turning.”
Before she could say or think anything, the half-grown mountain lion blew past them on the other side of the state road. She was running low and if one wasn’t concentrating, she resembled a German shepherd.
“Oh my god. Oh my god.” Crawford pointed.
Fontaine, cooler, called in a singsong voice,“Tally-lion.”
Since the hounds were still a ways off, he could holler without bringing their heads up. Otherwise he would have turned his horse’s head in the direction the lion was heading, taken off his cap, and held it at the end of his arm, also in that direction. This way he would alert staff without disturbing the hounds. As any experienced foxhunter knows, the quarry you see may not be the hunted fox. It’s imperative to keep hounds on the hunted fox or, in this case, lion.
Sister calmly waited for Douglas to pass, then the hounds, in good order, then Shaker, a big grin on his face. She fell in right behind her huntsman, perhaps twenty yards behind him.
Shaker pressed to the hog’s-back jump, big logs built to create a rounded obstacle almost like a huge lobster trap. The huntsman shot over. Aztec eyed the jump. She hadn’t seen one like that. Then she felt Sister squeeze and thought,“What the hell. It looks like fun.”
If Aztec had sucked back then, Czapaka would have quit for sure and Crawford would have taken the jump but the horse wouldn’t have. Czapaka, edging ahead of Gunpowder and an inflamed Fontaine, jumped the hog’s back in good form. Walter and Clemson cleared, as did Martha and Cochise.
Behind them they heard Betty and Outlaw. They sailed over, then ran alongside the small field until Betty drew parallel with Sister.
“Some pumpkins,” Sister called out.
“Tell you what.” Betty laughed, the rain slashing at her face.
The hounds picked up speed. The humans and horses flew over the pasture. The footing got slick. They headed into a small wooded border between two properties, jumped a rising creek, and with three strides more jumped a sliprail fence dividing two properties and then into more woods.
Sister halted. Shaker and Douglas, hounds at their feet, stared up at a massive rock outcropping, black in the rain. On top of it the mountain lion looked down at them. She’d had enough. She never did grab the rabbit, the cause of all this, and she’d had just about enough trouble for one day. Let one hound try to climb up to her and she intended to break its neck.
St. Just, the king of the crows, who had been shadowing them, perched in a poplar, leaves yellow.
“Leave it!” Shaker commanded.
“I’m not afraid!” Dragon, in frustration, yelped.
“Haven’t you learned anything?” Archie said in disgust.
“Obey!” Cora commanded.
Dragon shut up, glowering.
Hearing Sister, Shaker cupped his hand to his mouth.“Hold there, Sister.”
She pulled up. They could all see the lion on the rocks.
The hounds bunched up, following Shaker. Betty rode under the mountain lion’s snarl.
“I don’t like you either,” Outlaw sassed.
Instead of going in front of the pack, Douglas made sure that Betty got out safely and every hound was out. Then he and Rickyroo trotted away as the big cat let out a spine-tingling roar. Spooked Rickyroo.
“I wouldn’t have missed this day for anything in the world,” Martha said.
“Me neither.” Walter took off his cap, wiping his brow. Chilly as it was, the run and the fear made him sweat.
“Staff, please,” Sister called out.
The little field moved over so Shaker, the hounds, Doug, and Betty could ride through. Hounds always had the right of way, with staff next. Field members turned their horses around so they faced the staff. One never turned a horse’s butt toward a passing staff member.
“Ma’am?” Shaker drew alongside of Sister, his horn tucked between the top two buttons of his jacket.
“A leisurely trail ride back to the trailers, I think.”
“Good.” He wiped his hands on his britches. The reins were slippery. “It’s been years since we ran a cat.”
“She’ll have a tale to tell her friends and so will we.”
Flying alongside the hounds, St. Just cawed,“Not bad for cubbing.”
“Where have you been?” Cora inquired. She liked St. Just, who often acted as aerial reconnaissance for the hounds—so great was her hatred of Target, in particular, and red foxes in general.
Most crows disliked foxes but ever since Target had killed St. Just’s mate this dislike had turned into a vendetta.
“I’ve been preparing my nest for winter. Going to be a cold winter.”
The humans noticed the crow flying overhead, then peeling off. While they couldn’t understand what was communicated, the staff members knew if scent was bad and crows were circling and cawing, often hounds would find a line.
The sky deepened to gunmetal gray. Sister remembered the Reaper on Hangman’s Ridge. She didn’t know why that incident popped into her head.
They rode toward the trailers visible now at Foxglove Farm.
Walter rode up alongside the master.“Is it always like this?”
“Sure.” She smiled.
CHAPTER 22
Candles floated across the carp pond, which pleased Fontaine but not the carp. Although the evening remained as rainy as the day, the candles, housed in small lanterns in clever boats, kept their flames. Fontaine’s house, built in 1819, exuded serene Federal appeal. Over the years a wing was added here or there but the successive owners never lost the simplicity of design so central to the Federal period. The carp pond anchored the back left corner of his spring garden, mulched and tidied for the coming winter. The fall gardens shouted color from zinnias, mums, holly bushes, and shiny-leafed bay bushes. The sudden turn in the weather meant those loud colors had perhaps a day or two before they faded, giving way to the silvers, grays, beiges, and whites of that most stringent season.
The foliage, nearing its peak, offered a contrast to the rain. If tomorrow proved as clear as the weatherman promised, the giant oak in the front lawn would be an orange almost neon in brightness.
Sorrel Buruss, on the board of the historical society, had arranged this dinner party. Fontaine, unlike many men, loved preparing for a party. So many house chores, piling up over the weeks then months, were accomplished in the frantic rush to get everything shipshape before guests arrived.
Thirty people, black-tie, laughed, reached for canap?s off silver serving trays, enjoyed Cristal champagne as opposed to the cheap champagnes so often foisted off on guests at these dos.
Sister chatted with the president of the university. The Franklins made a point of introducing Walter Lungrun to the movers and shakers of the community. Walter had been away for almost ten years. His family, being poor, was not social so he needed to meet people. Also, in those ten years, many new people had moved into the area. Fontaine invited him at the last minute, which gave him as much pleasure as he took in not inviting Crawford.