His children, finally in their own dens, had their marching orders. Yesterday morning he told Reynard to stay over by Whiskey Ridge, since his largest son might let his ego interfere with prudent judgment. He couched this in terms of saving himself for Thanksgiving hunt, when Reynard could be the star. He’d discussed the day with Butch, who agreed not to mislead hounds. This would be a day for the reds to shine.
“Wonder why Butch was so cooperative?” Charlene was suspicious.
Target puffed out his white chest.“Can’t cut the mustard.”
“The original plan was we’d share the day. We’d start and they’d finish.”
“He was glad to bow out, my dear. He’s lazy as sin and probably, although he wouldn’t admit it, he knows he’s not in our league. He’ll have other hunts.”
“M-m-m,” was all Charlene said.
Aunt Netty, Uncle Yancy, Charlie, Grace, and Patsy each knew the plan. Within a half hour they’d leave home to go to their various destinations.
The plan was for Target to start the day. A cornfield was in the bottomland on Sister Jane’s side of Hangman’s Ridge.
Shaker would surely cast there. It was easy and a mere quarter mile from the top of the ridge, where the field would gather. Target would trot out the back side of the corn so everyone could see him; then he’d run around the base of the ridge leading them north-northeast. He’d jump over the coop that Fontaine had smashed so again everyone could admire him. After two miles he’d drop into the creek and slip into Aunt Netty’s den; one opening was in the creek bed. Aunt Netty would cross onto the other side of the creek after she walked over the last fifty yards of Target’s tracks. She would veer into the creek, making certain to walk across the large fallen tree. The hounds would go to the tree trunk and not the den. As soon as Aunt Netty was sure they’d picked up her scent she was to run through the woods into the meadows on the back side. Her run would be about two and a half miles, since Netty was the fastest fox around. The tricky part would be stopping short of Soldier Road, doubling back on her own tracks, then heading back toward Hangman’s Ridge in a large loop. She wouldonly double on her own tracks for two hundred yards, maybe three hundred, depending on how fast the hounds were behind her. At the abandoned moonshine still she would jump into the burrow in the middle of the still and Grace, almost as fast as Netty, would take over. Being young, Grace was only to run a half mile back into the cornfield where the cast was first made. Then Uncle Yancy, deep in experience, would fly out of the field, up, straight up the ridge and straight to the hanging tree. He’d wait a bit, then run down the ridge on the other side, stopping at the tree line if the hounds were too close. A lovely old gopher hole was right at the fence post and Yancy had connected it underground to the base of a walnut. Yancy, shrewd, had so many entrances and exits, some almost impossible to see, that he could sit in there with three hundred hounds outside. They’d never figure it all out.
About one hundred yards from that point, Patsy was to lead the field back to Sister’s house. The interesting part about this section of the run was that hounds and horses would have been moving along, in some places at speed, for a good five miles. That ought to separate the wheat from the chaff. But this section would test the intelligence of the hounds. They’d be charged up. They’d lose the scent. Uncle Yancy had asked a skunk friend to spray about ten yards from his fence post entrance. That would confuse hounds. Skunk scent would cover fox scent and just about any other scent. So the hounds would need to cast themselves, searching for the line. Even if a few managed to push through the stinging skunk scent to the fence post entrance, they couldn’t do much about it. Digging wouldn’t bring them much, plus the entrance would be covered in skunk scent, too. Yancy made sure of that.
It might take the pack ten to fifteen minutes to pick up the new line thanks to the little traps he had laid for them. This would be quite a test. It would help him understand how good the pack was this year. After all, even though Americans no longer hunted to kill, a fox couldn’t be too careful and the American foxhound was blindingly fast, much faster than the English foxhound. What if Shaker blew them back and the hounds didn’t return to him? That damned young hound chasing Target got his comeuppance but what if he’d been on one of the young foxes? They might nothave been so clever. It was one thing to be born bright; experience still counted for much.
He was pleased with the battle plan that they’d all worked on. It would thin out the ranks of all the creatures, especially the humans.
He expected many a good laugh as the woods and fields became littered with humans taking an involuntary dismount.
Patsy, a bright red, would show herself at Sister’s front door and then disappear. A large earth had been dug under Sister’s front porch. Even if the hounds could get under the porch, they’d wreck the boxwoods and Shaker would have to call them off.
The reds, for years, had been digging earths all around the house and the outbuildings and down by the strong running creek at the bottom of the back field.
They liked to observe the hounds and the staff. One needed to study one’s quarry.
Over at Butch’s den, the whole family had gathered.
“Why did you agree to that? Why give the reds all the fun?” Comet was furious.
“I said we wouldn’t interfere with their program.”Butch licked his front paw.“I didn’t say we couldn’t go out and watch. Besides, there’s a whole hunt season before us. Who knows, we might need Target’s cooperation.”
“Let the reds do all the work. We can learn this pack from them,” their mother advised.
“But you’ve known this hunt forever,” Comet whined.“What’s to learn? We should be out there.”
“Box of rocks.” Butch cuffed his son.“Hounds grow old and die. Young ones take their place. The pack changes like seasons. Sister Jane can breed for more speed, too. And never underestimate a hound. They’re intelligent. Not as intelligent as we are but intelligent. Climb a tree where the coop is, the smashed coop. You can see the pack coming from the cornfield across the pastures over the coop and into the woods. We’ll find out how fast they find, if Cora is still the strike hound and if Archie is still the anchor.”
“You go. I’m going to Netty’s den,” he mouthed off.“Let’s see how they work in water but if I feel like it, maybe I’ll just mislead all of them.”
“You do and you’ll be one dead fox,” Buster spat.“Not only will the reds not help you if needs be, I won’t either.”
“The reds are a bunch of snots.”
“Hey, I didn’t say I liked them. But there are times when we need one another. You do as I say!”
Inky, silent, would do as her father told her. She was anxious to see how Diana did on her big day. She hoped her friend would be impressive because she’d heard that hounds could get drafted out. They weren’t always bad hounds but they didn’t fit in with that pack. She liked Diana and was very grateful for the hound’s help. She didn’t tell anyone. She knew better.
The grays left their den, the distance to the cornfield and pasture being about a mile and a half.
“Dad,” Inky whispered as they reached a large rock outcropping,“when’s the last time a fox died?”
“Hunting?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Six years ago an old red, Herschel, got shingles. Gave the hounds a heck of a chase and then when he reached his den he sat on the outside of it. He knew he had to die, you see, so he chose a swift death. He was a brave fox, Herschel, and he didn’t deserve to get shingles. For a red, I liked him fine.”
A huge shape overhead startled them, so silent was the approach. Athena, the two-foot owl, was returning to her nest after a successful night.