Archie, anchoring and still in the corn, replied,“I’m behind. Go on, Cora.”
“It’s him. It’s him.” Dasher was so excited, his nostrils full of hot, fresh fox scent, that he yipped like a puppy.
Target, about two hundred yards ahead of the strike hound, put on the afterburners. He scorched the meadow, jumped Fontaine’s coop, to the thrill of the field and the foot followers on the ridge. Then he ran hard through the woods.
The field followed Sister, surprised at the fast pace, for she didn’t think scent would be good but then she didn’t think they’d jump a fox and stay so close either.
Lafayette, smooth and always balanced, arced over Fontaine’s coop. Most everyone made it and those few who didn’t cursed under their breath, rode to the rear, and hoped to boot their horses over. Everyone did but one poor little lady, a picture of frustration. She gave up and joined Bobby Franklin as he leaned over to flip up the kiwi gate latch.
The music carried up to the ridge. Peter Wheeler stood on the back of his pickup and kept repeating,“Can you beat that? Can you beat that? Biggest damn red I ever saw in my life!”
Sitting atop the hanging tree, St. Just also watched everything. Usually he flew low over the red fox, cawing loudly for the hounds to close the gap. His jet-black feathers shone iridescent, his deep-yellow beak opened and closed, revealing his tongue, but he made little noise.
Target charged straight for Aunt Netty’s den. He lingered a bit too long in the field, showing off, and he needed to widen the gap between himself and Cora. He glanced back, seeing Dragon running neck and neck with Cora.
“I hate that hound,” he thought to himself, wishing the snake had killed Dragon.
Target ran through a rotted log knowing that would slow Cora and Dragon for a moment. Dasher, Diana, and other hounds were only a few paces behind the lead hounds.
This gave him just enough time to warn Aunt Netty as she reposed on the log fallen across the creek.
“Netty, go on now. They’re too close!”
She scrambled up the other side of the bank and headed off at a burning clip. Target ran halfway across the log, then jumped into the water. This was a slight variation on the plan but the only way to keep the hounds from the mouth of the den. He swam down the creek, then climbed up the bank into the opening.
As planned, the hounds, noses to the ground, streaked across the fallen log.
Blinding speed had served the slender, cagey Netty all her days. She put further distance between herself and the hounds as she zigzagged through the woods, emerging onto the back meadows still deep green.
A sizable hog’s-back jump punctuated the fence line, an old three-rail. Shaker cleared it right behind his hounds. Sister, fifty yards behind her huntsman, also sailed over.
As they thundered through the fields she heard hooves moving up too fast behind her.
Lafayette put back his ears. He slightly turned his head.“Bug off,” he warned Czapaka.
Crawford couldn’t hold the big Holsteiner.
Just as Czapaka’s nose drew even with Lafayette’s, Sister unleashed her whip, which she’d switched to her left hand. The thong and cracker snapped right in front of Czapaka’s nose. The warmblood, startled, half reared, then stopped dead. Crawford slammed up on his neck, then slid off to the side as the entire field passed him.
Bunky Jenkins, riding tail this day, perceived that Crawford was fine. He didn’t stop to help him, which only made Crawford even more furious.
With reluctance, Martha turned back. He mounted up and then they had to fly to catch up because the pace accelerated. An upright jump, four logs stacked on top of the other, guarded the other side of the field. Cochise popped over and Czapaka with a whip and a spur followed.
They reached the back of the field. Fontaine had moved up right in Sister’s pocket, the most prestigious place in the field. Crawford choked on his fury.
Aunt Netty burst out from the woods, ran almost to Soldier Road, and then doubled back on her own tracks. Those people on the top of Hangman’s Ridge could see her as she doubled, then sped off first south, then zigzagged north as she headed toward the ridge. Then she veered back again. She knew the hounds were a quarter mile behind. She was pleased with herself.
Grace waited at the still.
“They’re in fine fettle today, Grace. Go now.”
“Cora first?”Grace had been told to fear Cora’s speed.
“And that arrogant young entry, Dragon. He’s fast. Very fast but fortunately he’s not very bright. Go on.”
Grace trotted toward the old farm path, then picked up her speed.
Cora stopped at the still.“Aunt Netty, I know you’re in there.”
“Go to the right. You’ll pick up Grace’s scent. We’ll make this a good day for Sister. After that, it’s business as usual.”
“To ground! To ground!” Dragon lifted his head back as he ran up and almost over Cora.
“Forget it.” Cora moved to the right.
“But I’ve put a fox to ground!” Dragon wanted to be a star.
“Scent is tough today, you fool. It’s warmed up. There’s a light breeze. The ground is drying out. Don’t spoil the plan.”
“I put a fox to ground,” he bellowed.
Lightning fast before the other hounds joined them, Cora leapt up and turned sideways like a marlin on a line. She crashed into Dragon. He hit the ground with a thud, the wind knocked out of him. Then Cora seized him by the throat and shook him. She dropped him and ran to the right, picking up Grace’s scent.
“Over here. Over here.”
The rest of the pack followed her as Dragon, choking, stood up, shook himself, coughed, then sullenly hitched up with the rest of the pack.
Sister and Lafayette leapt over a fallen tree trunk as a shortcut to the farm road. She’d heard Cora and then the pack turn. As she glanced behind her she saw her field strung out, the attrition rate rising.
“Stay with the hounds,” she thought to herself, and wondered when she’d had this long a run, this fast.
Grace ran back over Target’s evaporated scent, making a semicircle. She flew over Fontaine’s coop, not knowing the grays were in the trees watching her. She ran straight into the cornfield and then in a change of plan, because she was young and got confused, she blasted out the back of the cornfield with Uncle Yancy.
“What do I do?”
“Stay with me. There’s no den up here, Grace. You’ll have to run with me. You okay?”
“I’m not tired. I’ve only covered a half mile.”
Grace and Yancy skirted the fence line into the woods, a deep ravine in the far distance. Just to make life interesting, totally confuse the humans, they ran two large, loopy figure eights in the woods. The humans would think they were on grays until someone caught sight of them.
Lottie Fisher’s horse stumbled. Fontaine, who happened to be looking back, pulled up Gunpowder. Lottie, quite good-looking, brushed herself off as she checked her horse.
“You need company?” Fontaine reined in Gunpowder, lightly dismounting and removing his top hat. “Gets so lonesome in these woods.”
She blushed.“Thank you. I’m fine. He’s fine, too.” She patted the gelding’s sleek neck.
“How about a leg up, then?” He cupped his hand under her right leg. “One, two, three.” He pushed her up into the saddle.
Then he swung up on Gunpowder, top hat back on his head.
“Thank you so much, Fontaine.”
“The pleasure was all mine.” He grinned. “Shall we join them?”
Off they galloped on the last loop of the figure eight. The coop up ahead led into the meadow.
Lottie didn’t realize Fontaine was not behind her until she came right up on the rear of the first flight. She didn’t think a thing of it.
Together, Grace and Yancy dashed straight up the ridge, right to the hanging tree, dodging the screaming people, some of whom yelled“tallyho” to no avail. They scooted under Peter Wheeler’s truck.
Old Peter, on his feet, slapped his thigh with his hat.“Yip, yip yoo.” He belted out a rebel yell. “Yip, yip yoo. I never saw anything like this in my life. Two red foxes. Yip, yip yoo. Janie, where in the hell are you?”