Hotspur (10 page)

“Noses down, young ones!”
Cora commanded.

“I got something. I got something!”
Trident, a firstyear entry, squealed.

Asa ambled over, sniffled, “
Yes, you do, son. That's a
groundhog.”

The other hounds laughed as Trident, ears dropping for a moment, accepted his chastisement, then decided he'd follow Asa. He couldn't go wrong then.

A sweetish, heavy, lingering line greeted Diana's sensitive nose as she probed a mossy patch amidst the timothy swaying in the east wind.
“Pay dirt.”

Although only in her second year, Diana, tremendously gifted, had earned the respect of the older hounds.

Just to be certain, Asa touched his nose to the spot.
“We're off.”

Both Diana and Asa pushed forward, Cora already ahead of them. Her nose, while not as extraordinary as Diana's, was plenty good enough. Yes, this line was perhaps fifteen minutes old and, on the dew, the temperature in the low sixties, it would hold for perhaps another five or ten minutes in the hay. Then the rising sun plus the wind would scatter it forever.

Trident inhaled the light fragrance.
“This is it! This
is it! I'm really hunting. It's not foxpen. This is the real
deal.”
He was so overcome, he tripped and rolled over.

Trudy, his littermate, laughed as she moved past him, her nose on the ground.
“Showtime!”

Archie used to say
“Showtime!”
when hounds would find. It made everyone laugh, relaxing yet energizing them.

Hearing their former anchor hound's phrase from this new kid made the others really laugh.

The scent grew stronger, snaking toward the woods. Whoever left it was in no hurry.

Whoever left it happened to be dozing on a rock outcropping about a quarter of a mile into the woods. Uncle Yancy, a red fox and the husband of Aunt Netty, filled with blackberries, peaches, and grain from Sister's stable, needed a nap to aid his digestion. Uncle Yancy would frequently sit on the window ledge and watch TV at either Shaker's or Doug's cottage. Now that Doug had taken the horn at Shenandoah Valley Hunt, he wondered if anyone would be in there. He could see the picture better from Doug's window than from Shaker's. He liked to keep up with the world. Raleigh and Rooster never minded his curiosity, but that damned cat would torment him sometimes. She'd call out to the hounds,
“Look
who's here, you lazy sots.”
Then some offended creature would open his big mouth and Yancy'd push off.

He lifted his head from his delicate paws.
“Oh, bother.”

Bitsy, on her way home from a very successful night, screeched,
“They'll be fast, Uncle Yancy.”

“Ha! The foxhound isn't born that can keep up
with me.”

Bitsy landed on a low maple limb.
“Pride goeth before
a fall.”

He stretched as the sound grew closer.
“Not pride.
Simple fact. If you want a good time, fly with me as I
send these young ones in the wrong direction. Might
even unseat a few humans, too. Why any creature would
want to totter around on two legs is beyond me.”

“That's why they ride horses. Then they have four,”
Bitsy sensibly concluded.

“I hadn't thought of that. Of course, some of them
can't stay on those horses, now can they? A weak and
vain species, the human, but a few are quite lovely. Oh
well”
—he shook himself—
“let's cause as much mayhem
as possible.”

He left the rocks, walked down to Broad Creek, crossed it, then climbed out on the other side. He shook off the water.

“I'm telling you, Uncle Yancy, these young ones
are fast.”

“Bitsy, they aren't supposed to run in front of the
pack. They're supposed to run as a pack.”

“That's what cubbing is for, to teach them. And I
wouldn't be so cocky if I were you. If St. Just is about,
he'll make trouble.”

St. Just, king of the crows, hated foxes, especially red foxes, because Target, Uncle Yancy's brother, had killed his mate. St. Just swore revenge on the whole fox nation and he had led one young red to his death last year.

Finally heeding the little owl, Uncle Yancy started trotting east.

“It's getting stronger!”
Trudy yelped as she approached the rocks.

Sybil, up ahead, spied Uncle Yancy slipping through a thick stand of holly. “Tallyho!”

Yancy decided to run after that. He broke out of the holly, crossed an old rutted path, dove into a thick thorny underbrush, then slithered out of that and headed for the edge of the woods.

“Over here.”
Dasher, a second-year dog hound, littermate to Diana, reached the edge of the creek the same time as Cora. He splashed across the creek, then began whining because he couldn't pick up the scent.

“Don't be a nincompoop!”
Cora chided him.
“Do you
really think a fox is going to walk straight across a creek?
You go left, I'll go right. And who's to say he didn't double back? Trudy,”
she called to the youngster,
“you and
your idiot brother work that side of the creek.”

While hounds searched for the scent, Sister and the field quietly waited on the rutted wagon road.

Crawford had just unscrewed the top of his silver flask when Dasher hollered,
“Here.”

“Drat.” Crawford knocked back a hasty gulp, motioned for Marty to have a sip, which she declined. As they trotted off he screwed on the cap, its little silver hinge ensuring it wouldn't fall off. Not a drop sloshed on him even though he'd filled it to the brim. He was quite proud of himself.

“Stronger!”
Cora, again ahead, spoke in her light, pretty voice.

Bitsy flew back to watch the hounds, then took off again to give Yancy a progress report.
“They just ran
into the thorns.”

“Damn,”
Yancy cursed. These hounds were faster than he thought.

He broke out of the woods and into the easternmost meadow of Roughneck Farm, which was filled with black-eyed Susans, Queen Anne's lace, and cornflowers; it hadn't been weeded or overseeded in years. Sister thought of it as her wildflower experiment and was loath to return it to timothy, alfalfa, or orchard grass.

A hog's-back jump loomed in the fence line. Sister and Lafayette sailed over it as the pace was picking up. She saw Betty, up ahead, already flying over the spanking-new coop that marked the westernmost border of After All Farm.

“This fox is a devil,” she thought to herself.

The hounds, in full cry now, roared across the wildflower meadow. Even Trident was on, his concentration improving.

Walter Lungrun, riding Clemson, an older and wiser horse, steered clear of Crawford, whose horse, Czapaka, a big warm-blood, occasionally refused a jump when he'd had enough of Crawford sawing at the reins.

New coops, not having yet settled into the earth, looked bigger than normal. Fortunately, Tedi and Edward painted theirs black. Unpainted coops seemed to cause more trouble than painted ones. Sister never knew if the trouble was with the horses or with the people.

As she trusted Lafayette with her heart and soul, she didn't give this jump a second thought, landing just as she heard Shaker double the notes on the horn.

They were close, close to their fox, who must have tarried along the way.

Uncle Yancy, putting on the afterburners now, was shadowed by Bitsy, who was quite worried about him. She wished she hadn't said
“Pride goeth before a fall,”
as she had no desire to see Uncle Yancy, everybody's uncle, perish. Rarely did Sister's hounds kill, but if a fox was ancient or sick, the hounds might dispatch it swiftly. In three seconds the quarry was dead, its neck snapped by the lead hound.

Bitsy tried to remember the last time there was a kill. It had been three years ago; one of the red tribe at the edge of the territory came down with distemper. Either way he was going to die because he refused to eat the medicines put out for him; he refused to go into one of the Havahart traps that Sister and Shaker put out in an effort to save him. He knew other foxes had been taken to the vet, but he did not trust any human, not even Sister.

“At least he died fast,” Bitsy thought to herself.

If she was worried, Uncle Yancy was not. Yes, the pack was faster. Sister had retired quite a few older hounds over the summer who now graced barns and hearths throughout the membership. These young ones had speed. Sister was breeding in more speed. He would have to tell the others.

In the meantime, he had to shake these damned hounds. He heard Cora's distinctive voice, then Asa's, both smart hounds.

“But not as smart as I am.”
He chuckled as he raced for the covered bridge and trotted across it, dragging his brush purposefully to leave a heavy, heavy scent. Then he started up the farm road, covered in brown pearock. The Bancrofts spared no expense on those items they considered aesthetically pleasing.

He whirled around, 180 degrees, backtracking in his own footprints, then launched himself at the edge of the covered bridge and down into the waters of Snake Creek, which were high, muddy, and fast from all the rain. Swimming to the opposite bank proved harder than he'd anticipated.

“Hurry!”
Bitsy blinked from atop the covered bridge.

Uncle Yancy made it to the far side. The swim had cost him precious time and tired him. He heard the hounds not a third of a mile away, closing with blinding speed.

“Damn them,”
he cursed as he raced for the place where Nola and Peppermint were now buried.

The red fox with a little white tip on his tail leapt over the zigzag fence, crossed the twenty yards to the other side, and leapt over that. The earth, still soft from the digging and from the rains, showed distinct footprints marking his progress. Tedi had put up a zigzag fence until the stonemason, in high demand, could build stone walls around the graves.

A muddy trail followed him as he headed along the ridge, then turned in an arc back toward Roughneck Farm. He was more tired than he wanted to be. A groundhog hole, messy but under the circumstances better than nothing, had been dug right along the fence line between After All Farm and Sister's wildflower meadow. He wasn't going to be able to make the loop back to his den at this rate and he wished he'd paid more attention to Bitsy, faithfully flying overhead.

“Ouch!”

Uncle Yancy looked upward. St. Just had dive-bombed Bitsy, pecking her.

“You little creep!”
St. Just pecked at Bitsy again, who was built for silent flight. She couldn't maneuver as handily as the blue-black bird, but she was smarter. She flew low to the ground, right over Uncle Yancy. If St. Just tried for her, Yancy could whirl around and possibly catch the hated bird in his jaws, or even with his front paws.

St. Just knew better than to get close to a fox. He cursed Bitsy for helping the fox and squawked loudly. If only he could turn the hounds before they reached the covered bridge, he could get them on Uncle Yancy fast. But his outburst and his bad language offended Athena, who had just stopped over between the two farms. A nest of baby copperheads, born late but with a good chance of survival thanks to the abundance of game, were close to the large rock where they lived. She thought one would make a tasty dessert, and St. Just spoiled everything by scaring them back under their rock.

He offended her in principle. He didn't know his place. Then, when she saw him go after Bitsy, her blood boiled. She lifted off the evergreen branch, her large wingspan impressive, and noiselessly, effortlessly came up behind the crow with four big flaps of her wings. She zoomed for him, talons down. He heard her a split second too late. As he turned to avoid the full impact of her blow, she caught him on the right wing. Enough to throw him off and enough to tear out feathers painfully.

“Out of my sight, peasant!”

Feathers flying, St. Just feared he might fall to earth with them. He pulled himself out of the dive, veering back toward the woods. Uncle Yancy, pursued though he was, would have made short work of this mortal enemy and then left the carcass to distract the hounds. Fresh blood was always distracting to a hound.

“Thank God you're here,”
Bitsy hollered, her high-pitched voice frightening four deer grazing below.

“Thank Athena.”
The large bird hooted low, mentioning her namesake, then with a few powerful blasts she was over the wildflower meadow, heading to her home high in a huge walnut by Sister's house.

Back at the creek, the hounds charged across the covered bridge in full cry.

Sister was about to lead the field across, knowing there'd be some fussing from the horses inside the bridge, when she heard a change in Diana's voice. Wisely, for she trusted her hounds, she paused.

People panted. Horses' ears pricked forward; they thought stopping pure folly, but they did as they were told.

Cora had overrun the line. Asa came up to Diana. He, too, changed his tune.

“What's happening? What's happening?”
Trident thought he'd done something wrong.

“Pipe down and listen.”
Dasher put his nose to the ground.

In a situation like this, Dragon was invaluable, for he was highly intelligent and had an incredible nose. But he'd been left back in the kennel since Shaker felt he had enough good hounds out and Dragon could be a handful. He thought the young ones, especially this T litter, might do better without Dragon today.