He stood back, lifting one end of the bin top with the staghandle of his crop. Sure was useful, that staghandle.
“Go right. I’ll go left!” Netty blasted out of there as if she’d been on a launch pad at Cape Canaveral.
“Split the pack!” Grace let Aunt Netty know she understood the wise old vixen’s intent.
The two vixens shot out of the feed bin with such force that Shaker staggered back, gasping.
“Hold! Hold!” He had the presence of mind to keep his voice steady.
The hounds were levitating with the thrill of two foxes brushing right through them.
Shaker, raised a good Irish Catholic, knew that November 24 is the feast day of St. Colman of Cloyne, who spread the good word in Limerick and Cork during the sixth century A.D. However, he didn’t think the dear fellow could help him in his current predicament.
He called upon the saint of impossible causes,“St. Rita, keep my pack together,” as he walked deliberately to Showboat, agog with excitement.
St. Rita must have been otherwise occupied at that moment because Dragon did not hold. He careened after Aunt Netty, who was running through the horses’ legs. Crawford lurched forward as Czpaka snorted and whirled, but he hung on.
Walter, surprised by Rocketman getting light in front, slipped off as did a few others.
One could hear, even with the din,“Ommph,” “Aargh,” “Dammit.”
As Netty caused maximum pandemonium, Shaker struggled to mount Showboat, who was backing up, taking Sister, holding tight on to the reins, with him.
“Hold still!” Keepsake snorted at the high-strung Showboat.
“Hounds are away!” Showboat knew his job was to be right up there with them. He was neglecting the fact that Shaker was supposed to be on his back.
“Do you want a Come-to-Jesus meeting?” Keepsake uttered the dreaded phrase that meant major discipline.
That reached the Thoroughbred. Finally Shaker swung his leg over.
While he was doing that, Grace dashed in front of Betty without so much as a“How do you do.”
She slunk under Cly’s fence, headed straight for the giant, making certain to step in every cow patty she could find. Cly’s patties resembled small islands. Grace slipped through them and boy, could they foil scent.
“Tally ho!” Betty marked the fox just as half the pack blew right by her. She counted heads as quickly as she could but it was more than apparent that half the gang was going in the other direction. Her ears told her that.
Pretty soon the ninnies in the field were bellowing“Tally ho.”
There was no need for this chorus, obviously, since everyone and God could see the redoubtable Aunt Netty. A field should always be silent.
The three masters of Deep Run, along with two ex-masters, Mary Robertson and Coleman Perrin, had come to enjoy the day. They were getting more than they bargained for, and Sister quietly cursed to herself that if your pack was going to piss off they’d wait until another master was present. It’s the same principle as your well-behaved six-year-old blurting out some embarrassing personal information when company came calling. So much for saving face!
Shaker knew there was little point in blowing the pack back to him. He noted that Cora, Diana, Ardent, Darby, and Diddy waited for him to tell them to go. He never loved hounds as much as he loved those five hounds at that moment.
“Hark to ’em.” He smiled.
“Yippee!” Off they flew toward Aunt Netty’s trail.
He then blew three short notes, blew them again, and doubled them, hoping the rest of the pack would swing to him even though they were on their own fresh fox.
Betty could read Shaker’s mind. She jumped over the tiger trap the second the hounds streaked by her and she was straining to get ahead of them to turn them. No easy task in the best of circumstances. But now Cly took offense at what she saw as a triple disturbing of her repose. First came Grace, then the hounds, and now this two-legged twit borrowing the speed of a four-legged one.
She roared,“Outta my pasture!”
Orestes mooed,“Ditto. You’d better do what mom says.”
With that, both bovines charged Betty and Outlaw.
Outlaw, tough as he was, wasn’t going to play bumper cars with those humongous creatures. He shifted to the side. Betty, tight as a tick up there, rode it out with ease. Her goal was to get ahead of the split group. Outlaw’s goal was to avoid this enraged and terribly stupid cow. As for Orestes, he wasn’t even stupid. Hewas a blistering idiot.
Betty steered for the coop, rider up, on the other end of the pasture. Four feet sure enough but there wasn’t a second to lift that rider off.
“Outlaw, let’s boogie, baby boy.”
“Piece of cake.” He picked up speed since he was a compact 15.3 hands. He wasn’t going to soar over with a few cantering strides like Showboat. But he took off a wee bit early, clearing it with ease.
Betty started laughing on the other side. My God, this was living.
Gaining on the hounds, she knew far better than to start blathering and cracking her whip. That would only send them on. She had to get in front of those suckers to turn them.
More pastures beckoned. She was now lapping the tail hounds.
“Son, I am deeply offended,” and with that Cly lowered her head and crashed through the coop with the rider, pieces of black-painted board heaving into the air.
Orestes cantered after her, leaving perfect cloven imprints in the perfect footing.
“That bitch is coming after us!” Outlaw whinnied.
Hearing the cowbell, Betty turned.“Great day!” she whistled, using the old southern expression for disbelief. “Baby boy, we’ve still got to turn these hounds.”
She urged him on and they finally reached Trident, up front. She cracked her whip and it reverberated like a rifle shot.
“Leave it!”
Trident hesitated. Betty cracked the whip again.“Leave it!”
The group reluctantly did as they were told because the next reprimand would be ratshot in the ass. They saw the .22 come out of the holster and those little birdy bits could sting.
They stopped. They could all hear the other part of the pack since sound carried beautifully on this overcast day.
“Hark to ’em! Hark to ’em.” Betty’s voice shook with excitement, for she could also hear Cly coming, ground shaking.
Bellowing“Death to the human!” Cly lumbered toward them like a large black-and-white freight train.
Behind her, parroting mom, was the son.
“Let’s get out of Dodge!” Doughboy sprinted toward the sound of hounds moving fast in the opposite direction.
Betty, on the outside of them, shrewdly put the hounds between her and that damned cow.
Cly tossed her head to and fro and just thought she was the most fearsome beast in the land, a modern Minotaur. She may have been fat and ridiculous but she could hurt you.
Hounds, Outlaw, and Betty slipped by the two Holsteins. This didn’t please them, so Cly decided to keep after them. She wasn’t fast but she was determined, and she could still run faster than a human.
This became apparent when the company of creatures passed the other side of the stable, where a few humans were still on foot, trying to catch their horses or their breath.
Cly headed straight for them.
“Jesus Christ!” Bill Wheatley shouted as Cly zeroed in on him.
“Jesus can’t help you now! Climb, man, climb!” Sam Lorillard shouted, as he’d stayed back to help.
Bill ran for all he was worth and in that instant vowed he would go to the gym and dump the excess weight. The old walnut by the stables had low branches, drooping with advanced age. Bill grabbed one and swung himself forward, trying to get his legs up over the branch. He managed but his lardass hung there, most tempting. Cly hooked his butt, tearing off a wide swatch of expensive corded material, but fortunately she didn’t break the skin.
Sam, quick-witted and quick, had taken off his jacket, waving it in front of Cly. She charged; he sidestepped her while barely escaping a bone-crushing butt by Orestes, faster than mom.