As they hadn’t yet jumped even a cigarette pack, Keepsake fretted.
The field behind her kept quiet. The Hilltoppers also remained silent. Bobby Franklin, that most genial man, ran a tight group. His Hilltoppers didn’t jump fences, but they kept right up behind first flight, led by Sister. It would never do to let these two fields become strung out. No coffeehousing. No skylarking. No using the horse in front of you as a bumper. Bobby moved out, kept it fun, and the Hilltoppers often ran harder than the field because they needed to find ways around the jumps.
Immediately behind Sister rode Ken, Xavier, Tedi, Ron, Edward, and Walter. Thirty-two others filled out the first flight, with Jennifer and Sari riding tail. Being juniors, they pulled hard tasks, and riding tail was one of them. It was also a fabulous way to learn what to do and what not to do in the hunt field. Whoever rode tail usually picked up the pieces—loose horses, dismounted humans. In most hunts those in the rear were grooms, juniors, and riders on green horses. Often the riders on green horses were the first ones picked up.
Sister, unlike many masters, liked juniors up front, but they had to earn their stripes first. You earned them in the back.
Bobby used his juniors to go forward and open the gates. He figured he’d lose between three and five minutes on every gate, and this time had to be made up, otherwise he’d lose sight of Sister and the hounds. Not good.
There they all sat quiet as mice.
The noise came from St. Just, cawing overhead. “I know where there’s a fox with an infected paw. You could kill him.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Dasher warned the young entry. “He’ll lead you to a fox, but he’ll lead you to Hell, too.”
The hounds heard a long, rising blast followed by two short toots.
Trident, still trying to memorize the calls, whispered to his sister, Trudy, “What’s that one?”
“Uh, he’s not calling us back, he’s kind of telling us to go right.” Trudy watched as Asa walked toward the right and crossed the stream.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever remember all the notes,” Trident worried.
“You will,” Delia reassured him. “Watch Asa and Diana. Don’t worry about the strike hounds just yet. You keep your eye on the steady hounds.”
“Why is he moving us out of the streambed? Isn’t scent better down here?” Trinity asked, the white Y on his head distinctive.
“Because the wind has shifted. He’s pushing us into the wind,” Delia answered.
“Why don’t we just go right down here by the water?” Tinsel asked, a good question.
“The trees, the underbrush are cutting the wind. But up there”—Delia cocked her head toward higher ground— “it’s a little stiffer. And if we pick it up there, we’ll follow it wherever it goes, and if we can’t get anything heading into the wind we can always come back here where it will be cooler longer. Trust Shaker.”
“Do the other humans know this stuff?” Trident asked.
Delia laughed. “No, dear, they’re just trying to stay on their horses.”
“Do the whippers-in know?” Trudy crossed the stream, the clear water chilly.
“Some understand. Others just ride hard,” Delia said.
Asa, now with them, spoke, his voice deep. “It’s an article of faith that every whipper-in believes he or she can hunt hounds—until they have the horn to their lips.”
“Why?” Trinity gracefully leapt an old log.
“Kind of like the difference between a strike hound and an anchor hound. The anchor hound has to know where everyone is and what the fox and humans might do. Remember, they’re always behind us. The strike hound pushes out to get the line. That’s all that hound has to do, have a great nose and great drive. Doesn’t have to have a brain in its head, which I am here to tell you Dragon does not. So don’t imitate that ass.”
The young ones giggled.
Delia added, “But Cora is smart. She’s got brains and athletic ability. What a nose that girl has.”
Just then Cora found. “Got one!”
Dragon skidded up to her. “Yo yo yo. It’s good.”
“God, I just hate him,” Asa grumbled as the youngsters flew up ahead, all excited.
Delia laughed as she ran with Asa.
Diana, nose down, figured the scent was about an hour old but holding. They’d better make the most of it. She didn’t know who it was. Often she did.
They clambered up the banks, leaving the stream behind, and came into a huge hayfield, sixty acres of cut hay rolled up in huge round bales. This was galloping country.
Sister popped over the tiger trap jump that Walter had built in the fence line. The logs, upright, created a coop, but it looked formidable. In this case it was because Walter was overzealous when he built it. The trap was three feet six inches but looked like four feet. A few people decided to join the Hilltoppers then and there. The rest squeezed hard, grabbed mane, and over they soared.
St. Just swooped overhead one more time, screaming about the fox with the sore paw, but no one was listening. Furious, he pooped on a brand-new velvet cap, then flew away.
Keepsake stretched out, head low, covering ground effortlessly. How he loved open fields, as did Sister. They moved so fast, she had tears in her eyes.
One of Ronnie Haslip’s contact lenses blew out. He cursed but kept right up. He’d jump with that eye closed.
Betty, wisely using the territory, cleared a jump, three large logs lashed together with heavy rope, at the end of the big field. She listened intently. Shaker had blown “Gone Away” when the hounds all broke out of the covert on the line.
Now and then Shaker shouted encouragement. Why ruin the beautiful music of the hounds by blowing all the time?
The riders thundered across the field, took the three-log jump into another pasture, smaller, maybe twentyfive acres.
Hounds ran right out of it, crawling under the fence on the far side or just taking the triple-wide coop in the fence line. The jump, about three feet tall, was a glorious twenty-four feet long.
Shaker and Gunpowder glided over, as did Sister and Keepsake. Behind her, Sister could hear the sound of hooves hitting the earth, the slight jingle of curb chains on bits, the occasional sharp exhalation of breath. She never looked back. Her job was to stay behind the huntsman.
Ron and Xavier took the wide jump in tandem. Neither could resist a little warble of victory. A few people cheered behind them.
The fox, Prescott, one of Target and Charlene’s new litter, hit top speed and hooked sharply left in the woods on the other side of the triple-wide jump.
He dashed over moss, rocks, then ducked into a den carefully placed under the roots of a massive walnut. Earth thrown out everywhere announced his abode.
Hounds marked him.
The T youngsters pushed right up front and Trident even dug in the den.
Shaker dismounted, blowing the triumphant notes of victory as the field rode up.