Cora hated Dragon as much as she loved his sister. Quite a few hounds loathed the talented, arrogant Dragon.
Being the strike hound didn’t mean that Cora always found the scent first. But she worked a bit ahead of the rest—not much, perhaps only five yards in front, but she was first and she wanted to keep it that way.
If another hound, say a flanker, a hound on the sides of the pack, found scent before she did, Cora would slow, listening for the anchor hound, the quarterback, to speak. If the anchor said the scent was valid, then Cora would swing around to the new line, racing up front again. She had to be first.
If the anchor hound said nothing, then Cora would wait for a moment to listen for someone else whom she trusted. All she waited for was “It is good.” If she didn’t hear it soon, then she’d push on.
For years the anchor hound of the Jefferson Hunt had been Archie, a great American hound of substance, bone, deep voice, and reliable nose. Archie, a true leader, knew when to knock a smart-ass youngster silly, when to encourage, when to chide the whole pack, and when to urge them on. He died a fighting death against a bear, ensuring his glory among the pack as well as among the humans. They all missed him.
Diana, though young, possessed the brains to be an anchor hound. No one else exhibited that subtle combination of leadership, drive, nose, and identifiable cry. Cora knew Diana would become a wonderful anchor, but her youth would cause some problems this season. Like a young, talented quarterback, Diana would misread some signals and get blitzed. But the girl had it, she definitely had it.
In fact, the whole D litter, named for the first letter of their mother’s name as is the custom among foxhunters, oozed talent. And in Dragon’s case, overweening conceit.
Puppies taunted one another, their high-pitched voices carrying over the yards drenched in late-afternoon sunshine.
“Pipe down, you worthless rats,” Cora yelled at them.
They quieted.
“Too bad Archie can’t see this litter. He was their grandfather. They’re beauties.” Diana watched one chubby puppy waddle to the chain-link fence between the yards, where he studied a mockingbird staring right back at him from the other side.
“Babblers.” Cora laughed. “They are beautiful. But the proof is in the pudding. We’ll see what they can really do two seasons from now. And don’t forget”—she lowered her voice because gossip travels fast in close quarters—“Sweetpea just isn’t brilliant. Steady, God bless her, steady as a rock, but not an A student.”
Sweetpea was the mother of this litter.
“I wish it were the first day of cubbing.” Diana sighed.
“Don’t we all. I don’t mind the walking out. Really. The exercise is good, and each week the walks get longer. You know next week we’ll start with the horses again, which I enjoy, but still—not the same.”
“Heard the boys in the pasture yesterday.” Diana meant the horses. “They’re excited about starting back to work so long as Sister, Shaker, and Doug go out early, really early.” Diana sniffed the air. A familiar light odor announced the presence of Golly grandly picking her way through the freshly mowed grass toward the outdoor run.
Diana rose, shaking the dirt off.
Cora, too, smelled Golly. “Insufferable shit.”
Diana laughed. “Cora, you’re crabby today.”
“It’s the heat. But that doesn’t change the fact that that cat is a holy horror.” Cora curled farther into her cool mud crater. She wasn’t going to talk to the calico.
Golly reached the chain-link fence. “Good afternoon, Diana. Your nose is dirty.”
Diana sat down at the chain-link fence. “Keeps the bugs off.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t get bugs.”
“Liar,” Cora called out.
“Tick hotel,” Golly fired right back.
“Flea bait. You hallucinate. I’ve seen you chase the ghosts of fleas,” Cora replied, giggling.
“I have never hallucinated in my life, Cora. And you can’t get my goat, ha,” she said, “because you’re a lower life-form and I’m not letting you needle me.”
“Oh, if you aren’t hallucinating, then what are you doing when you, for no reason, leap straight into the air, twist around, race to a tree, climb up, drop down, and do it all over again? You’re mental.”
“Spoken like the unimaginative canine you are.” Golly raised her chin, half closing her eyes. “I’m being visited by The Muse on those occasions.”
“I’m going to throw up,” Cora said, and made a gagging sound.
“Worms!” Golly triumphantly decreed.
Diana, thoroughly enjoying the hostilities, said, “Just got wormed Monday.”
“Well, I walked down here in the heat of the day to give you girls some news, but since you’re insulting me I think I’ll go hiss at the puppies, teach them who’s boss around here.”
“You can tell me.” Diana lowered her voice and her head, her dirt-encrusted nose touching the fence.
“You’re a sensible girl,” the cat replied.
In truth, Diana was sensible and also quite sweet. She loved everybody.
Cora, upright now, walked over. “Well?”
“Who said I was talking to you?” Golly opened her eyes wide.
“Oh come on, Golliwog, you know we’re dying to hear it,” Cora coaxed, buttering her up.
The luxurious calico leaned forward, her nose on the chain-link fence now. “It was Nola. The family dentist identified her not an hour ago.”
Cora thought for a moment. “This will stir up a hornet’s nest.”
“If only we had known her . . . we hear and smell things.” Diana frowned. “We might have been able to help find out something useful.”
“The last hound that knew Nola Bancroft would have been Archie’s grandmother. She lived to be eighteen, you know,” Cora said. “It was a long, long time ago.”
“You’d think if any of us had known about the murder, or if any of the horses over at After All Farm knew, they would have told. We’d know. We pass those things down,” Diana said.
“Undomesticated.” Cora meant that undomesticated animals might have witnessed something at the time.
“Who lives that long?” Diana wondered.
“Turtles. That snapping turtle at After All Farm, the huge one in the back pond, he’s got to be forty years old, I swear it,” Cora said.