The mill, heavy gray fieldstone, built after 1790, testified to the wisdom of our forebears. Built to stand for centuries, it did. The two-story structure, grinding equipment intact but unused, had served generations of settlers. Everyone needs grain, corn, wheat, oats. Freshly ground grain also brought in foxes, other creatures, eager for the leavings. Corn kernels spilled being carried into the mill, oats scattered, and ground fine flour dusted the wide-plank floors. All a fox had to do was wait until nightfall, eat what fell on the way to or from a wagon, or wiggle inside. James, the crabby red living behind the mill, constantly reminded Hortensia and Ewald that they were newcomers. He couldn’t do that to Grenville, living in the back at what’s called Shootrough, for his ancestors had lived here since the eighteenth century as well.
Old blood was old blood, whether vulpine or human.
Hortensia thought the whole thing silly. She liked foxhunts. She rarely gave the hounds a run but when the people left they always dropped food, even gummy bears. She loved those gummy bears.
Once the people left, Yvonne slowly driving behind, Hortensia scurried to the trailers. Most of the riders closed their tack-room doors. A few did not, so she could pop in, rummage around. Freddie Thomas usually kept the door open. Hortensia recognized the trailers as well as the humans who owned them. She’d seen them for years. She caught a whiff of the gummy bears. Freddie’s plastic bag proved no match for Hortensia, who sat there being a pig.
Ewald, slinking under a trailer, crawled out.
“Boy, there are a lot of them today. Hey, sweets!”
“The yellow ones are the best.” Hortensia fished one out.
He jumped into the tidy tack room, a regular, heavy horse blanket lying flat in the space of the nose. Curious, he easily jumped up.
“Nothing better than a horse blanket,” Hortensia said.
“People sleep in these things. Some of them have living quarters, but it makes the trailer way too big, I think. Sleeping in the nose must be okay. With blankets a human can keep warm. Hey, mind if I eat a gummy bear?”
“No. Whole bag full.” Hortensia reached in for a grape one, placing it in her mouth. Very ladylike.
A stiff wind gust blew the door shut. The latch clicked.
“Uh-oh.” Ewald pushed the door.
Hortensia scratched at it. “Damn.”
Ewald looked at her then climbed up in the nose again. “At least the hounds can’t get in here.”
“No, but the human can,” Hortensia fretted.
“She’ll be tired. It’s cold today, and bet you Grenville gives them a run. He likes to zigzag, cover rough territory, and see them fall off. Here’s what we do. We sit tight. If we stay perfectly still when she comes back, she won’t even know we’re here.” He slid under the blanket, only his black nose sticking out. “Come on. This is warm. She won’t be back for hours. When she turns her back we can go.”
“You’re more hopeful than I am. I say she opens the door, sees us, and screams.”
“You give the humans much too much credit. The last thing she will expect is two foxes in her tack room. Get under the blanket with me and when the door opens stay perfectly still.”
“I hope you’re right.” Hortensia joined him.
All one could see were two black noses sticking out from under the blanket. One would need to look for them.
While Hortensia and Ewald snuggled in, Grenville, true to form, waited at woods’ edge. Hounds walked on the left side of the farm road while he observed on the right side. To reach him all would need to take a stout coop. He wasn’t worried. He could thread his way through the woods, giving everyone fits. He liked to hear the “Ommph” when someone hit the ground.
Giorgio, nose to the ground, moved slowly. He’d hunted here over the years, knowing that often Grenville left a signature on pastures. However, he needed to draw the pasture he was on, not the one across the road. Had to obey his huntsman.
Yvonne stopped to watch. “A lot of people out today.”
“February is great if you can take the cold,” said Aunt Daniella, short heavy coat on, her legs wrapped in a plaid throw.
Kathleen, in the back, learning about hunting, asked, “This is an old fixture. They must know where the fox is.”
“Yes and no.” Aunt Dan watched as Tootie disappeared into the woods on the left side.
“Sister, Weevil, and Betty, especially Betty, know where the dens are. Tootie does, too, because she started hunting Mill Ruins when she was at Custis Hall. But knowing where the dens are doesn’t mean the fox was out, may not be scent.” Yvonne had learned a lot in the last year.
Ribbon, her Norfolk terrier, sat in her lap, keen to see everything.
Grenville waited for hounds to reach the woodline across the farm road then he trotted into the open pasture, sat down, and waited.
The field passed on the road. Then Second Flight passed. The sheriff was riding tail that day and he noticed a flash of red.
Counting to twenty he called, “Tally-ho!”
Ben turned Nonni in the direction of Grenville, now heading into the woods. His cap off, arm outstretched, he said nothing. Betty, already in the woods, jumped back out, saw Ben, then waited. Tootie stayed where she was.
Weevil jumped the coop in the corner, crossed the road, jumped the coop into the right pasture. Sister, on Rickyroo, stopped, for she and the field were in the middle of the farm road.
Rickyroo’s ears swiveled. Grenville waited for Weevil to clear the jump then he tore off into the woods.
Ben kept his hand and hat steady as Betty also held out her cap.
Weevil, seeing the direction, put hounds on what he hoped was the line. It was.
Not a second of being tentative, all opened, leaping over, under, and through the three-board fence. Weevil took the coop in that fence line.
Sister thought staying on the road paralleling the hounds might be the best choice. It was, but that road dropped soon enough, footing slippery. She slowed a little.
“Well,” Yvonne muttered.
“They’ll all back up at the stream crossing,” Aunt Daniella predicted. “Wait. If we hear hounds going away we can cross the stream, too. Shouldn’t be too high. But if not, I’d sit tight.”
Although the stream flowed rapidly thanks to the rains and snow meltoff, the depth was only a foot. There had been times when the water rose higher than that. All the riders splashed through easily.
Yvonne crept down as the last rider, Ron Haslip, crossed, riding tail for Second Flight, which he didn’t want to do but Bobby Franklin was desperate to give Ben Sidell a day up front.
“All right, girls.” Yvonne put her vehicle in low gear just in case. “Any predictions, Aunt Dan?”
The older woman opened her window, a slash of cold air right on her face. “Wind is shifting. More westerly to east than coming right down from the northwest. He’ll run with the wind at his tail.”
“Why?” Kathleen asked.
“Blow scent away from the hounds. If Weevil turns his hounds into the wind, the scent will carry. Foxes know this, so if their scent gets picked up they’ll zigzag to confuse the hounds. Then, too, if there’s a stiff wind they’ll use it to blow their scent yards away from its original path. They are cunning creatures.”
“Tootie says the only creature that understands scent is the fox,” Yvonne repeated her daughter’s wisdom.
Kathleen noted, “People seem to find a buddy or a group they stick with.”
“Sometimes that’s due to the athletic ability of their horse. A person on a fast or long-strided horse will usually ride with like horses. Otherwise they’d need to be rating their horse,” Aunt Daniella explained.
“I would have never thought of that,” Kathleen confessed.