Inky heard that story, passed from generation to generation. The first victim of the tree was Lawrence Pollard in 1702. An intrepid man, an explorer and founder of towns, Lawrence indulged in land speculation, as did many colonists. He was selling acreage in the Shenandoah Valley, the deal went bust, and Lawrence’s investors strung him up without judge or jury.
From her vantage point Inky could see the Arnold farm, the barn and kennels and the understated two-story brick house painted white with Charleston-green shutters surrounded by oaks and maples of enormous size. At the edge of the expansive lawn was a small apple orchard. Peach and pear trees were around the house for decoration as much as for fruit. The orchard, though, was laid out in neat rows.
Inky swooped down the ridge, ran across a downed log over Broad Creek, and was happily in the middle of the orchard in fifteen minutes.
Raleigh, whom she knew by sight, was in the house. Golliwog, however, was in the orchard.
“I’ll tell the hounds you’re here.”
“They can’t get out,” Inky replied.
“They can make a helluva racket. The humans will get up.”
“I’ll be gone by that time, they’ll be in a bad mood, and you’re the one that has to listen to them,” Inky sensibly said. “I only want one apple. I’m not going to poach your game.”
Golly arched her long eyebrows. “How can you eat fruit?”
“It’s good.”
The cat shook herself. “Well, get your apple and get out.”
Inky snatched a small, sweet apple that had just fallen, then darted out of the orchard, passing the kennel on her way home. The hounds were snoring.
She stopped, apple in her mouth. She put the apple down for a moment and turned. Golly had climbed up into one of the apple trees at the edge of the orchard. She’d heard that the house cat was smart and no friend to foxes. Figuring she was ahead of the game and not wishing further to irritate the calico, Inky picked up the apple. As she walked by the separate runs, Diana, sleeping outside since the rain had stopped, opened one eye, then both eyes, sitting up with a start.
She opened her mouth, but Inky dropped her apple and quickly pleaded, “Don’t. It will set everyone crazy.”
Diana walked to the fence. “You’re the black fox—“
“You stuck your nose into my den. I’ve come for an apple and I’ll be on my way. I didn’t even go near the chicken coop. All’s well.”
“You know if I were out of here I’d chase you to the James River,” Diana bragged.
“Ha. I’d run circles around you and you wouldn’t even know it.”
Diana cocked her head to one side. “I love the chase. Do you?”
“For about fifteen minutes. Then I have better things to do. The reds like it more than we grays, I think.”
“This is my first season. I guess I’ll find that out.” Diana blinked and lowered her head to be closer to the fox. “I’ve been doing okay with cubbing, though, and last year, when I was a puppy, Shaker and Sister walked us every day and sometimes they laid down scent to help us. I think I know what to do if I can concentrate. I lose my concentration sometimes.”
“This is my first year, too, so I only know what my parents have told me and cubbing . . . I like cubbing. It was funny when you stuck your nose in the den. My brother wanted to bite you. He’s like that.” Inky giggled.
“Glad he didn’t. My nose is very sensitive.”
Golly backed down the apple tree. She sauntered toward the kennel.
“I’d better go. She gave me a fair warning.”
Diana pricked up her ears. “Golliwog can be very fierce. She scares me.”
“You know we will all be leaving our dens in a few weeks. Right about the time of opening hunt. There will be good runs then. You’ll have fun. My dad says opening hunt is like a three-ring circus. I’m going to climb a tree and watch.”
“Where will you go?”
“Already found my place. On the other side of Broad Creek. There’s so much corn and game, my father said it’s all right to live close. He said if hard times come then I might have to push on.”
“I’m nervous about opening hunt,” Diana confessed.
“Stay away from the people. And if you’re on Target, the huge red with lots of white tip, be real careful. He’s very smart. My father says he’s incredibly smart but cruel. Target will try to lead you to your death. His son, Reynard, can be cruel, too.” Diana shuddered so Inky added, “Stick to a hound that knows what she’s doing. You’ll be safe then.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll wave if you go by.” Inky giggled again, then picked up her apple and skedaddled, for Golly was bearing down on her, picking up speed.
The imposing calico stopped. “Diana, you’re loose as ashes. You can’t believe one word from a fox’s mouth.”
Diana dropped her head. “Yes, ma’am.”
Satisfied that she had imparted wisdom as well as put that lower life-form, the hound, in her place, Golly strolled, tail swaying to and fro, back to the main house. The night was too damp for her. She was going in the house to snuggle up next to Sister, who was sound asleep. She might clean off her muddy paws and then again she might not. Walking across the old Persian carpets so prized by Sister would get the mud off fast enough.
CHAPTER 12
A stiff tiger trap, cut logs shining in the morning mist, like giant’s teeth, slowed Dragon for a moment as he scrambled over, the pack ahead of him. The tiger trap jump, like a coop but with vertical logs, often backed off riders. Sidetracked by an unfamiliar smell, Dragon snapped to when he heard Cora’s authoritative call.
Twenty couple hounds, forty individuals, had been carried in their special trailer to Beveridge Hundred, an old plantation five miles west of Sister’s house as the crow flies.
But today it wasn’t the crow flying, it was the hounds. Shaker cast them in the classic triangle cast. Sending hounds on their mission was truly like a fisherman casting his net. Hence, the term “cast.” Most huntsmen threw their hounds straight into the wind, figuring the scent would carry and they’d be off in a hurry. That was a better idea for flat country than for the hills, ravines, pastures, and deep creeks of Jefferson Hunt territory. Shaker liked to give his hounds about fifteen minutes to settle; then he’d cut the corner and move up the side of the triangle into the wind. He planned his hunt and hunted his plan, always dividing the territory to be hunted into a series of triangles.
The pack struck quickly, running straight. Their quarry ran perhaps seven to ten minutes ahead. The scent held on the still-wet earth. The light shone scarlet as the sun’s rim loomed over the horizon.