Diana put her sensitive nose down, moving away from the rotted log.
As they moved slowly, their tails, called sterns, were held upright.
Douglas, a bit ahead, peered down over the western side of Whiskey Ridge to the creek below, swollen with rain, high and swiftly rolling. Crossing it would be difficult.
Jennifer, inexperienced, impatient, pushed the hounds up too much from the rear.
Sister and Cody rode up to her. Cody was on Motorboat, happy to be out.
“Jennifer, let them work. They aren’t strung out.” Sister pointed to the pack carefully making good the ground, working well together.
“I’m sorry.”
“Honey, that’s how we learn.” Sister stopped and waited as Jennifer moved on at a walk. She listened intently, hearing only the patter of raindrops on leaves beginning to turn colors. She heard Lafayette’s and Motorboat’s breathing.
Cody, a fine rider, sat the thoroughbred–quarter horse cross with that grace so peculiar to her. She knew better than to talk when hounds were cast.
Sister turned to her and smiled as if to say, “That kind of day and I’m glad you’re here.”
Sister especially enjoyed the people who turned out regardless of conditions. Over the years they’d become her family, since her blood relations and her two Raymonds had died.
Archie, deeper in the woods, conferred with Cora: “Distinguishable but . . . ?”
“It’s all we’ve got and most likely all we’re going to get. You do the honors.” Cora confirmed his thoughts.
Archie lifted his head, wiggled his tail a bit. “Come along.”
“Old line,” Cora added in her distinctive contralto.
The other hounds called out in turn and then together, loping along behind Cora and Archie, who moved forward. If scent had been hot, Archie would have taken his usual position a bit like a safety in football, a defensive position. A hot scent even a puppy can find and make good but a scent such as this, fading fast yet distinguishable on the moss and underbrush, demanded a professional.
Archie and Cora worked side by side, running a few steps, then slowing to check and double-check. It would never do to overrun such a pathetic little trail.
Dragon, bored with the pace, decided he could do better off on the right. Besides, maybe he’d pick up something more potent. He had no sooner shot off about two hundred yards than a loud crack pierced the beating rain.
“Leave it!” Betty commanded, flicking her whip out one more time for effect. The crack worked like magic. It usually wasn’t necessary to touch the hound.
He scooted back to the pack.
“Settle, boy, because if you don’t, you’re going to get yourself in trouble and some of us, too,” Cora growled at him.
Dragon said nothing but ran alongside Dasher, his litter mate, who showed promise but could be easily influenced by his brother.
“Dragon, come up with me.” Archie curled his lip slightly.
A cowed Dragon did as he was told. The work was difficult and patience wasn’t one of his virtues, but Archie had grabbed him by the neck, throwing him down hard in the kennels after Tuesday’s hunt. He feared Archie, as would any hound with a grain of sense.
Sister and Cody trotted through the woods, the hounds in sight but well in front of them. Sister picked up the pace and soon was right behind Jennifer, who was right behind the hounds.
The hounds swung out in a big circle. Moving back to the tobacco barn and then picking up speed, they shot across Soldier Road and onto the low, broad, and long meadow between the two ridges. The great tree, enshrouded as though in a silver winding sheet, commanded Hangman’s Ridge.
They popped over a coop in the fence line and then headed toward the coop that Sister and Shaker had repaired—Fontaine’s coop, as they now thought of it. Once over that obstacle they continued at a trot through the thick woods.
The hounds moved faster.
“Fools.” Butch heard the hounds in the distance from the safety of his den.
“Should I give them a run?”
“Just because they’re dumb enough to get soaked doesn’t mean you should.” Butch scowled at his son, Comet.
“But they have to go out,” Inky half said, half questioned. “It’s their job.”
“Which is exactly why we aren’t domesticated. Domestication is for weak hearts. You can’t do what you want when you want; you have to do what the human tells you. I hear, though, that the food is quite good.”
“And good medical benefits, too,” his wife, Mary Vey, added. She paused a moment. “They’re getting closer.”
“Following my old trail. Well, let’s give them something to talk about back in the kennel. Damned if I want them digging out our main entrance.” He grabbed a fresh chicken wing, feathers still on. “Comet, get the rest.”
The two males, mouths full of pieces of chicken, walked out the oval entrance to their den.
“Want me to drop them?”
“Throw them all around.” Butch dropped bones, feathers, a cock’s comb, and a neck in a wide semicircle around the den entrance.
They casually sauntered back into their snug quarters with four escape routes, one of which hung over Broad Creek, as hounds drew closer.
The pack in full cry charged upon Butch’s den within seven minutes.
“Chicken!” Dragon squealed as he grabbed the feathered wing.
“My favorite,” yelped another hound.
Archie, with difficulty, resisted the temptation to grab a piece of chicken. He headed instead to the den opening, cocked his head to listen.
Cora joined him. “I know they’re in there and they’ll burst out laughing the minute we leave.”
“You’re right,” Butch sang out to taunt her.
Archie turned to exhort the rest of the pack to start digging even though he knew he was sitting over tunnels and other escape routes. But it was too late. Shaker Crown was upon them.
“Leave it!” he bellowed. He then blew three successive short and sharp toots on his horn, which was his signal that he wanted his whips in immediately. Jennifer came up from behind, Douglas galloped up, and Betty rode in from her position.
Without a word, the mother and younger daughter dismounted, rushing toward the hounds as Sister and Cody trotted up. They, too, dismounted, each human grabbing a hound and pulling the chicken out of its mouth or even reaching into the mouth to pry out the bones.
They knew that chicken bones could splinter in a hound’s intestine.
Fifteen minutes of frantic work removed the danger.
Humans and hounds, muddy, stared at one another.
Shaker, voice low and stern, chastised them: “How could you? Archie and Cora were the only two hounds doing their job.” He turned on his heel and mounted up. The hounds, heads hanging, were both mortified and enraged, since they could hear the tittering in the den.
Sister walked over to the den. “Gray. This den has been occupied by grays since I first hunted this territory as a child. Maybe I ought to come back out here and drop them a fixture card.”
“They know the schedule.” Betty laughed.
Douglas swung onto the saddle. “They do know.”
“I expect they do.” Sister turned to Lafayette, leading him to a log. She stepped on the log, then lifted up lightly as everyone mounted up. “Well, let’s call it a day.”
Shaker quietly said, “Come along, hounds.”
As the small band rode away, Diana, drawn by an overpowering curiosity, snuck back to the den.