Walter rode next to Jason in the rear.
It was truly dawning on Jason that he hadn’t just offended Sister and Shaker; he’d pissed off the whole club.
Dragon, impatient, drifted toward Nola’s and Peppermint’s graves.
“Dragon,” Betty reprimanded him in a low tone.
“Bother,” he sassed, but he did rejoin the pack.
Sister and Shaker discussed the first cast the night before a hunt and reviewed it in the morning, often changing it when they reached the fixture, since winds and temperature might change.
The temperature had bounced up four degrees to thirty-four degrees Fahrenheit. After All was subject to the same northwest winds as Roughneck Farm. As the day wore on, the mercury might rise or fall, depending on whether a front was scudding in from the northwest, bringing a taste of Canada with it. While Sister checked thermometers and the Weather Channel, ultimately she relied on her bones.
Cora ignored Dragon, pushing by his side in the pale gray light.
At the stone wall around the graveyard, Dragon stopped. The pack put their noses down even though Shaker had yet to cast them.
The huntsman wisely worked with his hounds instead of insisting they stick to his program, which was to move into the woods and hunt east.
Tight pawprints were visible, now beginning to be covered by the lazy flakes falling on Nola’s grave.
Doughboy, a second-year entry who had been a little slower to catch on than his littermates, leaped over the low wall, nose to the pawprints.
At Nola’s grave, he said, “Charlene.”
In an instant, all the hounds opened, jumping into the little graveyard, then out the other side. Apart from being exciting for the humans, finding the line was a confidence builder for tricolor Doughboy.
Betty stayed parallel on the eastern side of the creek.
Sybil had faded off to the left, though she was still in sight on the undulating snow-covered pasture.
Charlene, shopping, had been walking along the creek heading back to her den when she heard the pack. Given the conditions, she didn’t dally hitting full speed.
The hounds moved faster as Charlene’s scent grew stronger.
Only the fox understands scent. Humans try to intellectualize it. They conduct experiments with barometers, moisture in the air, time of day, season, and moon phase. Hounds smell it and know what to do with it, but only the fox knows the good days, the bad days, and the in-between days.
This was a good day, so Charlene hurried on, her distinctive odor lifting up slightly.
Charlene, only a half mile from her den, ran up a fallen tree trunk, then dropped down. Lichens, running cedar, and other plants useful in foiling scent were covered with snow. She had to rely on speed today as well as using whatever obstacles presented themselves. Being forty-five pounds lighter than the hounds worked to her advantage.
She sped through the woods, the wide bridle path serving her well. Hearing hounds come closer, Charlene darted to a gopher hole, paused for a split second, then flew onward.
Trident reached the gopher hole just as the disturbed but slothful animal popped his head out.
“Beg pardon.” Trident sat down on his haunches.
“Leave him,” Diana ordered the second-year entry. “Just an old gopher.”
As the hounds moved away from him the gopher remarked, “I am not old. I just look old, and I’ve got rodent teeth. I can make a hole in you if I want to!”
Delia, older, solid as a rock, was bringing up the rear just as the gopher revealed his long teeth. “Terrified,” she laughed as she zoomed by him.
“Hateful canines.” The gopher watched the humans fly by, then added, “Another useless species.”
As Charlene ran the snow turned into sleet. Although the temperature rose four more degrees, the rain felt colder than the snow.
Sister was glad she’d put rubber reins on Aztec’s bridle. Strictly speaking, since she used a snaffle bit, she should have had lace reins but those rules had been formulated for hunting over the English countryside. The Virginia countryside was much wilder than most of England, the weather much more harsh, with great temperature swings between summer and winter. Some allowances needed to be made, and Sister, a stickler for tradition, knew when to make them.
The hanging tails on her hunt cap sprayed sleet.
Charlene scrambled over a snow-dappled stone fence. She dropped down as the land sank into a long wide plateau, six feet above the feeder creek into Broad Creek, aptly named. She ducked into her den under a mighty walnut tree.
Hounds put her to ground, but they didn’t bay in triumph, for Dragon raised his head and moved off toward the creek just as Shaker leaped over the stone fence.
“Coyote!” Dragon bellowed for them to follow the scorching, heavy scent.
Hounds flew straight as an arrow, launching off the bank down into Broad Creek.
Sister trotted downstream to look for a better crossing. A narrow deer trail snaked down the bank at a forty-five-degree angle. It would be slippery, but it was still better than jumping down five feet into a rock-bottomed creek.
Tootie, behind Sister, sat back as she’d seen the old foxhunters do. This was no time for a pretty position. She moved her leg forward of the girth for extra insurance.
Once in the fast-moving water, Aztec picked his way over the large stones. He scrambled out on the opposite side, where ice crystals coated the bank. The deer trail climbing at a forty-five-degree angle was manageable. With care, master and horse achieved the top.
One by one the riders climbed up over the bank, but each horse brought down a bit of earth until the last rider, Lorraine, with Bobby leading her, struggled through the worst footing.
When she had made it, Bobby whispered, “Well done.”
Lorraine was learning. The encouragement brought a big smile to her face.
The straight-running coyote took no evasive action but just turned on more speed. While a fox is preferable, coyote is legitimate game.
A warm wind current, a rising tunnel of air, caressed Sister’s face. Five big strides, and she was once again in crisp air. Now even she could catch snippets of scent: oily, heavy, lacking the sharp musky fox odor, which when one grows accustomed to it is almost pleasant.
A simple coop lay ahead, the base half covered by snow blown against it.
Aztec thought about it for one moment, heard, “Go on,” and did just that. He trusted Sister. She trusted him.
Hounds, running hard, barreled through abandoned pastures and across rutted farm roads, ever straight, ever eastwards. The pastures, snow covered, rolled on. As the whole pack moved farther along, the land became better tended.
After a half hour of slipping here and there, sleet stinging, Sister and the field galloped onto the old Lorillard land.
Hounds headed right for the family plot, which, like most graveyards predating the Revolution, was squared off and protected by a two-foot stone fence, each stone dry-set by hand in the 1750s. Occasionally patched, the stone bore testimony to endurance and beauty even as the graveyard contents announced the fleetingness of life.
Hounds, bearing down on the graveyard, could not see over the fence. Shaker saw it first, then Sister and the field.
Uncle Yancy and a large dog coyote were snarling at one another.
Shaker blew the horn. The coyote still threatened Yancy, but the fox, knowing there was no time to make a run for it, climbed the pin oak in the graveyard.
Folks swear that only gray foxes climb, but reds can do it. Sister had seen it before and wasn’t surprised to see it now. But she was surprised to see the coyote pause for a moment and dig down again, then decide he’d better run on.
Coyotes usually run only as fast as needed. This one underestimated Dragon’s speed. Dragon came alongside, snarled, and bumped him. That fast the coyote turned, sank his fangs into the hound, and leaped sideways to avoid Cora, who was a split second behind Dragon. He then put on the afterburners. The pack had been running hard for a half hour. Besides, they’d been out for another forty-five minutes above that. Fresh, the coyote had the advantage, but the Jefferson Hunt hounds possessed unquenchable drive. They snapped close to his heels. He charged up a slope, crossed a meadow where soil was poor, dropped down the embankment on the eastern side, and disappeared into a large jagged rock outcropping. The pack gathered in front of the narrow opening between two huge boulders.