Outfoxed

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Wonder why Butch was so cooperative?” Charlene was suspicious.

  Target puffed out his white chest. “Can’t cut the mustard.”

  “The original plan was we’d share the day. We’d start and they’d finish.”

  “He was glad to bow out, my dear. He’s lazy as sin and probably, although he wouldn’t admit it, he knows he’s not in our league. He’ll have other hunts.”

  “M-m-m,” was all Charlene said.

  Aunt Netty, Uncle Yancy, Charlie, Grace, and Patsy each knew the plan. Within a half hour they’d leave home to go to their various destinations.

  The plan was for Target to start the day. A cornfield was in the bottomland on Sister Jane’s side of Hangman’s Ridge.

  Shaker would surely cast there. It was easy and a mere quarter mile from the top of the ridge, where the field would gather. Target would trot out the back side of the corn so everyone could see him; then he’d run around the base of the ridge leading them north-northeast. He’d jump over the coop that Fontaine had smashed so again everyone could admire him. After two miles he’d drop into the creek and slip into Aunt Netty’s den; one opening was in the creek bed. Aunt Netty would cross onto the other side of the creek after she walked over the last fifty yards of Target’s tracks. She would veer into the creek, making certain to walk across the large fallen tree. The hounds would go to the tree trunk and not the den. As soon as Aunt Netty was sure they’d picked up her scent she was to run through the woods into the meadows on the back side. Her run would be about two and a half miles, since Netty was the fastest fox around. The tricky part would be stopping short of Soldier Road, doubling back on her own tracks, then heading back toward Hangman’s Ridge in a large loop. She would only double on her own tracks for two hundred yards, maybe three hundred, depending on how fast the hounds were behind her. At the abandoned moonshine still she would jump into the burrow in the middle of the still and Grace, almost as fast as Netty, would take over. Being young, Grace was only to run a half mile back into the cornfield where the cast was first made. Then Uncle Yancy, deep in experience, would fly out of the field, up, straight up the ridge and straight to the hanging tree. He’d wait a bit, then run down the ridge on the other side, stopping at the tree line if the hounds were too close. A lovely old gopher hole was right at the fence post and Yancy had connected it underground to the base of a walnut. Yancy, shrewd, had so many entrances and exits, some almost impossible to see, that he could sit in there with three hundred hounds outside. They’d never figure it all out.

  About one hundred yards from that point, Patsy was to lead the field back to Sister’s house. The interesting part about this section of the run was that hounds and horses would have been moving along, in some places at speed, for a good five miles. That ought to separate the wheat from the chaff. But this section would test the intelligence of the hounds. They’d be charged up. They’d lose the scent. Uncle Yancy had asked a skunk friend to spray about ten yards from his fence post entrance. That would confuse hounds. Skunk scent would cover fox scent and just about any other scent. So the hounds would need to cast themselves, searching for the line. Even if a few managed to push through the stinging skunk scent to the fence post entrance, they couldn’t do much about it. Digging wouldn’t bring them much, plus the entrance would be covered in skunk scent, too. Yancy made sure of that.

  It might take the pack ten to fifteen minutes to pick up the new line thanks to the little traps he had laid for them. This would be quite a test. It would help him understand how good the pack was this year. After all, even though Americans no longer hunted to kill, a fox couldn’t be too careful and the American foxhound was blindingly fast, much faster than the English foxhound. What if Shaker blew them back and the hounds didn’t return to him? That damned young hound chasing Target got his comeuppance but what if he’d been on one of the young foxes? They might not have been so clever. It was one thing to be born bright; experience still counted for much.

  He was pleased with the battle plan that they’d all worked on. It would thin out the ranks of all the creatures, especially the humans.

  He expected many a good laugh as the woods and fields became littered with humans taking an involuntary dismount.

  Patsy, a bright red, would show herself at Sister’s front door and then disappear. A large earth had been dug under Sister’s front porch. Even if the hounds could get under the porch, they’d wreck the boxwoods and Shaker would have to call them off.

  The reds, for years, had been digging earths all around the house and the outbuildings and down by the strong running creek at the bottom of the back field.

  They liked to observe the hounds and the staff. One needed to study one’s quarry.

  Over at Butch’s den, the whole family had gathered.

  “Why did you agree to that? Why give the reds all the fun?” Comet was furious.

  “I said we wouldn’t interfere with their program.” Butch licked his front paw. “I didn’t say we couldn’t go out and watch. Besides, there’s a whole hunt season before us. Who knows, we might need Target’s cooperation.”

  “Let the reds do all the work. We can learn this pack from them,” their mother advised.

  “But you’ve known this hunt forever,” Comet whined. “What’s to learn? We should be out there.”

  “Box of rocks.” Butch cuffed his son. “Hounds grow old and die. Young ones take their place. The pack changes like seasons. Sister Jane can breed for more speed, too. And never underestimate a hound. They’re intelligent. Not as intelligent as we are but intelligent. Climb a tree where the coop is, the smashed coop. You can see the pack coming from the cornfield across the pastures over the coop and into the woods. We’ll find out how fast they find, if Cora is still the strike hound and if Archie is still the anchor.”

  “You go. I’m going to Netty’s den,” he mouthed off. “Let’s see how they work in water but if I feel like it, maybe I’ll just mislead all of them.”

  “You do and you’ll be one dead fox,” Buster spat. “Not only will the reds not help you if needs be, I won’t either.”

  “The reds are a bunch of snots.”

  “Hey, I didn’t say I liked them. But there are times when we need one another. You do as I say!”

  Inky, silent, would do as her father told her. She was anxious to see how Diana did on her big day. She hoped her friend would be impressive because she’d heard that hounds could get drafted out. They weren’t always bad hounds but they didn’t fit in with that pack. She liked Diana and was very grateful for the hound’s help. She didn’t tell anyone. She knew better.

  The grays left their den, the distance to the cornfield and pasture being about a mile and a half.

  “Dad,” Inky whispered as they reached a large rock outcropping, “when’s the last time a fox died?”

  “Hunting?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Six years ago an old red, Herschel, got shingles. Gave the hounds a heck of a chase and then when he reached his den he sat on the outside of it. He knew he had to die, you see, so he chose a swift death. He was a brave fox, Herschel, and he didn’t deserve to get shingles. For a red, I liked him fine.”

  A huge shape overhead startled them, so silent was the approach. Athena, the two-foot owl, was returning to her nest after a successful night.

  “You’ll miss opening hunt,” Comet called up to her.

  She circled them and said in a low chortle, “To ride well is the mark of a gentleman. To ride too well is the mark of a misspent life.” Then she vanished as silently as she’d appeared.

  CHAPTER 35

  Raleigh and Golly sat side by side at the kitchen window. Hounds, sterns up, eyes bright, walked behind Shaker. Doug, riding Rickyroo, walked in front of the hounds at a leisurely pace. Betty Franklin and Outlaw took the left flank. Cody took the right. Jennifer, a good rider, rode with her father, which pleased him.

  As they rode off, light streaming in from the east, Golly said, “I’m glad I�
�m not a pack animal.”

  “Me, too,” came the dry reply.

  Golly, sitting on the window ledge and therefore eye to eye with the handsome Doberman, replied by curling her upper lip and emitting the smallest of hisses. Raleigh just laughed.

  An old farm road snaked up to the top of Hangman’s Ridge. The pack reached this ten minutes after leaving the kennels. At the foot of the ridge, in the flat meadow once used for growing soybeans, trailers were bumper to bumper. People came from neighboring hunts wearing the individual colors of their hunts. Each rider from another hunt had called Sister to request permission to wear their hunt’s distinctive colors. Sister always gave that permission although some masters did not. In that case riders had to wear black coats and boots with no cuffs.

  People came to follow on foot. It was going to be a big day thanks in part to the gorgeous weather—good for humans, not so good for scent.

  As Sister rode by, men tipped their caps, top hats, and derbies. Ladies called out, “Good morning, Master,” as was proper. Ground followers also doffed their hats or waved. Lisa Bredell, Tinsley Wetherford Papandros, Isabel Rogers all mingled around, dying to find something to bitch and moan about. Each woman wore the perfect outdoor ensemble. Peter Wheeler sat on his truck like an elderly, beloved pasha holding court. When the hunt climbed the ridge his best friend, Granby Vann, a distant relative of Georgia Vann’s, hunting in a frock today, would drive Peter up. From the vantage point of the ridge they would be able to see much of the hunt. Most of the foot followers would stay high also.

  Each horse, braided, hooves painted, tail plaited, felt the excitement. Their coats, especially the chestnuts’, caught the morning light, a thousand copper sparkles, whereas the dark grays gleamed like black diamonds. Dappled grays, flea-bitten grays, light grays, almost white, vied with blood bays, light bays, seal browns, and a few paints as to who was the best-looking horse that morning.

  Children, barely able to breathe with anticipation, mounted their ponies. Adults heaved themselves up, the older and wiser ones bringing mounting blocks. Once up, a friend on the ground gave their boots a last-minute flick of the towel.

  On they rode, up the hill, a pageant timeless in beauty, a passion older than the walls of Troy.

  “Hold up,” Shaker gently spoke to his hounds.

  Thirty couple, tricolor, medium-height American hounds carrying sculpted heads looked up at the huntsman and then back to the master.

  “What beautiful children,” Sister said, beaming.

  As the humans gathered round the hanging tree, Sister counted heads: 92 mounted and perhaps 130 on the ground. She couldn’t be sure, as more were climbing the hill. Thank god she’d ordered twelve cases of champagne for the breakfast, plus the usual bar. She laughed to herself because some of these people would rush to the bar with a siphon. How they lived to middle age or beyond amazed her.

  Walter Lungrun was perfectly turned out. She smiled at him and he tipped his cap.

  Fontaine wore a black weaselbelly, since he knew Sister loved the look. His white cords were set off even more by the rich, black coat. His top hat, smoothed and brushed, suited him.

  Crawford wore a scarlet swallowtail with a white vest and his top hat was also perfect, with a scarlet cord attached to his coat. Men would kill for that scarlet cord, as they searched years for them. Most had to make do with a black hat cord, which strictly speaking was not proper. There was Crawford, his hat cord correctly in place, his boots direct from Lobb in London, costing him somewhere between $5,000 and $6,000, depending on the exchange rate. Everyone else got along with Dehners or Vogels, not cheap but at least under $1,000. But there was Crawford in the best boots money could buy in the world. His gloves, handmade by a glover also in London, were composed of more than thirty pieces of leather, matched, stitched so that he couldn’t feel the seams. No one in America even knew how to make such gloves anymore. His breeches, his shirt, his stock tie—all bespoke his wealth and, in his favor, his taste.

  Martha, wearing a deep navy frock coat made by hand in Hospital, Ireland, surely was the best turned out of the ladies. Like her ex, everything on her body had been made expressly for her. Ravishing, she smiled both because she knew she looked good and because Crawford was courting her as though they were young again.

  Once Peter Wheeler was in place, Sister stood in her stirrups. “Gather round.” As they moved up closer she looked at each person, acknowledging their presence. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here today. This is the one hundred and twenty-first time that the Jefferson Hunt has gone out, save for 1917 and 1918. We are thankful to be here yet again. I know of no sport as exciting. I know of no people quite as brave, occasionally foolish, and always gallant as foxhunters. The words ‘gallant,’ ‘glory,’ and ‘honor’ seem to have disappeared from our language and certainly from our behavior. Foxhunters may be the only people left who understand and live by those words. We are the last humans to practice chivalry. Therefore we wish our quarry a good day and may we never catch him. We wish our hounds a good day’s sport and we thank our horses for their spirit and their patience with us. I wish each of you a splendid day, a day you will forever remember with happiness and pride.” She paused. “Hilltoppers ride with Bobby Franklin. Field, come with me. Huntsman.” She nodded to Shaker, who placed his cap on his head, ribbons streaming down, as were Sister’s.

  “Hounds ready?” Shaker asked.

  “Yes!”

  Smiling, Shaker rode down the side path of the ridge to the cornfield.

  Crawford’s horse, Czapaka, hopped around a bit, as did others.

  “I am the best-looking horse here,” Czapaka bragged.

  “Shut up, asshole,” Cochise, Martha’s tough leopard Appaloosa, ordered.

  Clemson, not the prettiest of horses but one of the wisest, Walter on board, simply said, “You have yet to finish a hunt the way you started it, buddy.”

  The humans chattered, too, until they reached the bottom of the ridge, the cornfield beckoning.

  The field halted. Doug was already on the far side, the north side of the cornfield. Betty took the left side but farther away, halfway up the ridge on the trail. Cody stayed in the meadows but was near the fence line.

  “He’s in there.” Shaker’s voice encouraged the hounds. He lifted the horn, blowing a few notes.

  “Yahoo!” Dragon plunged right in.

  “You’re still wet behind the ears. You stay behind me,” Cora growled as she sped past him, the drying corn leaves rattling as she brushed them.

  No sooner were all the hounds in the corn than Target trotted out the north side. Doug saw him, removed his cap, and pointed his cap and Rickyroo in the direction that the enormous red was traveling.

  Not satisfied with being viewed by the first whip, Target moved away from the corn and brazenly sat down in the field.

  A child in the rear of the field screamed, “The fox.” His mother, mortified, reached down, putting her hand over his mouth. “Sh-h-h. He’s too close to tallyho.”

  By now the field had spied him. Happy with this, Target trotted away until Cora burst out of the other side of the cornfield, her lovely voice booming.

  Archie, anchoring and still in the corn, replied, “I’m behind. Go on, Cora.”

  “It’s him. It’s him.” Dasher was so excited, his nostrils full of hot, fresh fox scent, that he yipped like a puppy.

  Target, about two hundred yards ahead of the strike hound, put on the afterburners. He scorched the meadow, jumped Fontaine’s coop, to the thrill of the field and the foot followers on the ridge. Then he ran hard through the woods.

  The field followed Sister, surprised at the fast pace, for she didn’t think scent would be good but then she didn’t think they’d jump a fox and stay so close either.

  Lafayette, smooth and always balanced, arced over Fontaine’s coop. Most everyone made it and those few who didn’t cursed under their breath, rode to the rear, and hoped to boot their horses over. Everyone did but on
e poor little lady, a picture of frustration. She gave up and joined Bobby Franklin as he leaned over to flip up the kiwi gate latch.

  The music carried up to the ridge. Peter Wheeler stood on the back of his pickup and kept repeating, “Can you beat that? Can you beat that? Biggest damn red I ever saw in my life!”

  Sitting atop the hanging tree, St. Just also watched everything. Usually he flew low over the red fox, cawing loudly for the hounds to close the gap. His jet-black feathers shone iridescent, his deep-yellow beak opened and closed, revealing his tongue, but he made little noise.

  Target charged straight for Aunt Netty’s den. He lingered a bit too long in the field, showing off, and he needed to widen the gap between himself and Cora. He glanced back, seeing Dragon running neck and neck with Cora.

  “I hate that hound,” he thought to himself, wishing the snake had killed Dragon.

  Target ran through a rotted log knowing that would slow Cora and Dragon for a moment. Dasher, Diana, and other hounds were only a few paces behind the lead hounds.

  This gave him just enough time to warn Aunt Netty as she reposed on the log fallen across the creek.

  “Netty, go on now. They’re too close!”

  She scrambled up the other side of the bank and headed off at a burning clip. Target ran halfway across the log, then jumped into the water. This was a slight variation on the plan but the only way to keep the hounds from the mouth of the den. He swam down the creek, then climbed up the bank into the opening.

  As planned, the hounds, noses to the ground, streaked across the fallen log.

  Blinding speed had served the slender, cagey Netty all her days. She put further distance between herself and the hounds as she zigzagged through the woods, emerging onto the back meadows still deep green.