Patsy dashed into the creek, ran two hundred yards, then crossed back into the cornfield by tiptoeing across a log fallen over the farm road. She figured this would keep her scent high and she was right.
Even when Cora figured out where the red vixen had exited the creek she couldn’t get high enough to smell the top of the downed sycamore.
The check lasted five minutes, which helped the field. Sister counted heads. She’d started with sixty-nine and was down to sixty-two. Jennifer stayed just behind Crawford and Martha. Sister winked at her.
People reached down, feeling their girths. A few tightened them. Many reached for their flasks. Nothing like refreshment or what some members called Dutch courage.
“I’ve got a line all right but it’s a different fox,” Diana remarked to her steadier brother, Dasher.
The rest of the pack trotted over to her. They checked it out.
“I can’t pick up Patsy. She’s slipped us somehow, so we might as well go on this. Target, I’d say.” Cora thought a moment. “Just so you young ones know, it’s always better to stay on the hunted fox but Patsy’s given us the slip, so—it’s Thanksgiving hunt; let’s put on a show.”
“Follow me,” St. Just cawed overhead.
“Keep your nose to the ground. I’ll keep an eye on St. Just,” Cora commanded them.
“He hates Target. We can trust him,” Dragon said.
“Oh yes, and he’ll run us all into an oncoming truck as long as it takes Target, too. Trust your senses and me before you trust him,” Cora loudly told all of them. “Now come on. Scent is holding.”
Hounds moved along the creek, then drifted away into woods through some thick underbrush while Sister and the field kept on the edges, crowding along a deer trail.
Sister could see Betty, since leaves had fallen off the trees in the blizzard. Betty moved along; Outlaw’s ears pricked forward, since he could hear the hounds better than she. She let him pick the way.
Hounds burst out of the thicket, hustled along the deer path, then loped into a neatly clipped hay field, a stupendous one hundred acres of rolling land.
The temperature rose slightly; the tops of the grass blades swayed, the frost turning to water, the wind gentle but insistent from the west.
Hounds, in full cry, stretching out to their full length, flew across those one hundred acres in the blink of an eye. Cody was on the right border of the field; her mother was on the left; Doug was ahead, where the edge of the beautiful fields rolled into another farm road, cutover acres on the other side. Shaker stayed with his hounds, a wide grin on his face, his seat relaxed in the saddle. He could have been sitting in a rocking chair.
Target, just out of sight, headed straight through the cutover acres, making certain to make use of any toppled timbers. He knew the hounds could move through them easily but the debris would slow the field.
By the time Sister, first flight, and then Bobby with the hilltoppers picked their way through the cutover acres, Target curved back, running parallel to the fence line along the hay fields. Halfway down the fence line he climbed up on the top rail and sped along, jumping down at the corner, where he swerved across the creek-bottom fields, crossed the paved highway, and lightly trotted halfway up Hangman’s Ridge, where he surveyed the panorama from a monumental boulder jutting out from the ridge.
Cora led the way. Doug pulled up at the highway to slow traffic. As soon as Betty saw him she waved him on, for it was important for Doug to stay in front of the hounds. She took over the traffic cop job. Next came Shaker, the bulk of the pack before him, moving together in good order and on the scent, slowed somewhat by Target’s tricks, especially his jaunt along the fence. But Cora, wise, kept her nose to the ground until she found the spot where he’d launched off the fence.
One hundred and fifty yards behind Shaker rode Sister, Lafayette’s big stride effortlessly eating up the acres. The trailing ribbons on Sister’s cap danced in the breeze; her patent-leather-topped boots caught the light that pierced through the lifting silvery haze. Immediately behind her rode Martha Howard, a surprise to her as well as others as she moved right by them, but Martha, adrenaline banishing her normal fears, just this once wanted to ride in the master’s pocket. Behind her the others spread out, Crawford not far behind, since Czapaka, although not the fastest horse, had a big, comfortable stride. Jennifer was immediately behind Crawford. Walter Lungrun, relying on athletic ability more than skill, was behind them. The remainder of the field was spread out.
They jumped the post and rail near the highway, looked left and right, then sped across, jumped the double coops into the bottomlands, striking straight for Hangman’s Ridge.
By now the field had covered two and a half miles. Horses and humans were limbered up.
Target admired the sight before him. Then, mindful of Cora’s speed and that of the insufferable Dragon, he hopped off the boulder, cut down the side of the ridge, crossed the silvery hay field on the back side, dashing into the woods, making sure to scramble over Fontaine’s coop.
Once in the woods he put on the afterburners, streaking toward the tip of the ravine. He’d covered another mile in less than five minutes over uneven terrain. As he looked down into the ravine he considered how best to trouble the hounds.
Comet walked out of the woods. “Target, are you heading down?”
Target thought if the young gray had been human he would have rolled up a cigarette pack in his T-shirt sleeve. “Yes. You?”
“Thought I’d walk along the edge here and duck into those rocks at the end. I’ve been eating the corn trail. I didn’t expect hounds to get here so fast.” He indicated the large rock outcropping with the ledge looming out of sight at the far end of the ravine. Holly bushes and mountain laurel covered the folds of land leading water down to the creek below. Enormous oaks, hickories, and walnuts, spared from logging by their inaccessible location, gave the place a magical air. Chinquapins dotted the upper rim, their bundles resembling baby chestnuts, a light spiky green.
“Let’s make them crazy.” Target grinned. “See that den there?” He headed over to an abandoned groundhog den. “Let’s go in together. I’ll take the exit just under the edge of the ravine and you leave by the path heading back toward the hog’s back. The death jump.” Target added, “They’ll split for sure. That will make the whips work up a sweat. Ha. Sister laid the corn trail and she intends for the pack to split. A painful thing for a master, so you know it’s—vital.”
Eagerly both males zipped into the groundhog den, moving through the central living quarters.
Target sniffed. “Groundhogs have no sense of aesthetics.”
Comet didn’t reply. He thought the old den was fine although he’d have to pull out the old grass left behind.
At the fork underground, Target went left and Comet turned right.
“Good luck,” Comet called as he wriggled out into the pale sunlight, filtering through low clouds.
“Ditto,” the big red called back from the tunnel, his voice echoing. He emerged just under a pin oak, half of its roots clinging to the rim of the ravine, the other half securely in deep ground. Down he slithered, heading toward the creek. Comet, having the easier path but the more dangerous open one, ran hard to the hog’s back, flattened and crawled under, making sure to leave lots of scent under the jump, then he crawled out, barreled across the high meadow, ducked under the three-board fence at the back side to scramble over the moss-covered rock. Then, feeling devilish, instead of dipping into a den just below the flat rocks he made a big semicircle back into the same high meadow and headed across to the western woods on the other side, blew through those, entering the hay fields leading toward the kennels. He screeched to a halt at the kennel.
“Hey!”
Those hounds left behind, gyps in heat and puppies, lifted their ears. “What are you doing here?”
“You can’t get me.” He lifted back his head and laughed.
“Just you wait, Comet. Pride goeth before a fall,”
a pretty tricolor hound warned.
Raleigh—sneaking up behind Comet, Golly behind him—would have pounced except that Rooster, overexcited at the prospect of game larger than a rabbit, bounded past the shrewder animals.
Comet heard him, spun around, knew he had a split second, and he leapt sideways, narrowly escaping Rooster’s snapping jaws. He shot toward the chicken yard, a makeshift arrangement, as Sister hadn’t time to put chicken wire up over the top, a precaution against hawks, who were hell on chickens.
Comet climbed up over the wire on the side, dropping smack into the middle of Peter’s chickens.
“Fox! Fox! We’ll all be killed,” the chickens screamed, running around. The smarter ones hid under the henhouse.
Raleigh growled at Rooster, then ran over to the chicken coop.
Golly, ahead of the Doberman, climbed up the chicken wire. “You get out of there!”
Raleigh hollered, “Golly, don’t go in there!”
Golly glanced down. Comet’s open jaws awaited. “You’ve got a point there, Raleigh.”
Rooster, frenzied, was digging, trying to get under the fence.
“Leave it!” Raleigh commanded. “You won’t get in in time and the chickens, if any live, will get out.” Turning his attention to Comet, equally as trapped as the chickens, Raleigh reasoned with him. “If you kill those chickens, Sister will have a fit. Now let’s work together. You need to get out.”
“I don’t trust him,” Comet snarled at Rooster.
Golly wasn’t sure Rooster could be controlled under the circumstances. Back on the ground she leaned into Raleigh, who understood her wordless thoughts.
In the distance they heard hounds; then they heard silence.
Comet knew hounds would find scent soon enough but they weren’t where he thought they’d have to cast again. “I need to get out of here before the pack is here.”
“You’re in dangerous territory even if you do get out. Your one hope is to go under the porch.”
“You can’t let him go! You can’t.” Rooster was beside himself.
“I have an idea.” Golly spoke to Comet: “Stay here. We can’t get in. The hounds can’t get in. If you don’t kill one chicken, Sister will put hounds up and us, too. She’ll let you go. It’s better than taking a chance with Rooster.”
“No!” Rooster spun in circles of frustration.
“Calm down.” Raleigh’s deep throaty growl meant business. “You can hunt rabbits all you want but leave the fox alone.”
“But I’m a harrier. I can hunt foxes as well as those damned foxhounds.”
“I don’t doubt that but you’re not supposed to hunt foxes and besides, where would you be if Sister hadn’t brought you home? She doesn’t want any fox killed. This is no way to reward her. Peter would be upset if he knew you offended Sister.”
Rooster, anguished, lay down, putting both paws over his eyes. He moaned.
“Your word?”
“Yes.” Comet, full of corn, wouldn’t have killed a chicken anyway, but no point in spoiling his image.
Raleigh stood over the harrier. “I’m bigger, I’m stronger, and if you even twitch, I will tear you up.”
“And I’ll scratch your eyes out.” Golly puffed up to three times her size. Then she hissed at Comet. “You, too. Worthless carcass!” She was brave but sitting under Raleigh’s chest she was especially brave.
The gyps in heat, the household animals, and Comet listened as cry picked up, then stopped again.
“I thought they’d be halfway here by now,” Comet commented. “I wonder what’s going on?”
Back at the edge of the woods, the hounds hit a hot pocket, one of those swirls of air sometimes ten or more degrees hotter than the air around it. The scent, already over their heads, scattered. As the hounds cast themselves St. Just flew low overhead. He circled, then flew down just above their heads.
“Target’s in the ravine. Comet split off from him. You’ll have a split pack if you aren’t careful.”
Dragon, ready to roll, shouted to Cora, “Let’s follow the raven.”
“No. We pick up scent properly. We aren’t gallivanting across the county because of one raven’s revenge. Put your nose to the ground and get to work. Now!”
The check, that pause in hunting where hounds must again find scent, although unexpected, was near the ravine, a half mile away if one could move in a straight line, which one couldn’t.
Sister leaned over to Martha. “Will you take the field? I’m feeling punk.”
Thrilled to be given such responsibility, acting field master, Martha gushed, “I’d be glad to. Would you like someone to go back with you?”
“You know, I think if I walk back I’ll be fine and if I feel better I’ll find you. I must have eaten something that doesn’t agree with me.” Standing in her stirrups, Sister said, “Stay with Martha.” Then she rode across the meadow as though heading home. To her surprise, Walter Lungrun followed her.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
“Upset stomach. I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll escort you home. We’re close enough to go back to your place, don’t you think?”
“You rejoin the field. I’ll be fine, thank you.”
He hesitated. “It won’t take long. I can find them.”
It occurred to her that Walter might have killed Fontaine to revenge his father. She thought he was too smart to risk his career, his own life . . . but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have done it. Find a motive and you find the murderer. A thin ripple of fear shot through her. She shook it off. Even if he did have reason, she didn’t think he could ride well enough or knew enough about scent to lay a good drag. She was fluttery inside.
“I’m the master and I’m telling you to rejoin the field.”
“Yes, Master.” He obediently turned Clemson back toward the field, which was still waiting for hounds to find the line.
Sister walked across the creek meadows to the base of Hangman’s Ridge. She followed the base of the ridge until she was out of sight. She heard hounds strike again, moving across the creek meadows toward the woods. Once into the woods she turned back, squeezed Lafayette into a canter, skirted the meadow, jumping in at a stiff coop—three feet nine inches—used only by staff. This dropped her closer to the ravine. She dismounted, leading Lafayette to a sheltered overhang. Tying him to a low limb, she patted his neck. “Stay here, buddy, and stay silent.”
“Yes, but don’t leave me for long. It’s too good a day,” he pleaded.
She rubbed his head. “Silent, dear friend.” Then she used whatever cover she could find and slowly worked her way toward the rock outcroppings. She reached them in five minutes, slipping a few times. At the outcroppings she dropped down to the ledge, partially protected from view by holly bushes at the edge plus the low full limb of a fir tree. There she waited.
She heard hounds at the other edge of the ravine, the sound funneling down, then lifting up to her. She heard another check, another find, and she heard the pack split, the bulk moving away from her, a splinter group heading down into the ravine. Below her she saw Target, fat, glossy red, trotting down to the creek. Then he walked through the creek, crossing a bit above the rocky crossing where the envelope was tacked to the tree. To her amazement, Aunt Netty popped out of her den and Inky called from the tree she was perching in.
Target paused, barked something to Netty, then hearing the splinter group close in, he hurried up toward the rock outcroppings as Netty ducked back into the den, her nose still visible.
Low into the ravine flew St. Just, dive-bombing Target. And behind St. Just, closing fast was Dragon, three couple of young hounds racing with him.
“Kill him. Kill him,” St. Just screamed.
Hoofbeats thundered behind the rock outcropping. Sister shrank farther in, flat now against the rock. She prayed Lafayette, beautifully gray, wouldn’t catch the eye of the whip above her and he wouldn’t whinny to the horse. He didn’t.
Down into the ravin
e the whip rode and it wasn’t until she saw Keepsake that Sister knew it was Cody.
“What a gifted rider,” she thought to herself as Cody cracked her whip, trying to turn back Dragon.
St. Just dive-bombed Target again, so intent on his mission, the blue-black bird didn’t hear Athena overhead. She waited for St. Just to reach the bottom of his dive. Then with open talons she streamed down, raking the raven across the back.
Sister had never seen anything like it. The two birds climbed into the air and St. Just screamed at Athena, who silently flew to a high tree branch. St. Just swooped past her, then dove for Target again, who was climbing up toward the rock outcropping. Athena opened her wide wingspan, lifted off, again striking the raven, this time with her claws balled up. Black feathers flew and St. Just pulled off Target to face the huge owl. St. Just’s only weapon against his foe was speed. Athena’s size, wisdom, and famed ferocity ensured that only a fool would tangle with her.
By the time St. Just pulled away, turned in the air to strike again at the red fox, Target had reached the rock outcroppings, climbing to the ledge.
He froze when he saw Sister, then boldly ran right between her legs, ducking into the den behind her.
St. Just flew toward the den, squawking loudly. Cody, down at the creek crossing, would have seen Sister if she’d looked up but instead she was whipping off hounds and finally went to the ratshot to stop Dragon.
She fired.
“Ouch!” he yelped.
“Leave it!” She commanded. “Hold up,” she yelled at the other hounds, who were scared now.
Sister admired Cody’s whipping ability just as St. Just flew right in her face, screaming about Target. Athena struck again, knocking the raven sideways in the air. She scared Sister, who grabbed the fir limb.
Down below, Cody saw the envelope. She dismounted, holding the reins. She dropped the reins to reach the envelope.
As she did, Aunt Netty, who’d figured out the truth, stuck her head out of the den and taunted, “Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah!”
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