He lifted his head from his delicate paws. “Oh, bother.”
Bitsy, on her way home from a very successful night, screeched, “They’ll be fast, Uncle Yancy.”
“Ha! The foxhound isn’t born that can keep up with me.”
Bitsy landed on a low maple limb. “Pride goeth before a fall.”
He stretched as the sound grew closer. “Not pride. Simple fact. If you want a good time, fly with me as I send these young ones in the wrong direction. Might even unseat a few humans, too. Why any creature would want to totter around on two legs is beyond me.”
“That’s why they ride horses. Then they have four,” Bitsy sensibly concluded.
“I hadn’t thought of that. Of course, some of them can’t stay on those horses, now can they? A weak and vain species, the human, but a few are quite lovely. Oh well”—he shook himself—“let’s cause as much mayhem as possible.”
He left the rocks, walked down to Broad Creek, crossed it, then climbed out on the other side. He shook off the water.
“I’m telling you, Uncle Yancy, these young ones are fast.”
“Bitsy, they aren’t supposed to run in front of the pack. They’re supposed to run as a pack.”
“That’s what cubbing is for, to teach them. And I wouldn’t be so cocky if I were you. If St. Just is about, he’ll make trouble.”
St. Just, king of the crows, hated foxes, especially red foxes, because Target, Uncle Yancy’s brother, had killed his mate. St. Just swore revenge on the whole fox nation and he had led one young red to his death last year.
Finally heeding the little owl, Uncle Yancy started trotting east.
“It’s getting stronger!” Trudy yelped as she approached the rocks.
Sybil, up ahead, spied Uncle Yancy slipping through a thick stand of holly. “Tallyho!”
Yancy decided to run after that. He broke out of the holly, crossed an old rutted path, dove into a thick thorny underbrush, then slithered out of that and headed for the edge of the woods.
“Over here.” Dasher, a second-year dog hound, littermate to Diana, reached the edge of the creek the same time as Cora. He splashed across the creek, then began whining because he couldn’t pick up the scent.
“Don’t be a nincompoop!” Cora chided him. “Do you really think a fox is going to walk straight across a creek? You go left, I’ll go right. And who’s to say he didn’t double back? Trudy,” she called to the youngster, “you and your idiot brother work that side of the creek.”
While hounds searched for the scent, Sister and the field quietly waited on the rutted wagon road.
Crawford had just unscrewed the top of his silver flask when Dasher hollered, “Here.”
“Drat.” Crawford knocked back a hasty gulp, motioned for Marty to have a sip, which she declined. As they trotted off he screwed on the cap, its little silver hinge ensuring it wouldn’t fall off. Not a drop sloshed on him even though he’d filled it to the brim. He was quite proud of himself.
“Stronger!” Cora, again ahead, spoke in her light, pretty voice.
Bitsy flew back to watch the hounds, then took off again to give Yancy a progress report. “They just ran into the thorns.”
“Damn,” Yancy cursed. These hounds were faster than he thought.
He broke out of the woods and into the easternmost meadow of Roughneck Farm, which was filled with black-eyed Susans, Queen Anne’s lace, and cornflowers; it hadn’t been weeded or overseeded in years. Sister thought of it as her wildflower experiment and was loath to return it to timothy, alfalfa, or orchard grass.
A hog’s-back jump loomed in the fence line. Sister and Lafayette sailed over it as the pace was picking up. She saw Betty, up ahead, already flying over the spanking-new coop that marked the westernmost border of After All Farm.
“This fox is a devil,” she thought to herself.
The hounds, in full cry now, roared across the wildflower meadow. Even Trident was on, his concentration improving.
Walter Lungrun, riding Clemson, an older and wiser horse, steered clear of Crawford, whose horse, Czapaka, a big warm-blood, occasionally refused a jump when he’d had enough of Crawford sawing at the reins.
New coops, not having yet settled into the earth, looked bigger than normal. Fortunately, Tedi and Edward painted theirs black. Unpainted coops seemed to cause more trouble than painted ones. Sister never knew if the trouble was with the horses or with the people.
As she trusted Lafayette with her heart and soul, she didn’t give this jump a second thought, landing just as she heard Shaker double the notes on the horn.
They were close, close to their fox, who must have tarried along the way.
Uncle Yancy, putting on the afterburners now, was shadowed by Bitsy, who was quite worried about him. She wished she hadn’t said “Pride goeth before a fall,” as she had no desire to see Uncle Yancy, everybody’s uncle, perish. Rarely did Sister’s hounds kill, but if a fox was ancient or sick, the hounds might dispatch it swiftly. In three seconds the quarry was dead, its neck snapped by the lead hound.
Bitsy tried to remember the last time there was a kill. It had been three years ago; one of the red tribe at the edge of the territory came down with distemper. Either way he was going to die because he refused to eat the medicines put out for him; he refused to go into one of the Havahart traps that Sister and Shaker put out in an effort to save him. He knew other foxes had been taken to the vet, but he did not trust any human, not even Sister.
“At least he died fast,” Bitsy thought to herself.
If she was worried, Uncle Yancy was not. Yes, the pack was faster. Sister had retired quite a few older hounds over the summer who now graced barns and hearths throughout the membership. These young ones had speed. Sister was breeding in more speed. He would have to tell the others.
In the meantime, he had to shake these damned hounds. He heard Cora’s distinctive voice, then Asa’s, both smart hounds.
“But not as smart as I am.” He chuckled as he raced for the covered bridge and trotted across it, dragging his brush purposefully to leave a heavy, heavy scent. Then he started up the farm road, covered in brown pearock. The Bancrofts spared no expense on those items they considered aesthetically pleasing.
He whirled around, 180 degrees, backtracking in his own footprints, then launched himself at the edge of the covered bridge and down into the waters of Snake Creek, which were high, muddy, and fast from all the rain. Swimming to the opposite bank proved harder than he’d anticipated.
“Hurry!” Bitsy blinked from atop the covered bridge.
Uncle Yancy made it to the far side. The swim had cost him precious time and tired him. He heard the hounds not a third of a mile away, closing with blinding speed.
“Damn them,” he cursed as he raced for the place where Nola and Peppermint were now buried.
The red fox with a little white tip on his tail leapt over the zigzag fence, crossed the twenty yards to the other side, and leapt over that. The earth, still soft from the digging and from the rains, showed distinct footprints marking his progress. Tedi had put up a zigzag fence until the stonemason, in high demand, could build stone walls around the graves.
A muddy trail followed him as he headed along the ridge, then turned in an arc back toward Roughneck Farm. He was more tired than he wanted to be. A groundhog hole, messy but under the circumstances better than nothing, had been dug right along the fence line between After All Farm and Sister’s wildflower meadow. He wasn’t going to be able to make the loop back to his den at this rate and he wished he’d paid more attention to Bitsy, faithfully flying overhead.
“Ouch!”
Uncle Yancy looked upward. St. Just had dive-bombed Bitsy, pecking her.
“You little creep!” St. Just pecked at Bitsy again, who was built for silent flight. She couldn’t maneuver as handily as the blue-black bird, but she was smarter. She flew low to the ground, right over Uncle Yancy. If St. Just tried for her, Yancy could whirl around and possibly catch the hated
bird in his jaws, or even with his front paws.
St. Just knew better than to get close to a fox. He cursed Bitsy for helping the fox and squawked loudly. If only he could turn the hounds before they reached the covered bridge, he could get them on Uncle Yancy fast. But his outburst and his bad language offended Athena, who had just stopped over between the two farms. A nest of baby copperheads, born late but with a good chance of survival thanks to the abundance of game, were close to the large rock where they lived. She thought one would make a tasty dessert, and St. Just spoiled everything by scaring them back under their rock.
He offended her in principle. He didn’t know his place. Then, when she saw him go after Bitsy, her blood boiled. She lifted off the evergreen branch, her large wingspan impressive, and noiselessly, effortlessly came up behind the crow with four big flaps of her wings. She zoomed for him, talons down. He heard her a split second too late. As he turned to avoid the full impact of her blow, she caught him on the right wing. Enough to throw him off and enough to tear out feathers painfully.
“Out of my sight, peasant!”
Feathers flying, St. Just feared he might fall to earth with them. He pulled himself out of the dive, veering back toward the woods. Uncle Yancy, pursued though he was, would have made short work of this mortal enemy and then left the carcass to distract the hounds. Fresh blood was always distracting to a hound.
“Thank God you’re here,” Bitsy hollered, her high-pitched voice frightening four deer grazing below.
“Thank Athena.” The large bird hooted low, mentioning her namesake, then with a few powerful blasts she was over the wildflower meadow, heading to her home high in a huge walnut by Sister’s house.
Back at the creek, the hounds charged across the covered bridge in full cry.
Sister was about to lead the field across, knowing there’d be some fussing from the horses inside the bridge, when she heard a change in Diana’s voice. Wisely, for she trusted her hounds, she paused.
People panted. Horses’ ears pricked forward; they thought stopping pure folly, but they did as they were told.
Cora had overrun the line. Asa came up to Diana. He, too, changed his tune.
“What’s happening? What’s happening?” Trident thought he’d done something wrong.
“Pipe down and listen.” Dasher put his nose to the ground.
In a situation like this, Dragon was invaluable, for he was highly intelligent and had an incredible nose. But he’d been left back in the kennel since Shaker felt he had enough good hounds out and Dragon could be a handful. He thought the young ones, especially this T litter, might do better without Dragon today.
Little by little, Dasher, not as brilliant as his brother but methodical, worked his way back to the bridge. “I think he’s doubled back.”
Hounds milled around, then Cora said, “Well, there’s only one way to be sure. Dasher, go through the bridge; be careful, because some fool human will say you are doubling back on the line, and then Sybil, who’s new, remember, will rate you. But if he has doubled back, his scent will be stronger on the other side. Which direction, I don’t know. Take Diana with you.”
Both Dasher and Diana tore back across the bridge.
“Heel,” Ronnie Haslip whispered to Crawford, who nodded knowingly.
Technically they were right, but Sister did not call out to her hounds to join the others. Diana and Dasher were terrific second-year entry.
Sybil, forward of the bridge, turned to head back. Shaker sat right on the far side of the bridge, close to his lead hounds.
Dasher said low to Diana, “Here, I think this is fresher.”
She put her nose down and inhaled. “Yes, but we’d best be sure before we call them all back to us.”
They ran top speed and then were quite certain that the fox had headed up the ridge. “Yes! He’s here. Come on.”
Shaker, thrilled with these two, blew three doubling notes, sending the others on to them, claws clicking on the wooden floor of the bridge.
They emerged, cut hard right, and flew up the ridge. They all jumped the newly installed zigzag fence, running hard over Nola’s and Peppermint’s graves, headstones not yet carved.
Sister hesitated one moment, waiting for her huntsman to get ahead of her. She then rode up the ridge but wide of the new grave sites. Ken Fawkes, usually a strong rider, lost control of his horse, who wanted to follow the hounds directly. The big dark horse, almost black, catapulted over the first line of the zigzag fence, took one giant stride, and was over the second. Deep hoofprints now mingled with Uncle Yancy’s prints and those of the hounds.
The woods reverberated with the song of the hounds. Within minutes they were back over the fence line dividing After All Farm from Roughneck Farm.
Sister, knowing she had to head back to the new coop, turned and pressed Lafayette on. She cursed because the underbrush was thick. The leaves were still on the trees, and she couldn’t see her hounds in the thick woods. This was another reason cubbing was harder than formal hunting. If she didn’t hurry up she’d get thrown out and be way behind. She reached the new coop, got well over, then headed right on a diagonal across the open field. She could see the flowers and hay swaying and sterns swaying, too, where hounds pushed through, their voices in unison.
“He’s close! He’s close!”
And he was. Uncle Yancy slid into the groundhog hole, rolling right on top of the groundhog.
“I beg your pardon.”
The groundhog, large and unkempt, but jolly, said, “Care for some sweet grass?”
“Thank you, no.” Yancy couldn’t understand how any animal could be as sloppy as this fellow. “You know within a second those hounds will start digging at your main entrance.”
“Good. That will save me work.”
“I shall assume you have other exits should it come to that.”
“One of them right under a hanging hornet’s nest. Three feet long it is.” The groundhog, lying on his back, laughed just as Cora dove toward the hole and began digging frantically.
Uncle Yancy’s scent was so strong, it drove her wild. Red, moist earth splattered up behind her paws. Diana joined her at the edges, as did Asa and Dasher.
Trident asked his sister, “Are we supposed to do that?”
“I think you have to be first. There isn’t room for us to get in there, but I think we’re supposed to sing really, really loud.”
Trudy and Trident did just that and were joined by every hound there. Triumph!
Shaker arrived, hopped off Gunpowder, and blew the happy notes signifying that these wonderful hounds had denned their fox.
Sybil rode up, taking Gunpowder’s reins.
“I know my job,” the gray snapped, incensed that Sybil thought he might walk off.
Betty rode in from the opposite direction as the field pulled up not ten yards away.
Shaker took the horn from his lips. “He’s in there. He’s in there. What good hounds. Good hounds.” He grabbed Cora’s tail, pulling her out of there. She weighed seventy pounds of pure muscle. “You’re quite the girl.”
“I am!” Cora turned a circle of pure joy.
Then Shaker called each hound by name, praising their good work. He petted the puppies.
Sister rode up. “A fine beginning. Shall we call it a day?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Shaker smiled. “And did you see how Dasher and Diana came back across the bridge? That’s as nice a piece of work as I have ever seen in my life.”
Sister looked down at the two tricolor hounds. “Diana and Dasher, you have made me very, very proud.”
They wagged their whole bodies.
“Proud of you, proud of you.” Shaker again blew the notes of victory, then, without a grunt, lifted himself back into the saddle.
As they rode back toward the kennels, Ken, ashen-faced, came alongside his mother-in-law. “I am terribly sorry. I couldn’t hold him. I—”
She held up her hand. “Ken, to have the fox and hounds run across yo
ur grave is a good thing. No apology necessary. Nola would be laughing with the excitement of it.”
No one else said a word about it while the Bancrofts were around.
Uncle Yancy thanked his host and stuck his head up to make sure there were no stragglers.
Bitsy, in a pawpaw tree, giggled. “A near thing. And running over Nola and Peppermint like that.”
“That’s an unquiet grave,” the red fox said. Mask to the west, he headed for home.
CHAPTER 15
Crawford and Marty Howard hosted a First Day of Cubbing breakfast. Upon reflection they decided to pass on having an evening gathering. Instead they hired a local caterer who set up outdoor stoves outside Sister’s stable. Crawford considered setting them up on the long rolling lawn overlooking Sister’s fall gardens, but then he’d have to tell her. He wanted the breakfast to be a surprise, as did Marty. Having it back at the stable where the trailers were parked wouldn’t disturb her lawn. As people often brought homemade breads, sandwiches, or drinks, sharing same at the trailers, Crawford and Marty thought they wouldn’t need to ask permission and the surprise would be complete.
It was. People untacked and wiped down their horses to the scent of bacon crackling on the grill, succulent blond and regular sausages, and omelettes.
One gave the two chefs their omelette order and within minutes it was ready. Breads, jellies, fruits, cold cereals, and fresh milk along with sweets covered the long table to the side of the stoves.
The riders were thrilled, as were the hounds, who could smell the enticing medley of aromas. Whatever might be left over would be mixed into their kibble later.
“What a wonderful idea,” Betty Franklin said to Sybil as they stood in line.
“I never realize how famished I am while I’m hunting, but the second I get back to the trailers my stomach makes as much noise as The 1812 Overture.” Sybil laughed at herself.
Marty Howard was whispering directions to the caterer’s assistant, pouring coffee.
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