Full Cry

by Rita Mae Brown

  Once into the meadow, a large expanse of white beckoned.

  Delia advised her friends, “Take care, especially on the meadow’s edge. Our best chance is there because the rabbits will have come out on the edge of the wood and meadows. All foxes like rabbits. Our other chance for scent today is if we get into a cutover cornfield. Fox will come in for the gleanings.”

  Asa, also wise in his years, agreed. “Indeed, and foxes will be hungry. I think we’ll have a pretty good day”

  Trudy, in the middle of the pack and still learning the ropes in her second year, inquired, “But Shaker’s been complaining about the temperature and the snow. He says snow doesn’t‘t hold scent.”

  “Shaker is a human, honey. His nose is only good to perch spectacles on. If there’s even a whiff of fox, we’ll find it.” Asa’s voice resonated with such confidence that Trudy put her nose down and went to work.

  The hounds diligently worked the meadow for twenty minutes, moving forward, ever forward, but to no avail.

  Trudy’s, Trident’s, Tinsel’s, and Trinity’s brows all furrowed.

  Delia encouraged them. “Nobody said it would be easy today, but be patient. I promise you: the foxes have been out and about” She said “out and about” with the Tidewater region’s long “o.”

  “Yes, ma ‘am” the T’s responded.

  Cora, as strike hound, moved ten yards ahead. Her mind raced. She’d picked up an old trail, but discarded it. No point yapping about a fading line. Her knowledge and nose were so good Cora could tell when a line would pay off, when it would heat up. She never opened unless she had a good line. Some hounds blabbed if they even imagined fox scent. Those hounds were not found in the Jefferson Hunt pack. Cora couldn’t abide a hound that boo-hooed every time it caught a little scent.

  “Mwm.” She wagged her stern.

  Dragon noticed. He hurried right over, but dared not push Cora. She’d lay him out right there in front of everybody, and then she’d get him again on the way home in the party wagon. He tempered his aggressiveness. Now he, too, felt his nostrils fill with the faint but intensifying scent of gray dog fox.

  Diana trotted up, swinging the pack with her as she intently watched Cora. She could bank on Cora, her mentor.

  The hounds, excited but still mute, moved faster, their sterns moving faster as well.

  Sister checked her girth.

  “Ah, ha, I knew it!” Cora triumphantly said. “A suitor”

  She and the others usually recognized the scent of the fox they chased, but this was a stranger, a gray fox courting a little early, but then foxes display their own logic. The common wisdom is that grays begin mating in mid-January, reds at the end of January. But Cora remembered a time when grays mated in mid-December. Just why, she didn’t know. No great storms followed, which could have boxed them up, nor a drought, which would have affected the food supply then and later. All these events could affect mating.

  Perhaps this gray simply fell in love.

  Whatever, the scent warmed up.

  “Showtime” Cora spoke.

  Dragon spoke, then Asa and Delia. Diana steadied the T’s when she, too, sang out and told them to just stick with the pack, stick together.

  The whole pack opened. A chill ran down Sister’s spine; Lafayette’s too, his beautiful gray head turned as he watched the hounds.

  Those members with a hangover knew they’d need to hang on: when the pack opened like that, they were about to fly.

  A thin strip of woods separated the eastern meadow from a plowed cornfield, the stubble visible through die windblown patches. A slight slope rested on the far side of the cornfield. The hounds had gotten away so fast they were already there.

  Sister and Lafayette sped to catch them. She tried to stay about twenty yards behind Shaker, depending on the territory. She didn’t want to crowd the pack, but she wanted members to see the hounds work. To Sister, that was the whole reason to hunt: hound work!

  The footing in the cornfield kept horses lurching as the furrows had frozen, buried under the snow.

  All were glad once that was behind them. A simple three-foot coop rested in the fence line between the cornfield and the hay-field. The bottom half of the coop, where snow piled up, was white.

  “Whoopee.” Lafayette pricked his ears forward as he leapt over.

  Lafayette so loved jumping and hunting that Sister rarely had to squeeze her legs.

  Everyone cleared the coop.

  Hounds could hear their claws crack the thin crust of ice on the snow. In a few places they’d sink in to their elbows, throw snow around, and keep going, paying no heed.

  Within minutes, the pack clambered over another coop, rushing into a pine stand, part of Edward’s timber operation. The scent grew stronger.

  The silence, noticeable in the pines, only accentuated the music of the hounds. As the field moved in, a few boughs, shaken by the thunder of hooves, dusted the riders underneath with snow.

  Sam Lorillard felt a handful slide down his neck.

  Crawford tried to push up front, but Czpaka wasn’t that fast a horse. Crawford hated being in the middle of the pack, and he really hated seeing Walter Lungrun shoot past him on Rocketman.

  Jennifer Franklin and Sari Rasmussen giggled as the dustings from the trees covered their faces. Both girls loved hunting, their only complaint being that not enough boys their own age foxhunted.

  On and on the hounds roared, turning sharply left, negotiating a fallen tree, then charging through the pines northward, emerging onto the sunken farm road, three feet down, the road used to service an old stone barn in the eighteenth century. The building’s crumbling walls remained. The field abruptly pulled up as hounds tumbled pell-mell over one another to get inside the ruins.

  “He’s gone to ground!” Dragon shouted. “Let’s dig him out”

  “Dream on, you nitwit” A high-pitched voice called out from inside.

  “Uncle Yancy, what are you doing here? Where’s the gray?” Cora recognized the small red fox’s voice. He was not pleased with the visitation.

  “You could be on a little red Volkswagen for all I know, Cora, but you haven’t been chasing me.”

  Shaker dismounted and blew “Gone to ground.”

  The hounds loved hearing that series of notes, but Cora, disgruntled to have been so badly fooled, sat down. Where had that gray gone?

  “There’s nothing we can do about it,” Dasher advised.

  “Oh, yes, there is,” Cora determinedly replied. “I know the difference between Uncle Yancy and a stranger. Somehow we got our wires crossed back there in the pines, and we were all so excited we didn’t pay proper attention.”

  Diana said, “Cora, if you’d switched to Uncle Yancy, you would have known.” She walked over and poked her head into the den. “Uncle Yancy, is he in there with you?”

  A dry chuckle floated out of the main entrance. “He left by the back door not ten minutes ago”

  “Damn you, Yancy!” Dragon frantically began searching for the back door of the den, which happened to be outside the walls of the old barn.

  The sound of Dragon’s travails made Yancy laugh even harder. Infuriated, Dragon could hear the fox’s mirth. He ran for the opening where a door used to be to get outside the ruins.

  “Dragon, come back here and pretend you’re thrilled about this” Cora commanded as Shaker finished the notes on his horn. “We can put up the gray once we’re out of here.”

  And that they did. As soon as Shaker mounted back up, the hounds moved around the outside of the structure.

  “Got ‘im!” Asa called as he’d found the correct exit. With that he ran north, ever northward, as the scent was now hot, hot, hot on the cold snow.

  Asa lost the line for a moment when they reached a small frozen tributary of Snake Creek, a silver ribbon of ice. Young Trident put them all right when he crashed across the ice, the water running hard underneath, and picked up the scent on the far bank.

  The fox zigzagged west. After
fifteen minutes of flat-out flying, the pack, the staff, and the field soared over the stone fence, leading into After All’s westernmost pasture. Within minutes, they’d be on Sister’s farm.

  Again the fox turned; grays tend to do that. He was running a big figure eight, but the scent stayed hot. The pack, in full cry, ran so close together they were beautiful to behold.

  Back over the stone fence, across a narrow strip, over the old hog’s back jump, which looked formidable in the snow. Lost a few people on that one. On and on, then finally Cora skidded to a halt beneath a pin oak, its brown leaves still clinging to the snow-coated tree. Those leaves wouldn’t be released until spring buds finally pushed them off their seal.

  Snow spun out from paws as the hounds abruptly put on their brakes.

  “Got you!” Cora stood on her hind legs, her forepaws as high on the tree as she could reach.

  “He climbed the tree! He climbed the tree!” Trinity was so excited she leapt up and down as though on a pogo stick. “I never saw a fox do that!”

  Asa, thrilled but in control, said, “If we get too close, those grays will climb up neat as a cat. Can you see him up there?”

  “Yes!” Trinity spotted a pair of angry eyes staring down.

  “Go away,” the gray yelled, just as the snow again began to fall, the clouds now dark gray.

  “Who are you?” Diana asked.

  “Mickey. You should all just go away. Look at it this way, you need me to come courting, don’t you ? Means more foxes next year,” he said raffishly.

  Shaker handed Showboat’s reins to Betty. He walked up under the tree. “Hey there, fella. Hell of a run.”

  “Yeah, well, you can find your pleasures elsewhere,” Mickey barked.

  Shaker lavishly praised his hounds for their excellent work, then mounted back up and called them along. He beamed.

  The pack, in high gear, cavorted as they turned back east.

  “I’ll find another fox!” Dragon bragged.

  “You are so full of it,” Ardent, Asa’s brother, growled. “You aren’t the only hound with a nose, and furthermore, I suspect we’re going back”

  “Doesn’t mean we can’t run another fox if we find one,” Dragon sassed.

  “True.” Cora would have liked another hard run. “But we’ve been out an hour and a half, the footing is deep—slippery in spots—and some of the horses are tiring. Sister’s smart. She’ll end the day on a high note, and we’ll be back at the trailers in twenty minutes. Plus, it’s snowing again.”

  “Ever notice how more people get hurt at the end of a hunt than at the beginning?” young Trudy wondered out loud.

  “They ‘re tired, horses and riders, and sometimes they get so excited they don’t realize it. It’s those last stiff jumps that will get them if it’s going to happen. It’s New Year, we’ve got until mid-March to hunt. This is a wise decision.” Asa spoke to Trudy.

  “Yancy is a cheat.” Dragon switched subjects.

  “No, he’s not.” Cora laughed. “If another fox ducks into his den for cover, Yancy can hide him. But I’m surprised that Uncle Yancy is at those stone barn ruins. He lives closer in.”

  “Oh, Uncle Yancy moves about.” Ardent knew the fox, same age as himself. “Changes his hunting territory and gets away from Aunt Netty.”

  Aunt Netty, Yancy’s mate, harbored strong opinions and was not averse to expressing them. Yancy, a dreamy sort, liked to watch Shaker through the cottage windows or simply curl up under the persimmon tree. After the first frost when the persimmon fruit sweetened, Yancy would nibble on the small orange globes.

  When the hounds returned to the covered bridge, cars, trucks, and SUVs lined the drive for a half-mile up to the house. Some cautious few parked nose out in case they couldn’t get enough traction. This way they could be pulled with one of Edward’s heavy tractors.

  New Year’s breakfast attracted nonriders, too. Upon the riders’ return, After All was already filled with people. The event was hosted by social director Sorrel Buruss, who merrily bubbled with laughter and talk. Having Sorrel run the breakfast meant both Tedi and Edward could hunt.

  “Well done.” Shaker patted each hound’s head as the animal hopped into the party wagon. Inside this trailer at the rear, a two-tiered wooden platform had been built. A second platform on a level with the lower one on the rear ran alongside the sidewalk This way hounds would climb up or snuggle under a platform and relax. Like humans, they preferred one hound’s company to another’s, so there were cliques. This platform arrangement allowed them to indulge their friendships. No one wanted to be next to someone who bored him or her silly.

  Cora hung back. She liked to go in last, partly because she always wanted to keep hunting and partly because she liked seeing the humans back at their trailers. Some would dismount and be so exhausted their legs shook. Others would nimbly slide off, flip the reins over their horse’s head, and loosen the girth a hole or two. They’d remove the bridle, put on a nice leather halter, and then tie the horse to the side of the trailer, careful not to allow the rope to be over long. That caused mischief. The horse would step over the rope or pull back and pop it. Wool blankets, in stable colors, would be put on the horses. The different colors looked pretty against the snow.

  Cora liked horses, although, as they were not predators, she sometimes had to think carefully to appreciate what was on a horse’s mind. She was always grateful when a staff horse informed her what was behind her; their range of vision was almost, but not quite, 360 degrees.

  “Cora.”

  “Oh, all right.” She grumbled as Shaker tapped her hindquarter.

  The other hounds fell silent when the lead bitch entered the trailer.

  Asa said, “Happy New Year, Cora. You were wonderful today.”

  The others spoke in assent.

  Henry Xavier, in his trailer tack room, exchanging his scarlet weaselbelly for a tweed coat, commented to Ronnie Haslip, who had already changed and was standing at the open door, “The hounds are singing ‘The Messiah.” “

  Ronnie, always dapper, smiled. “Damn good work today. I didn’t think we’d do squat out there in that snow, did you?”

  “No.” Xavier shook his head.

  “Tell you what, I’d put this pack of hounds against any other pack out there.”

  “Me, too. I wish Sister pushed herself more. You know, would go to the hound shows and publicize our club more. People don’t know how good Jefferson Hunt is until they cap with us.”

  Ronnie nodded in agreement. “When Ray was alive, she did go. She needs the push, and she needs more hands. Remember, she used to have Big Ray, Ray Jr., and then until last year she had Doug Kinzer. It’s probably a little lonesome for her, you know.”

  Doug Kinzer, a talented professional whipper-in, had moved up to carrying the horn at Shenandoah Hunt over the Blue Ridge Mountains. In the past, particularly during the days of slavery, many an African American carried the horn. After the War Between the States, people couldn’t feed themselves, much less a pack of hounds. When hunting with a large pack again became feasible, about twenty years after the end of the war, it was often feasible because of Yankee money. For whatever reason, having black hunt staff made the Yankees uncomfortable. Doug, an African American, carried on a long, complex, even contradictory tradition. The last great black huntsman whom folks could remember in these parts was the convivial, talkative Cash Blue. He had hunted hounds for Casanova Hunt Club way back when today’s older members were children.

  “If only I didn’t have to pull those long hours, I’d love to go to the shows, wash hounds, stand them up.” Xavier straightened his stock tie.

  “Yeah, but not having to pay that extra salary has put the club in the black.” Ronnie, tight and treasurer, appreciated the bottom line.

  “Listen, Crawford Howard hemorrhages money when he walks to the John.” Xavier disdained him. “If Sister asked him, he’d come up with the salary. I heard through the grapevine that he offered to do so last year.”r />
  “He did. He made sure we all knew that, but not from his lips.” Ronnie half smiled: Crawford was beginning to learn some of the round-about Virginia way. “He did, but his condition was that he be made joint-master.”

  “She has to pick someone soon.” Ronnie folded his arms over his chest.

  “Wouldn’t want to be in her boots. She’s between a rock and a hard place.” Xavier had known Jane Arnold all his life. Although he didn’t know it, he loved her. He was devastated when Ray Jr., his best friend, had been killed. Sister was part of his past, present, and future, as she was for Ronnie.

  “You said a mouthful. Crawford’s got the money, but he’ll alienate the club or at least most of us.”