Full Cry

by Rita Mae Brown

  He was smack in the home territory of a female mountain lion.

  A cave or rock den had to be close by. If he could find it, he’d duck in. Better to face one lone female than a pack of hounds.

  He didn’t worry about young. Usually lion cubs are born midsummer.

  As luck would have it, a huge rock formation in a slight swale of forest jutted out ahead. He leapt into the opening, large enough for the mountain lion and therefore large enough for hounds, one by one.

  Awakened by the cry of the pack, the mature lioness weighed a well-fed two hundred pounds. She was just rising when the medium-size red fellow, all of seven pounds, invaded her home.

  Panting, he looked up at her, crooning in his best voice, “How beautiful you are!”

  Vanity is not limited to the human species. She blinked. “And who are you?”

  “Clement of Mill Ruin, son of Target and Charlene, their second litter from last year. I confess, I’ve ducked in here to save my skin, but I had no idea I would find such a beautiful mountain lion. How could I have missed you ? I thought I knew everyone.”

  “My hunting range doesn’t overlap yours. Game is so good down here, I and some of my relatives came down out of the mountains. And …” She stopped a moment; the fur on her neck rose slightly. “Impertinent slaves!” she said of the barking hounds.

  Before the words were out of her mouth, Dragon blasted into the cave. He skidded to a halt as both the lioness and Clement stared at him.

  The rest of the pack piled in after Dragon, except for Cora, Diana, Dasher, Asa, and Delia. They knew what was in there.

  Even Cora couldn’t stop the young entry.

  Enraged at this trespassing, the lioness stood. She could leap twenty feet without undue effort. She bared her fangs, emitting a hiss. “Get out!”

  Clement, too, bared his fangs, puffing himself up as best he could.

  Shaker dismounted, handing Hojo’s reins to Betty.Sister didn’t know if a bear was in there or a mountain lion. She’d been running so hard she’d missed the telltale signs, the piles of dirt kicked up by the big cat’s hind legs to mark her boundaries, the slash marks on the trees much higher than those of a bobcat.

  She couldn’t hear the hiss because the hounds were bellowing.

  Shaker pulled out his .38. He didn’t want to kill any animal, but he had to protect his pack.

  He put his horn to his mouth and blew the three long blasts. The smarter hounds turned to emerge from the opening, one by one. Shaker quieted them. Dragon, alone, remained inside. The hissing could now be plainly heard followed by a terrifying growl.

  Hojo was brave, but shaking like a leaf. Mountain lions and horses rarely formed friendships. Hojo wanted out of there.

  Outlaw, a little older and a quarter horse, said, “Hojo, Shaker’s a good shot. If he has to, he’ll kill the lion. We’re safe”

  Hojo rolled his eyes. “They’re so quick”

  “Dragon, come to me.” Shaker called outside the opening.

  Hackles up, Dragon slowly, without taking his eyes off the mountain lion, backed out. She advanced. As Dragon made it out, the big cat stuck her head out, beheld the audience, and emitted a growl that turned blood to ice water.

  “Tedi, get the field back,” Shaker said calmly.

  “Janie, come on,” Tedi firmly ordered her old friend.

  “I’m not leaving my huntsman, Betty, or the hounds. Now, go on.”

  Reluctantly, Tedi moved the field back.

  Shaker quickly mounted, not taking his eyes off the lion, who seemed content to scare the bejesus out of them.

  In a steady voice, “Come on, come on, foxhounds. Good hounds.” Shaker turned, trotting off.

  Betty, back on Outlaw, kept on his left side. Sybil was on the right. She’d stayed a short distance from the den in case hounds bolted. As Shaker and Betty had been on foot, this was a prudent decision.

  Sister watched the mountain lion, whom she faced at a distance of thirty yards. She wanted to make certain the animal wasn’t going to chase them. She cursed herself for not carrying a gun. A mountain lion can bring down a deer at a full run. If the deer has enough of a head start, it will outrun the lion, but for a short distance, the speed of the mountain lion is startling. This powerful animal could easily bound up to one of the staff horses and attack. Sweat ran down her back and between her breasts.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Sister turned Aztec as the pack drew alongside her. They continued to trot. She glanced over her shoulder to see the beautiful cat still standing in her doorway, now a red fox sitting next to her.

  Dragon, not a scratch on him, bragged, “I denned the fox. I stared down the mountain lion”

  “Idiot!” Cora cursed. “You could have killed half this pack.”

  “But I didn’t” he sassed.

  That fast Cora turned, seized Dragon by the throat, sank her fangs into him, and threw him down hard. He fought back.

  “Leave it! Leave it!” Shaker commanded.

  Cora leapt up. Dragon, too, quickly got to his feet, blood trickling down his white bib.

  “I will kill you one day if you don’t listen,” Cora growled low, almost a whisper.

  The young entry, frightened of the lioness and blindly following Dragon, were now scared to death of Cora. They avoided eye contact with the head bitch.

  “The fox was in the den!” Dragon coughed.

  “Yes, he was,” Asa sagely replied. “Scent was hot, so hot none of us paid attention to the other scent. But, Dragon, when we reached those rocks, even a human could smell the lion. You were wrong.”

  “My job is to chase foxes, put them to ground, kill them if I catch them” Dragon coughed again. Cora had hurt his throat.

  Cora whirled on the handsome dog hound. “Do you want me to shred you right now? I don’t care if I do get the butt end of a whip! ”

  Dragon shut up.

  The pack trotted all the way back to Melton. Everyone had had quite enough for one day.

  As Sister dismounted, she noticed Dalton, on the ground already, holding the reins of his horse as well as the reins of Izzy’s horse. She properly dismounted, stepping high a few times as her cold feet stung when she touched the earth.

  Dalton slipped a halter over Izzy’s mount, then over his own horse’s head. There was nothing improper in their exchange, yet there was a tension, an electricity.

  Later, propped up on three large pillows, down comforter drawn up, a fire crackling in the bedroom fireplace, Sister had two American Kennel Club dog books, one from 1935 with the breed standards corrected to 1941 and the latest from 1997.

  Few foxhunters showed their hounds at AKC events. Foxhunting was a life’s work. Showing bench dogs was, too. Who had time for both? A foxhunter must breed a pack of solid, intelligent, good hounds. The show dog person need breed only one outstanding specimen, though as any show dog person can tell you, that’s a life’s work, too. The show people load their charges in minivans or big SUVs to travel around the country securing points toward their dog’s championship.

  Sister didn’t consider bench shows empty beauty contests unless the breed, any breed, had fallen away dramatically from its original purpose. Irish setters came to mind. Today’s gorgeous mahogany creatures striding in front of judges often diverged sharply from the Irish setters used in the field.

  Fortunately, English and American foxhounds never achieved the popularity in the bench show world that cocker spaniels, German shepherds, collies, Labradors, and others did. Foxhounds remained relatively consistent. The breed standard in her revised 1941 book proved no different from the one in 1997, except she thought the 1941 version easier to read.

  The first American foxhound registered with the American Kennel Club was Lady Stewart in 1886. The photographs in each AKC volume displaying the American foxhound further confirmed the consistency in the breed standard. Hounds from her kennel looked like the two examples except they had scars from thorns; some, her D’s, had a broader skull than was
deemed just right.

  For a foxhunter, their shows, none of them associated with the AKC, took place all over the country, culminating in the Virginia Hound Show at Morven Park, Leesburg, the last weekend in May. Over a thousand hounds were shown, the ultimate for many being the pack class, a test unimaginable in the show bench world. A pack of hounds, led on foot by their huntsman, usually with two whippers-in, negotiated a course. The pack that operated as a pack, exemplifying the old expression “You could throw a blanket over them,” usually won. And beauty counted. Those packs where the individuals most resembled one another had a better chance than those where a small lemon-and-white hound worked with a big tricolor and some Talbot tans. Nonetheless, a good pack was a good pack even if Goliath and David ran together. If David could keep up and Goliath didn’t poop out early, a master could be very proud. But even to a casual observer, a pack of uniform size and conformation had a better chance of hanging together than one with variety.

  Sister knew, as did all who breed seriously, that it ultimately comes down to their minds. The most beautiful hound in the world is worthless if he or she won’t hunt. The hound with the most drive in the world is useless if he or she won’t listen, if he or she wasn’t “biddable.”

  Sister’s task was to breed an entire team of such outstanding individuals. Each year, this team would change: old hounds needed to retire, young hounds needed to learn the business and settle into their position. She could never rest on her laurels, but she could take justifiable pride in her pack.

  Which is why she continued to study AKC shows, read and reread the standards, hunt behind other packs, whether American, English, Crossbred, or Penn-Marydels, as well as enjoy the deep music of the night hunters, casting their Walker, Trigg, Maupin, or Birdsong hounds.

  A good hound was a good hound.

  She loved hunting with Ashland bassets, learning each time that pack pushed out its quarry, each time a whipper-in quietly melted nearer to a covert to keep an eye on a young entry.

  Virginia abounded in beagle packs: from Mrs. Fout’s pack, where one must be mounted and escorted by a child, to the more common type of packs, where one followed on foot.

  When the opportunity arose, Sister was there, following, boots often squishing with mud, face torn by thorns. She didn’t feel a thing. The sounds of a pack in full cry spiked her adrenaline to such a pitch that she usually didn’t know she was bleeding until someone pointed it out to her back at the trailers.

  Anyone who knew Jane Arnold knew she loved hounds. She’d go out with coon hunters and adored the sleek black-and-tan coon-hounds, redbone hounds, even the ponderous bloodhound, king of all dogdom in terms of scenting ability. There was no hound on earth from which a foxhunter couldn’t profit by observing. Even dachshunds left to their own devices will return to their original purpose, which was to hunt quarry in dens. The dachshund packed a great deal of courage in that elongated body.

  Sister, every three years or so, would make the pilgrimage to the Westminster Dog Show in New York City. Much as she liked watching all the breeds, her heart having a special place for Irish terriers and corgis—dogs she had had as pets in her lifetime—it was the hounds that enraptured her. Every year, like other hound people, she would pray it wouldn’t be one more prancing poodle, one more adorable terrier that this year would carry off the coveted Best in Show, that it would be a hound.

  But hounds aren’t bred to show and prance. They’re bred to hunt. The qualities that appeal to show judges are rather insulting to a hound. His or her job is to put that nose to the ground and find the quarry, or, if a sight hound, to catch a glimpse of quarry and give rousing chase. Intelligence, determination, a beautiful stride, and marvelous lung capacity—such treasures may be overlooked by the judges as yet another fetching cairn, jaunty Scottie, or Standard poodle in full French cut paraded out like an actor greedy for applause. The hound doesn’t want applause; it wants the fox, the rabbit, the otter, the raccoon.

  Year after year, Sister, like so many other devoted hound people, watched unbelievable specimens in the hound category be overlooked in the final showdown. Disappointed, angry, she’d return to the Carlyle Hotel, vowing never again to waste her money by coming back to Westminster. Of course, she didn’t outwardly display this anger, but to see once again the best of the hound group—a group now of twenty-two breeds—get passed by was too much!

  The hound group in 1941 contained seventeen breeds. It had expanded over the decades, although not as much as other groups. That didn’t bother her. After all, each time a new breed is accepted by the AKC, it’s more money for them. She didn’t begrudge them that, even though some of the groups were so large one needed a No-Doz to sit through them.

  No, she begrudged the prejudice against hounds.

  “Godammit!” She threw the 1997 book on the floor. She picked up the older edition, much thumbed over the years, smoothing down the old spine before placing it on the nightstand.

  Rooster, startled, barked, “What’s the matter with her?”

  “Westminster’s coming up, first week of February, I think.” Raleigh chortled. “We’ll watch it on TV together. You won’t believe what will come out of her mouth. She gets so exercised, we can’t let anyone else watch it with her, except for Betty and Tedi. They know her so well and love her so much, if she loses her temper and cusses a blue streak, they’ll laugh. Most people have no idea how passionate our mother is.”

  “She has to keep a lid on it because she’s the Big Cheese” Golly, on her back next to Sister, added.

  “True,” Rooster agreed.

  “Golly, Sister doesn’t go to cat shows. That’s proof she likes dogs better than cats,” Raleigh slyly said.

  “Balls. Why go to a cat show ? Every single cat is perfect, the crown of creation. The fun of a dog show is seeing the imperfections in you miserable canines.”

  “How do you stand her?” Rooster whispered.

  “By tormenting her” Raleigh giggled.

  “Furthermore, no cat in the universe is going to walk down a green carpet, stand on a table, and let some stranger inspect her fangs. Ridiculous. Why, I’d sink my fangs in the fat part of that silly judge’s thumb in a skinny minute?

  “Oh, you scare me.” Raleigh rolled his brown eyes. “I’ve got your catnip mousie, the one covered with rabbit fur. Thought I’d swallow it” Raleigh put the little mousie in his mouth, fake tail dangling out.

  “Thief!” Golly vaulted off the bed.

  Raleigh just turned his head from side to side as Golly tried to get her mousie. Her stream of abuse reached such a pitch that Sister put down the more calming book she was reading, a reexamination of the Punic Wars.

  “All right, Raleigh, give her the toy. Don’t be ugly.” She turned on her side, opened the drawer in the nightstand, and took out two greenies: little green bones made in Missouri. “Here.” She tossed one to Raleigh and one to Rooster.

  Raleigh dropped the mousie to grab the greenie. Golly snatched up the soggy toy, leapt back up on the bed, and batted it around for good measure.

  “You know, Golly, today is Mozart’s birthday in Salzburg, 1756.” Sister could remember dates. “Hmm, also the day of the cease-fire in Vietnam, 1972. A good day, I would suppose, January twenty-seventh.” She noticed the cat taking the toy, pulling back a corner of the pillow, and shoving it underneath.

  “He won’t find it there, the big creep.”

  Sister laughed, watching the cat. She abruptly stopped. “A cache. I didn’t notice the caches today. Like you, Golly, the big cat kept a kind of pantry. Don’t see too many of the mountain lions. I wasn’t looking for the signs, but foxes do the same thing, smaller scale.” She picked up the book, then let it fall in her lap. “My God, I’m a dolt.”

  “Now what?” Rooster’s voice was garbled as he was chewing.

  “A cache. The storage unit is a cache. Storage houses like that don’t just burn down. People don’t set fires to them to see the flames.” She looked at the animals, wh
o were now looking at her. “But I don’t get it. What’s being hidden in that cache? What could be worth that kind of violence? And to whom? Clay? Xavier? Both? Who was found burned? I don’t get it.”

  “Well, you’d better keep your mouth shut until you do,” Golly rudely but wisely said.

  CHAPTER 26

  In small towns, people notice one another. Tedi Bancroft would have lunch with Marty Howard. Someone would notice. Word would spread. Not that this is a bad thing, but it can lead to that great Olympic sport: people jumping to conclusions.

  Then, too, there is a certain type of personality who lives by the motto “There is no problem that can’t be blown out of proportion.” The media is filled with just such personalities, but they thrive even among other segments of the population.