by Karen Myers
He mounted up and patted his vest through the coat to check for the horn tucked between the buttons. Ives was standing by the pen with today’s pack. George gave a brief startup signal on the horn, and Ives released the hounds who boiled into the yard while their packmates protested from their pens.
All four of the mounted staff counted the hounds. George tested Benitoe. “How many hounds?”
“Twelve and a half couple, sir.” The others agreed.
Rhys stood mounted by the kennel gates and checked on Owen’s men and the one member of the field today, Angharad. “All ready.”
“Pack up,” George called and the hounds fell into place behind him, Dando in the lead.
He nodded to Rhys who asked the kennel-man standing by the gates to open them. The pack left the kennel in good order. George touched his hat to Angharad as he went by and she fell in behind the pack.
This time there were no pack control problems as they descended the front yard to the manor gates and turned left at the road. George kept his instructions to the pack quiet and calm, and the whippers-in were more a dignified accompaniment than a necessity.
Owen’s men kept up a surly argument behind him on the road. “Keep it quiet, please,” George turned and told them. Owen gave him a contemptuous look but suppressed the conversation.
He glanced beyond them at Angharad, his hunt field for this morning, and she smiled at him. Don’t screw this up, he thought, as he turned back to his work.
George spotted the ford on the river and took the path down and across. After ascending the other side and crossing the main road that ran along the east side of the river, he entered a large open hay field, with patches of woods around it. He looked at Rhian to confirm. “This is the spot, yes?”
At her nod, he held up his hand and cried, “Hold up.” The pack stopped calmly behind him. He turned to Rhian.“Alright, show me the search.”
She hesitated, then said stoutly, “You try first. That’s how I learned.”
He settled himself on his horse and let his senses expand out to the land before him. The most vivid impressions were small and quick. He felt Rhian watching over his mental shoulder. “Those are predators?” he guessed.
“Fox on the ground, raccoon, and ’possum in the trees.”
He could feel the horses around him and pressed out for something closer to that size. He felt one group of animals, bulky but not tall, in the far woods on the left and couldn’t determine what they were. He projected a wordless question to Rhian.
“A sounder of boar,” she said.
Ah, he thought. I didn’t think of that. They were getting up and moving off quietly, having heard or smelled the arrival of the hunt. He tried again, using the sonar metaphor that helped him identify the ways. Off to the right, in the woods, were three cautious animals, medium-sized, and a heavier one, all together, lying down.
Deer? he asked Rhian, silently. She nodded.
He concentrated on the largest of the deer. He felt the heaviness of authority, the suspicion of rivals. These does and this territory belonged to this buck, and it was just about the season for the rut to start in earnest. Yes, he thought, this is our quarry.
He glanced at Rhian. “Would you like to try the first cast?”
Rhian looked apprehensive, but moved her horse forward. She gazed at the nearest covert on the right rather than the hounds, but she directed her thoughts to the pack, and George tried to listen in. She showed them the excitement of following something fleet-footed, musky, and confident, ready to defend or flee, both. The hounds responded with eager whines.
“Loo in,” she told them, pointing at the woods, and they poured into the covert silently, heads down, seeking scent. George and Rhian cantered in with them, looking for paths to keep up. Rhys galloped over to the far side to look for deer fleeing and watch for hounds, and Benitoe stayed out of the woods on the near side to do the same.
Riding single file on the narrow trail, George paid attention to the hounds fanning out and moving forward in front of him, their noses to the ground. With his expanded senses, he could feel their eagerness and determination. No inexperienced young hounds these, to be distracted by the scent of squirrels or rabbits.
As they trotted and walked forward, George kept up an occasional low patter to the hounds. “That’s it, puppies. Hunt ’im up. Good hounds.” What he said didn’t matter. It was the quiet voice identifying his presence and location that encouraged their work. An occasional blip from the horn had the same effect, and helped the whippers-in on the outside know where he was when they couldn’t see him.
It was hard to see all the hounds in the undergrowth as they spread out, but he found he could keep a mental thread attached to each one. As one on the near side drifted too far away from the others, he called to him by name and encouraged him to return back to the pack.
With a sudden eruption, the three doe bounded across the path ahead of him, their raised tails flashing white with alarm. The hounds lifted their heads and leaned forward, but George’s continued “Hunt ’im up” reminded them this wasn’t the desired quarry and held them back. He could sense the deer as they fled the moving hounds behind them. Just like a canny old buck to send his harem out as a distraction while he sneaked on out of there, he thought. Rhian refreshed the thought of the proper quarry for the hounds and their noses dropped again.
They reached the end of the covert without finding, though a weak line of scent was holding the interest of a few of the hounds as they emerged into the gap between the patches of woods. Sudden laughter behind them caused them to raise their heads, and they lost their focus on the faint trace.
George told Rhian curtly, “Stay with the pack,” and without waiting for her acknowledgment he galloped over to Owen, drawing up hard at the last instant like a slap in the face.
“If you can’t keep your men from distracting the hounds, I suggest you wait over there until we’re done,” pointing at a small distant hillock where they had entered the field. Maybe they’ll challenge me and I can deal with it today instead of two days from now, he hoped.
Owen opened his mouth in surprise to protest, but George overrode him. “Now.” They went off sullenly.
He gestured to Angharad and waved her up. “The wind’s coming up from the north. I’m going to try and hunt from the outside edges of these coverts in, so that anything we find might be encouraged to flee across the open space upwind, like those doe. If you stand quietly on the edge of the field behind us, you might get a view.”
He returned to Rhian who had held the pack firmly for him, between the woods. “Thanks,” he said. She looked relieved to have him take over again.
“Let’s try that next covert. Look for a path on the outer side, and I’ll try putting them in this time.”
He waved them into the woods and rode along just inside the outer edge. The hounds came across a large tulip tree with rub marks on it from generations of deer scraping velvet off their antlers. Cythraul and Dando feathered at one spot, and then Cythraul opened his mouth and sang his joy at the find, striking out quickly to follow the trail. The zeal of the strike hound rang through the connection George had with him and pulled him along, too. The rest of the pack followed Cythraul and checked the scent for themselves, then shot off in his wake, raising their voices in confirmation and flowing over the brushy obstacles like a white river above the ground. George cheered them on, doubling on the horn.
The hounds burst out of the woods back into the field intent on the line, and George and Rhian scrambled to get to them as quickly as they could though the branches. For now, Benitoe was in the best position and he rode alongside them keeping contact. The horn and cry would’ve told Rhys to abandon his post and catch up, but he would now be well behind.
As George reached the open field, he glanced at Angharad, who had turned her horse to face north and was pointing in that direction. Good—she’d seen the stag leave the woods and sensibly kept silent so as not to disturb the deer or the
hounds, using the line of her horse to indicate the line the deer had taken. He brought Mosby to a gallop to close the gap with the pack and had almost reached them as they dove into one of the northern patches of woods and slowed their pace. He waved Benitoe to a position on the far side of the woods and went in after them, Rhian close behind. Rhys, when he arrived, would follow the near edge.
The scent was clearly strong, and the lead hounds whimpered eagerly as they worked out the twists and turns the buck had taken. This took a little time, and George encouraged them quietly with his voice, praising them for their work.
The line took them to a small stream inside the covert and on the far side, the hounds checked. George sat his horse without moving and watched, wanting them to work the puzzle out for themselves before interfering. They cast up and down the far bank without success, then Rhymi turned back, recrossing the stream to the near side and running up the bank. George listened in with his expanded senses and could almost feel the cunning and suspicion in her thoughts, as though she said out loud, “This way, I bet he went out this way.”
Several of the frustrated hounds on the other side were watching her with interest. They were rewarded when suddenly she struck the line and gave tongue. The whole pack dashed back across the stream and honored her find, and the hunt was on again.
The stag had gained ground on the hounds by his maneuvers and the scent was starting to dissipate. It held well in the sheltered woods, but each time the hounds burst into an opening, they found the wind had dispersed much of it and only traces remained on the grasses, the whole scent line, like a tunnel of invisible smoke, drifting downwind and rising as the air warmed under the morning sun. When the scent rose above their heads, George knew the hounds would be unable to follow anything other than the traces in the vegetation. Any hope of success depended on closing the distance with the quarry as quickly as possible. The buck had all the advantages at the beginning, being faster than the hounds and in his own territory, but if the hounds could keep contact with him, they would eventually wear him down and bring him to bay.
As the hounds followed the ever more faint line back out into the open field, they lost it altogether in the warmer air and checked. George looked back at Angharad to see if she had seen the buck emerge, but she shook her head.
He turned to Rhian, “I assume it would be considered unsporting to look for the stag here, to redirect them,” he said, tapping his forehead.
“No, you mustn’t do that. It’s cheating. The hounds should use their own judgment as much as possible.”
“Alright, I’ll cast them forward and see if we can’t find the line again.”
He waved the pack forward into the next covert, hoping the more sheltered air would bring them another trace of the line, and Cythraul struck the trace again with joyous cry.
This stretch of woods and meadows didn’t hold them for very long. After the buck had circled in and out three times, trying to confuse the track for the hounds, he headed off for fresh territory to the east, and George was off the map with regard to his preparations the night before. He’d been thinking of the smaller circles made by fox, not about taking a stag across country, and hadn’t looked far enough ahead. Nothing for it but to settle in for the long haul and try to account for the quarry.
He hadn’t yet seen this buck, following behind his hounds, but as they burst into open land he finally caught sight of him far in the distance, bounding down toward a flock of sheep whose heads were raised at the commotion of the hounds far behind him.
Rhys and Benitoe were galloping hard on each side to get close enough to control the hounds, and George pushed Mosby to do the same, Rhian trying to stay close. Worse than losing the stag would be for these hounds to run riot and kill someone’s livestock.
There were no fences around the flock, so George looked for the shepherds or dogs that must be accompanying them. There they were, one shepherd and two outraged herding dogs with a fine view of a stag and a pack of hounds bearing down upon them at top speed.
The quarry was hidden from the pursuing hounds by the low folds of land and they hadn’t yet caught sight of him, intent on the scent as they worked it out on the fly. George on horseback, however, could see it all from further back and higher up. He winced as the stag ran deliberately right through the flock, scattering sheep in all directions, and bounded out of sight into another patch of woods beyond them.
The hounds saw the running sheep and heard the furious shepherd dogs at about the same time, and a few of them hesitated, but Rhymi and Cythraul dove right into the flock before anyone could stop them. George broadcast the thought of the quarry as hard as he could and bellowed “’Ware riot” in a ferocious voice that promised severe consequences to any hound that disobeyed. The rest of the pack followed their leaders into the flock, where they milled like colliding galaxies spitting out woolly white stars.
The chaos that ensued was all on the part of the sheep. The hounds stuck to their work, ignoring both the panicked bleats and the futilely barking shepherd dogs. The buck had deliberately tried to foil his line with the scent of the sheep, and they were having difficulty working it out. Rhymi cast a wider circle hoping to strike the line again and found the buck’s exit point. Her voice lifted the rest of the pack over to own the line and they tore off again in pursuit.
George arrived just as the hounds left, and he waved Rhys and Benitoe on to stick with the pack. “Do you know this man?” he asked Rhian.
“Yes.”
“I don’t see any injured sheep, but maybe there’s a broken leg or some other damage. Please convey our apologies and listen to any complaints, then catch up as best you can.”
Without waiting for her response, he touched his hat to the stunned shepherd and galloped off after the hounds.
The hounds stayed with the buck for another hour or so after that, checking occasionally but never for long, giving him no time to rest. Rhian and Angharad reappeared at the first pause, after the hunt doubled back in the direction of the original woods at Two Pines. The buck seemed to be seeking familiar territory as he tired.
Crossing one open field headed west, George caught sight of him again as the distance between them closed. A good-sized animal with a nice rack, he was clearly laboring, trotting rather than bounding. The sudden roar from the hounds brought his head up—they’d viewed him, and their voices changed as they raised their heads and pursued him by sight.
He made for the nearest covert with the hounds not far behind, and all the riders pushed to close the distance. Once in the woods, instead of the typical twisty trail through the brush, the buck pursued a clear path, and George rode hard on the heels of his hounds as they followed it.
Suddenly the voices of the hounds changed again to an excited high cry, pure as bells. They’ve bayed him, George thought. He broke through into a small clearing and saw the buck backed up against a stone outcrop, facing the hounds defiantly as they clamored before him. He had chosen to fight rather than flee further and be torn down.
Most of the hounds were cautious about getting too close to the flailing feet and threatening antlers, but some darted forward to draw his attention while others tried to snap at something vulnerable, Rhymi and Cythraul in the forefront of the daring ones. George knew he had to end this quickly before any hounds were hurt, and to be merciful to the deer. He dismounted, wrapping the reins loosely about a branch, and drew his hunting sword.
The buck’s concentration was on the hounds before him, his natural wolf-like predators, and not on the man walking up from the side. George judged his moment and thrust the long thin blade into his heart. The deer collapsed.
“Good hounds, brave hounds,” he cried, standing in front of the carcass and barring the hounds from overrunning it. He blew the mort, the death, and made a proud fuss over them, praising each one by name as they quivered with excitement. Then he drew them up to the far side of the clearing and with a stern “Pack up” he put them in Rhian’s and Benitoe’s charge to h
old in place. Angharad sat her horse off to the side and watched.
George looked down at the carcass. What would Tristan do, he wondered. “Rhys, I’m hoping you don’t have some elaborate custom for breaking up a deer, because I would have no idea where to start.”
Rhys dismounted and tied up the reins of his horse. “We were never all that ceremonial in the old country, and the white-tailed deer isn’t the red deer. We just gut it and give the hounds their reward on the spot, then we bring it home and hang it on a frame to drain the rest of the blood and cool the meat.”
George cleaned his hunting sword with some leaves and resheathed it. He removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves, Rhys doing the same, and drew the shorter hunting knife. First he removed the scent glands below the tail, working very carefully so as not to pierce them and thus spoil the surrounding venison. He tossed those far into the bushes. Then, with Rhys’s help, he turned the deer onto its back and opened it.
“Do we bring home any of the organ meats?”
“No, just the venison. The large intestine and the meat around the exit is the corbin’s gift, and the hounds get the rest.”
“The corbin’s gift?”
“For the crows.”
“What about parasites in the meat?” George asked.
“I’ll get a fire going. We roast the meat for the hounds before they get it.”
Rhys busied himself with a fire, setting aside some sticks for threading the organ meats while George turned his attention to the gutting.