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. Iâ”
She held up her hand. “Ken, to have the fox and hounds run across your 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.
“Right away, madam.” He handed her a large cup.
She carried the steaming coffee to Shaker, still in the kennels.
He looked up and smiled as she came through the door. “Mrs. Howard.”
“Here. What a great day. Now come on over and get your piping hot omelette. The Boss said for me to tell you to come on, you can wash down the kennels on a full stomach better than on an empty one.”
“Did she?” He smiled broadly. “What a good woman.” He gratefully took a swallow. “Very good.”
“Jamaican.”
“High test.”
“Ninety-three octane.” Marty waited for him to toss a collar in the bucket hanging from the wall, a bucket used just for this purpose, as collars were removed from hounds when they returned from their labors.
As they walked back together to the festivities, Marty asked, “Did you always want to be a huntsman?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How did you learn?”
“My parents allowed me to move up to Warrenton to live with my aunt. I was twelve and I begged because the huntsman at Warrenton, Fred Duncan, said he'd set me to work in the kennels. That's how I started. Fred was a fine huntsman. He'd whipped-in to Eddie Bywaters, the last huntsman of the great Bywaters clan. I learned so much from Fred, and I could go over and watch Melvin Poe hunt the Orange County hounds. Fred would take me up to watch the Piedmont hounds.”
Marty loved hearing these stories and knew there was so much to learn not just about foxhunting itself but about the incredible people who had carried it forward throughout the generations. “When did you get your first job?”
“Here.” He put his hand under Marty's elbow as she was about to step into a small depression. “Jefferson Hunt needed a first whipper-in, and even though I was young, Fred vouched for me. Raymond put me on every screwball horse he could beg, borrow, or steal before he'd hire me. He finally said, âKid can stick on a horse.' That was that. And I never want to leave. I love it here.”
“Do you ever worry about the money? I mean, huntsmen make so little, and what if something were to happen?”
“I don't worry. Maybe I should, but I knew as a little kid that my life wasn't about money. This is what I've always wanted to do, and you know, Mrs. Howard, there isn't enough money in the world to get me to give it up.”
“But what if you're hurt?” Marty belonged to the worrying class.
“The Boss will take care of me just like I'd take care of her. We've been though a lot together.”
Marty thought about this, an attitude so different from the way she was raised and from the milieu in which she lived. “You're a lucky man.”
Betty called out to Shaker, “How about those young entry?”
He gave her the thumbs-up sign.
Crawford, hoping to ingratiate himself with a person he considered a servant, and technically, Shaker was a servant, said, “Thank you.”
“The hounds did all the work.” Shaker smiled.
Sister, in line, observed the exchange as well as the high spirits of the group.
Bobby, in front of her, was chatting with Tedi. He noticed his wife. “Hey, hey there. I see you flirting with my wife.”
Ken Fawkes, who was holding a plate for Betty, replied, “Bobby, I'll give you credit. You knew a good thing when you saw it.”
Everyone laughed.
As Shaker moved through the line, people complimented him. He was their star. They watched him ahead, taking the jumps first, without a lead. They saw him traverse territory they could loop around thanks to the wisdom of Sister, and they watched him work patiently with the hounds.
“Well done.” Bobby beamed as he passed Shaker.
“Can you eat all that?” Shaker looked at Bobby's full plate.
“I can. That's the problem.”
Once everyone had a full plate, the caterer's assistant walked about refilling coffee cups, fetching hot tea or a cold Co-Cola.
People sat on their portable mounting blocks, hay bales, upturned buckets.
Sister, sitting next to Shaker, said to Ronnie Haslip, “Do you remember the day two years ago when Shaker had the flu so I took the horn?”
“Indeed, I do,” Ronnie replied.
“I asked him for advice and he said, âWell, I'll tell you what Fred Duncan told me: Hunt your hounds and don't look behind you.' So I did.”
The horses hung their heads over the fence, observing the delighted people. The caterer gave them apples from the fruit basket.
“I like this guy,”
Keepsake commented.
Golly had positioned herself in the middle of the seated humans. She lay on her side, her tail lazily swishing up and down. Then she casually rolled on her back, her glittering eyes scanning the group.
“I'm here.”
Sybil laughed. “Sister, Golly is speaking to us.”
Everyone focused on the cat, which encouraged her behavior. Raleigh and Rooster, seated by Sister, ignored the calico.
“Golly, come over here. I'll give you bacon,” Tedi offered.
That fast, the cat sprang to her feet, zoomed over, and snatched the bacon from Tedi's fingers.
“Shameless,” Marty commented.
The conversation bounced between everyone at once and then small fragments of people.
Tedi was mentioning to Sister her memories of a safari her parents had taken her on when she was a teenager. “. . . no one thought much about conservation back then. You know, I look back and I regret those tigers and giraffes my parents bagged. But I can't bring himself to throw out the hides. It seems sacrilegious somehow. And you know, too, Janie, I have much more fun foxhunting than I ever did or could on a safari. âO, the blood more stirs, / To rouse a lion than to start a hare!' Remember? Hotspur. He was wrong.”
“Sir Henry Percy never hunted fox, he was too busy hunting the Scots.” Crawford joined the conversation.
“Never hunted behind Ashland Bassets, either,” Edward commented, mentioning a pack of bassets whose quarry was rabbit. Following them on foot could be very exciting.
“Hey, where's Ralph today?” Betty asked.
“Moline,” Ken answered. “Conference.”
Moline was the headquarters of John Deere.
“Poor Ralph. Had to miss the first day of cubbing because of business. Work interferes with the really important things in life,” Bobby said, and laughed.
As the gathering broke up, Crawford was telling Ron why they chose a breakfast instead of a party. He kept his voice low. “. . . memories. Marty discreetly inquired around and found out that after Nola and Guy disappeared no one ever gave a First Day of Cubbing evening party again. We thought better of it, but then Marty suggested we do this. I think we'll make a tradition of it.”
“I hope you do. Of course, that means next year you'll have one hundred people out on the first day.”
Crawford shrugged. “Good. I'll just buy more eggs.” He picked up his mounting block, placing it inside the tack room of his trailer. “As nothing else had turned up, comes as no surprise, I think we've heard the last of Nola and Guy. It's for the best.”
Ron replied, voice even lower, “God, I hope so.”