Fox Tracks (32 page)

Betty got up, notebook in hand, and pulled up a chair next to her friend to study bloodlines. It was easier on the screen than pulling out a book for each year, although Betty did like to check the books.

“Name the puppies’ mother yet?” she asked.

“Tootie calls her Zoe, for life. She’s a sweet thing, those floppy ears and that boxer face.”

The two scrolled through different bloodlines for Sister’s prized Bywaters blood. A good match wasn’t so easy to find these days, as that type of American hound began to fall out of favor in the middle 1960s, though in recent years it was somewhat coming back.

“You just know that Zoe and those puppies will wind up in your house,” Betty remarked calmly.

“I was hoping they’d wind up in yours.”

They read some more as Betty wrote in her notebook. “Do you really think you’re in danger?”

“No,” Sister, fearless to a fault, replied.

This time it was a fault.

T
he hounds, restless from being in the kennels all week, stood on their hind legs in the large draw pen in the kennels. Everyone wanted to go, so Sister and Shaker took most of the pack—with the exception of Asa, who needed rest, and Cora. Cora and Dragon did not get along; fangs would be bared and insults traded. This would go on even during hunting, if one tried to outrun the other. So master and huntsman decided to take the slightly younger hound.

In the girls’ large run, along with three youngsters not quite a year old, Cora pleaded her case.
“You can’t go without me. Dragon is an idiot. He overruns the line. He has temper tantrums. Take me! Take me!”

Hearing Cora cry, the three young girls cried along with her. They didn’t know why they were howling since they hadn’t yet hunted and would not be doing so until next season, but if this lead hound was making a fuss, they would, too.

A large field of hunters patiently waited by the kennels. Everyone, like the hounds, was stir-crazy. Walter was at a medical convention,
so he wasn’t there, which was too bad. It’s always good to have your joint-master with you when footing is questionable. Actually, it’s good to have your joint-master out anytime.

Tootie would ride with Sybil today and Betty would, as always, take the right side, on Magellan. Sybil was working with a young Thoroughbred, Buster. She figured a sloppy day like today was good for the five-year-old.

With Sister on his back, Lafayette was calm, while waiting for Howie to open the gate. Felicity rode in the field with the Custis Hall girls. Donny Sweigart was out. In fact, everyone who could throw a leg over a horse seemed to be there.

As the people waited, Bobby overheard a lady telling another that Art DuCharme had been pulled over yesterday, his truck searched. That caused a ripple of comment and the lady in question didn’t like Art, since he had not succumbed to her charms. The fact that Art would one day inherit Old Paradise along with his cousin was not lost on a certain type of woman.

“Found nothing,” she said. “Full of furniture and a large box of furniture polish.”

“I’m sure that furniture would look wonderful in your house, dear,” Renata Meroveus cooed.

Others smiled, but behind their gloved hands.

“Hounds, please,” Sister called and off they walked.

The only possible first cast would be on higher ground and the foxes would fly low as soon as they could. For all the melting, some snow remained in low spots, though yesterday’s high winds swept over meadows, speeding up the drying process.

Sister could hear sucking sounds as Lafayette walked along the mucky farm road heading toward Hangman’s Ridge, but it could have been a lot worse.

Shaker cast in the apple orchard. Hounds ran to Inky’s den.

“I’m not coming out,”
Inky called up from her living room.

Dragon stuck his head into the main den entrance.
“Spoil sport.”

“Come along then,” Shaker commanded and the hounds walked back out to the road and popped over the jump into the large open field between Roughneck Farm and After All.

The hounds tried, were so focused. They headed to the foundation of the first cabin, the stone still relatively intact. A big walnut tree grew out of the middle. The fox called Target had been there; his scent was strong enough to open.

Speaking, but not in unison, the hounds trotted from that foundation to the middle of the field.

They split, one half going straight to After All and one half going toward Hangman’s Ridge. Both sides were now screaming.

Shaker followed the half heading toward the ridge, figuring the ground rose higher, hence better footing.

After All had good footing in the woods, but Broad Creek would be an obstacle on a day like today.

Betty easily took the hogsback into After All, although she could feel Magellan’s hind hooves sink deeper than usual in the mud. Hearing the huntsman’s horn in the other direction, she had to try to turn the pack back to him and the other half of the pack—no easy task on open ground. In woods, it’s even more difficult. She urged Magellan on, trying to get ahead of the pack, which she did. Then silence.

Betty wisely waited. No point in rushing right back. Better to remain still and listen. Someone would yelp, or she’d hear something underfoot. The footing in the woods was pretty good. Slushy snow stuck to the paths.

She heard a yip, then a yap. Then silence again. She headed Magellan toward the last yap, picking her way through the woods. She came upon the hounds casting about and, as she did so,
Trooper, farther into the woods than the others, let out a clear signal. All the dogs ran to him and off they went, all speaking.

Damn, damn, double damn
, Betty thought as she fought her way through the overhang, dead branches on the ground. She swerved Magellan around fallen trees. Finally, she made it out to a narrow deer path heading north and south. Hounds wailed, and she could hear the other half of the pack, full cry.

She pulled ahead of the hounds, whom she could see as they ran through the woods. Now that she was on a path, she figured she’d stay parallel to them. If they turned inward, she’d go back in, but her best shot would be if they’d come out and cross the path. If not, she’d do what she could to get up on their shoulder. There was no way she was going to get ahead of them if she had to plunge into the woods again.

Sure enough, they turned, Trooper in the lead, right toward her. She had just enough space to crack her whip and she did. It sounded like rifle fire. All heads came up. Her shouting could be ignored and sometimes was. This, maybe not.

“Leave it!” Betty bellowed.

A few hesitated. “I said, ‘Leave it.’ Come to me.”

“We’d better do it.”
Tootsie warned.
“She sounds really mad.”

One by one, they came to the path, as they weren’t but ten yards off of it when Betty cracked the whip.

Looking down, Betty noticed large human footprints on the path. The footprints led directly into the woods where the hounds had been. Curious, she walked in and saw footprints again, now a line, and a brush along the snow. There were no fox tracks. A drag. Someone had dragged a foxtail through here.

“What in the hell is this?”

The hounds looked up at her on Magellan and Taz chipped,
“Fox scent.”

“Hounds, this isn’t good. In fact, this is terrible.”

How terrible Betty didn’t know but she picked up a trot, keeping the hounds with her by using encouraging words. She headed for the horn, the sound of which grew farther and farther away.

Sister followed the other half of the pack, staying about twenty yards behind them as they zigged and zagged over the meadow, then ran under the fence back onto the farm road just below Hangman’s Ridge.

The jump, already sloppy, would become even sloppier as each horse in the field took it.

Sister gave thanks that she was second over; Shaker had been first. Tootie and Sybil had to be somewhere in the orchard.

The hounds lost the scent on the road. Some hurried into the orchard, others kept trying to the right of the road.

Sister moved up and out of the way of the jump. As she did, Dragon opened, nose down. Moving deliberately, he ducked into the tangle at the bottom of the ridge. Deer paths, passable but full of switchbacks and some rough spots, allowed Sister to get closer to the hounds. Obviously, the farm would have been ideal, but this fox had other ideas, moving farther east at the bottom of the ridge.

She could hear more hounds open now, as those in the orchard came to Dragon. She walked along the bottom, as she knew a path near a large rock overhang. She’d have to pick her way up, but it could be done. Behind her, she could hear people hung up at the jump.

Turning around, she saw the forward riders trotting to catch up with her. Knowing her mind, Lafayette stepped onto the paths and began the upward climb.

The rock outcropping reminded her of Devil’s Den at Gettysburg. It felt colder suddenly; snow filled many crevices. The path curved toward the giant rock, then climbed above it. She came out
on the ridge above a pile of huge rocks. Large old conifers and some deciduous trees grew here. Their branches, having been pulled down by snow, still hung low. Some of the pines still had tufts of snow on the needles.

Lafayette snorted. Sister heard horses below her beginning the climb. She heard a crack, a slash of fire from high up in one of the pines, then felt a hard hit over her heart. She slipped off Lafayette, hitting her head on the ground.

The horse didn’t move, but put his face down to the unconscious woman.

Target doubled back, looking up at the horse. The fox swiftly moved beside the woman who fed him. He touched her cheek. The hounds had turned, so he sped off without saying anything to Lafayette.

The dogs reached Sister just as the first rider climbing the path did.

“Hold hard,” Edward Bancroft called.

He maneuvered his horse to the right of Lafayette. There wasn’t much room.

Dragon already had his nose to Sister’s and the pack surrounded her.

“She’s alive,”
the head hound called.

Shaker was blowing the hounds back to him, but they didn’t obey.

Betty had no idea what had happened and was trying hard to get to the horn.

The shooter, down from his perch, was sliding down the steep side of the ridge, progress hidden from view. But the hounds heard him. Dragon wheeled away from Sister in pursuit. The pack followed.

Dragon let out a deep call, which the hounds with Betty heard. They, too, took off.

Shaker struggled to get up with his pack, as did Tootie and Sybil.

Betty pushed Magellan on. A fast horse, she made up the ground. She saw the pack ahead of her, closing fast on a man with a rifle strapped across his back. He cut back into the woods, climbed up a tree just above the hounds, unslung his rifle, and focused through his scope. Betty was dead center. Dragon and the hounds leapt up, one grabbing the toe of his boot as he fired. The shot hit the top of her hard hat, creasing it.

The force knocked Betty off Magellan. Unhurt, she picked herself up out of the wet field, then laid back, flat, her helmet upside down in the field. Magellan took off toward the barn.

Hearing the hounds, Betty, face muddied, looked up. She saw the hounds around the bottom of a tree and a man in it.

She crawled, then rolled. He didn’t fire.

With no time to think whether she was crazy or scared, she stood up, sprinting toward the woods. She’d be a tougher target out of the clear.

Reaching the edge, she got behind a tree. Peering out, she saw the hounds yanking at Tariq’s feet. He kept kicking at them, but he couldn’t get his rifle properly aimed downward.

She saw Sybil and Tootie emerge above him on the old trail.

“Get out!” Betty shouted.

Tariq didn’t see but he heard the two women above him. He could fire up and he did. Then he reached up, pulling himself up a bit higher, in the tree, firing in Betty’s direction. She heard the bullet whiz past yards away, then thunk into a tree.

Sybil ordered Tootie, “Get back up on the ridge. Take my horse with you.”

With that, she dismounted, slipped her .22 pistol with ratshot out of the holster and crept downward, one tree at a time.

Tootie did as she was told. Fit to be tied, Shaker was calling and calling his hounds. Tootie hollered to him for all she was worth.

He made his way to her as she headed to the ridge. She told him what she had seen. He dismounted, taking his ratshot, handing Hobo’s reins to Tootie.

“Wait here.” The muscular huntsman ran down the deer path.

The hounds, treeing their human quarry, set up a booming racket.

Much as Tariq wanted to shoot them, he knew people were coming for him. Cursing, because he might have made it, he reached into his pocket for more shells.

Sybil and Shaker, working together now that Shaker had reached her, fanned out, moving toward Tariq.

The hounds heard them coming, but the Egyptian did not.

A flurry of ratshot hit the tree. He ducked, turning away from the shooter. He realized he had a chance to get away if he could kill or wound the hunt staff, especially Shaker and Sybil, who were closing in. Betty was below him. He didn’t know who was above him, but he figured it had to be staff.

Betty left her tree and ran to another.

She picked up a small rock jutting out of the soft earth, threw it for all she was worth. It clattered, hitting a tree near the one the hounds surrounded.

It was enough to draw Tariq’s attention. Shaker, who had been stealthily making his way down, fired, as did Sybil, from the opposite direction.

Tariq tried to fire at them, but lost his balance and fell from the tree, the rifle discharging into the air. That fast, Dragon ripped out his throat.

“I
’ve always wanted a purple boob,” Sister told Betty, Tootie, and Gray as she sat in the den, her feet up.

“Thank God you bought that cigarette case,” said Gray. “I’m glad I didn’t say anything about the cost.” He smiled. “It’s priceless.”

He picked up the case from the coffee table. A bullet wedged in the middle of it, the tip flattening against the back side.