The Fox and the Hound (21 page)
fresh; but an instant's check told him the scent was really couple of hours old, only just now released by the change in temperature and the wind speed. Even so, the fox was somewhere around. She was a vixen, and new to the country - at least Copper had never scented her before.
They reached the grove and halted. The field had been plowed here, and scenting was so bad Copper did not even trouble to cast around him, He sat down and waited beside the Master.
He could smell the horses coming, then the hounds, and then the people. Next, he could hear them. They were mounting the hill upwind of the cover. The huntsman shouted to the pack and waved his arm, whereupon they broke their tightly packed formation and bounded into the cover, spreading out as they did so. Copper could hear them charging about, and trembled with excitement. He longed to go in too, but the Master had said nothing.
Several of the hounds - puppies by their shrill voices - set up an excited clamor. Copper could hardly contain himself and even started forward, only to be ordered back. Those pups had found something, and he could hear the crashing of the older hounds as they tore through the brush to answer the call. Then came a perfect babel of sound, suddenly broken by the huntsman's tooting and the angry crack of whips. Copper could dimly see some large animals burst from the thicket and go bounding off as though they had springs in their legs. As they crossed downwind, he caught their scent. Deer. From the cover came the yelps of the pups, mingled with the gunshot-like reports of the whips. So these men were not after deer.
Suddenly there was another burst of sound, this time the deep cries of experienced old hounds. The pack were on something, something that was unwilling to leave the cover and was doubling back and forth. The hounds were running into each other in their efforts to follow the crisscrossing trails. Whatever it was, it could not stay in there long. The Master had to grab Copper by the loose skin of his neck to control him.
A few yards away, and downwind, a shadow slipped out and fled across the plowed land. It was the same vixen he had scented on the way up. Copper saw and smelled her, gave tongue at the top of his voice, and would have given chase if the Master had not grabbed him with both hands. The hounds began to burst out of the cover, shouting with excitement. Then the horn spoke, the mounted men dashed between the flying fox and the hounds to turn them. Copper watched with anger and surprise. These men were after neither deer nor fox. What did they want?
The hounds were still questing about, but now there was no sign. Copper could hear the huntsman's voice encouraging them, and recognized the tone if not the words. Clearly the man thought that something else was still in there even though the hounds were growing discouraged. Several ran out, went over to the Master to sniff and wag their tails, and then trotted around aimlessly, hoping someone would tell them what to do. A number were gray-muzzled veterans, and if they could not own a line, the situation was bad indeed.
The huntsman was shouting now, and the Master answered him. The horn sounded, and the hounds ran to the sound. There was crashing in the cover as the huntsman rode out, calling the pack to him. When they were all clear, the Master ordered Copper into the grove.
The old bloodhound joyfully obeyed. He plunged into the tangle, yelping as the prickly twigs tore his great ears, and then began to cast around. The thicket was an almost hopeless mess of hound scents, mingled with horse and crushed herbage, yet Copper persisted. He found the traces of the vixen's scent but ignored them, as for some reason she was not to be hunted. She had urinated in her terror, and Copper sniffed the damp earth. She was heavy in whelp and could have been run down easily, but the ways of man were inexplicable. He continued searching with head raised, hoping that in the comparatively warm thicket the scent might have risen a few inches from the fouled ground, giving him a better chance. The Master had followed him into the cover and was standing a few yards away so his scent would not add to the already polluted atmosphere. He spoke softly to the hound, urging him on.
There was a movement ahead of him, and a flood of warm scent rushed over Copper like a wave. This must be it, and in his excitement Copper gave tongue. A pheasant rocketed up under his nose, jerking out its alarm calls as it rose. Copper cringed for the beating he knew was coming, but the Master ignored the lapse and kept repeating softly: "Go get 'em, boy. Go get 'em." Copper did his best. There were ghosts of scent everywhere, yet none distinctive enough for him clearly to identify. Still, Copper's tail began to beat hopefully as he went from one nubben of scent to the next. The Master knew the signs, and his voice grew louder and more intense.
Little by little the conviction grew in Copper's mind that he recognized this scent. He did not dare to speak on it as yet, and sought desperately for one good spot of odor. He checked the twigs; he thrust his nose under damp logs where the scent might be lying; he scratched the earth and plunged his nose into the scratch, his great ears falling forward to make a pocket around his jowls that held every trace of odor rising from the ground. All he could get was the smell of damp earth from the recent rain, and the earth smell obliterated all other odors. He decided to trust to twigging.
Here it was! Here it was! The scent! It was, it was the odor of the fox he and the Master had sought so long! That fox was here, or had been here only a few minutes before. Now he understood why the pack had been turned away by the vixen. The mounted men, like the master, wanted only that one particular fox. Copper almost gave tongue, but the scent was still not quite strong enough, and the mistake over the pheasant still caused him to hesitate.
Step by step, he followed the line from the twigs to the edge of the cover. Here he was stopped by the plowed land. The huntsman and his pack were on the other side of the cover, and Copper could see no signs of life as he stood with his head up, hoping to catch some airborne scent. The Master shouted, and from some distance away came a man’s voice answering. Apparently the answer was not reassuring, for the Master wanted him to return to the cover and try again. Copper refused. Faint though the scent had been, it had definitely led out of the cover to this field. Following it over the furrows was impossible, and Copper knew it, yet he decided to make the attempt. He started out into the plowed field.
Away from the shelter of the trees, he felt the full force of the wind on his right jowl. The wind was cold, but the air was still so damp it kept any scent from spreading. He would have to be right on top of a fox before he could scent the animal; and a crouching fox, lying facing the wind so the breeze did not ruffle his fur, was difficult enough to scent at any time.
Crows had begun screaming somewhere over the field. At the sound, the Master suddenly gripped him by the neck and ordered him to stand still. Copper obeyed, although he could see no reason for the command. The Master was calling urgently, yet without daring to shout, to someone. Suddenly the mechanical cawing of the crows changed to shrill screams, and increased in volume. The Master cursed and relaxed his grip.
A gust of wind swept up the hill and hit Copper full in the face. There it was! The fox! And he was running. The burst of energy had thrown his scent into the wind, and he was scudding across the field, doubtless with the crows wheeling and diving around him. The strong scent was too much for Copper. Throwing his full voice, he tore away, regardless of the Master's shouts and curses.
Within a few strides Copper ran out of the scent. He knew the fox had turned and the wind was no longer carrying the body odor to him, so he ran zigzagging, hoping to pick it up again. He could get nothing and finally halted, ashamed, while the panting Master caught up and cuffed him. In the distance he could hear men shouting, and now came the sound of the horn, dulled by the trees. The Master dragged him across the field and, pointing to a spot in a furrow, said, "Here, boy, here!" Copper applied his nose and instantly smelled where the fox had been lying. He must have stolen out of the cover, run a few yards into the field, and then, seeing mounted riders ahead of him, hidden in the furrow.
Copper promptly gave tongue; but once he left the spot where the fox had crouched, the scent vanished. The fox must have run along one of the ridges left by the plow, and the turned earth held no scent. Copper checked, and found the wind had blown the scent into the furrow beside the ridge. Here he could just barely follow it.
Copper hurried on as fast as he could. Behind him, he could hear the huntsman laying on the pack. None of them spoke, and Copper was not surprised. Not only was the scent very faint but its quality had changed considerably from the same scent lying in the dank, protected cover. Here in the open it was much more volatile, and the pack hounds probably could not immediately recognize it as the scent they had found among the dogwoods. The line was not strong enough to justify giving tongue, and besides, Copper needed all his energies simply to detect it, Even so, he gave an occasional yelp to tell the other hounds that he was indeed on the fox's trail.
The hounds recognized the cry, and several ran up and tried to find the line for themselves. When they could smell nothing, they turned away, naturally distrustful of this strange hound who was not a member of the pack and of whose scenting abilities they knew nothing. As Copper progressed, he came on small pockets of scent drawn into hollows in the furrow by heavy, warm air. Here the scent was distinct and he spoke to it dearly. The older hounds, acknowledging the authority in his voice, loped over to investigate, half a dozen loudly sniffing noses in each pocket. Ordinarily having so many hounds to help him would have been an advantage to Copper, as the more hounds spread out up and down the furrows, the more chance there would be of one of them finding a scent trace; but these animals did not have bloodhound noses and they only got in the way, to Copper's intense irritation. Several times he had to stop and snarl at them. Even the gray-muzzled old veterans were unable to match the bloodhound's marvelous nose, although they pressed to his dewlaps in trying to discover what he was trailing. The fox had jumped from ridge to ridge; so Copper had to cut back and forth to get the scent blown into the different furrows; and as the hounds had no idea what he was doing, he had to shove them aside.
Copper came to the end of the field, and hit grass. Now at long last the pack could take over, for here the scent rose strong. At the cry of the old hounds, the younger members of the pack dashed forward. At first it was only the old hounds who gave tongue, pressing forward close together to follow the narrow scent line, but as they advanced, the scent spread out from the pad marks so a dozen hounds running abreast could all carry the line. The wind was blowing so strongly that they ran not where the fox had run but nearly a hundred feet downwind of the line where the scent was being carried.
Copper was outdistanced almost at once and dropped behind, his feelings somewhat hurt, although the hound knew well that he could never keep up with these long-legged, barreled-chested animals. Actually, he was glad for a rest, as the constant strain of sniffing up the phantom traces of scent had drawn so much dust and dampness into his nostrils that saliva had begun to drip from his nose and mouth. Soon he had the satisfaction of seeing the older foxhounds drop back in their turn, letting the younger hounds rush forward, carrying a good head of scent, their puppy voices breaking into the deep, true bay of full cry.
The clouds had shredded away and the sun had broken through, so if it had not been for the wind the day would have been almost warm. Soon the sun would kill the scent, but now it served only to dry the damp air and allow the scent to rise. It was floating breast-high above the ground; and not being hampered by having to drop their heads, the pack went all out at top speed. The riders had had to go around the plowed and planted field; but now they tried to make up for lost time, and pounded past on either side, sometimes so close they made Copper finch. Copper disliked horses anyhow, but galloping horses really frightened him.
They crossed a stream that was all one brown torrent from the melting snows. Here were several riderless horses which were especially alarming, for they tore along hysterically, quite prepared to ride down man or hound. Men were remounting, the backs of their coats plastered with mud. The Master started running, and Copper loped along behind him, appalled by the whole proceeding. Clearly none of these people knew anything about fox hunting, which Copper regarded as a highly skilled science, not a mad rush.
The fox was running dead straight, clearly making for some definite goal that might be a hole, a thick cover, or a swamp where he could escape. Even the pups knew he must be pressed hard on this soft turf where scenting was excellent... with a little luck they might roll him over before he reached his sanctuary. As they gained on him, the scent grew increasingly fresh and strong until even Copper put forth his best efforts, baying with the others. But the fox still had a spurt left in him. He suddenly drew ahead and made it to a stand of hardwoods. Running along fallen trunks and doubling around stumps, he brought the pack to a stop.
