Full Cry

CHAPTER 21

Turning slowly, the water wheel fed a stream of clear water from the upper pond into the lower pond. Buried beneath the frost line, the pipes stayed clear. That portion above the frost line was wrapped in heat tape. Cindy Chandler hated draining pipes in winter. Her expensive solution worked. It worked for the fish, too; as a constant source of oxygen, freshening water poured into the hole in the ice.

Another warming trend sent fissures throughout the ice in the pond, looking like dark veins. The creeks, running strong, had ice crystals embedded along the sides. Thicker ice, melting, raised the water level.

The earth at ten that Thursday morning had a thin, slick coating as the frost turned to dew. Ground was softening.

Dana and Diddy, eager to make a good showing, opened when they caught scent of Grace. She frequented the ponds nightly, and sometimes even in broad daylight.

Cora chided the two young ones for being overeager. Grace’s line, old, would lead only to her den. Patience might yield a better scent. Cora hoped they’d hop Uncle Yancy. He liked to dash to the rehabilitated old schoolhouse at the edge of Foxglove Farm.

“Isn’t any scent as good as any other?” Diddy inquired, disappointed.

“No,” Cora, nose to the ground, told the first-year entry emphatically. “If this were a difficult scenting day, I’d advise you to keep on that line, but look, youngster, look.” Cora lifted her head and stared at the lovely house visible about half a mile away.

“I don’t see anything.” Diddy was puzzled.

“Smoke from the chimney. It’s held down and flattening out instead of rising straight up. See? Like a big paw is pushing it back. That’s good. Then look at the sky.” As the young hound did, Cora continued, “Low gray clouds, a kind of dove gray. They’ll hold the scent down for us. And the temperature is just about right.” Cora inhaled deeply, the pungent odor of the earth filling her nostrils as the frost melted away. “Forty degrees or close. We will find a hotter line than Grace’s.”

Dana, impressed, asked, “How did you know that line was Grace’s?”

Cora chuckled. “Well, it’s like being a catcher in baseball. You remember pitchers. And if Asa, Arden, Diana, Dasher, or I pick up a fox scent that we don’t recognize, we are extra attentive. This fox will run in a different pattern. When you’re excited, when scent is scorching, it’s easy to overrun the line of a strange fox. Now that doesn’t sound so bad, and on a day like today, we’d find it again in a jif.” She puffed out her deep chest. “But on a spotty day, if we overrun, we could blow the whole hunt. Shaker and Sister would know, too. They don’t have good noses—they can’t help that—but they have very good eyes, and they know their quarry and know us. We have to be on top of our game.”

Diddy’s soft brown eyes welled up as she put her nose down again. “Oh, I don’t want to get drafted out. I want to be a good hound.”

Ardent, behind the girls, hearing the entire exchange, encouraged the two D girls, “Now, now, that won’t happen. You’ll be just fine. Takes a year or two to learn the ropes. And hounds get drafted for different reasons. You’ll be fine.”

Dana, nervous about this drafting concept, whispered, “Like what?”

“Too fast. Too slow. Doesn’t get along with others. Not the right nose for our conditions,” Ardent explained. “But Sister and Shaker are very careful where they draft a Jefferson Hunt hound. We get sent only to good places, and sometimes she’ll send a hound to help another hunt’s breeding program and then the hound comes back. Usually she’ll send one of the girls for that, but once she lent Archie to a pack in Missouri for a summer.”

“I don’t want to leave here.” Diddy lifted her ears up.

“Chances are, you won’t.” Cora noticed Dragon on her right. His stern stood still, then he began to move vigorously. “We may be in business.”

“Uncle Yancy!” Dragon called out.

Diana, better able than most to deal with her brother’s outrageous ego, loped over, put her nose down, and seconded his call. “Yancy!”

Dragon, already running, pulled the pack with him, all eighteen couple on this promising January morning.

Shaker blew the three short doubled notes in succession three times. When the rest of the pack dropped on the line, he blew “Gone Away”—a long blast followed by two or three short toots, short notes doubled three or four times in succession.

Sister, with the field of twenty-nine, large for a Thursday, felt her heart pound. No matter how many times over the years she heard “Gone Away,” it gave her chills.

She squeezed Rickyroo, a lovely rangy thoroughbred with a big heart who was still learning the ropes. They trotted away from the ponds, down a slick crease in the meadows. Once off that, she moved up to a canter, but before she knew it, speed accelerated.

One of Cindy’s stonewall jumps with a telephone pole on top of the stones loomed ahead. Horses take solid jumps seriously, often sailing over a stiff solid obstacle better than a lower, airy one. Rickyroo, feeling he could jump the moon, pricked his ears forward, lifted off, and landed, sliding slightly. Sister wondered how that footing was going to be for the last riders in the field.

Hilltoppers, only six today, cantered behind Tedi Bancroft. She never minded leading Second Flight if Bobby couldn’t come out that day. She always said she had more views in Second Flight than she did in First Flight.

Edward Bancroft rode in Sister’s pocket today, with Walter behind him; Xavier, Clay, Ronnie, Sam, Gray, Marty, Crawford, Dalton, Alexander Vajay, and the rest of the field fanned out behind them.

Once over the stone wall, they cut into the edge of a parked-out woods—meaning the underbrush had been cleared at least fifty feet in. Pretty as it was, Sister deplored the practice. Thick underbrush brought in game, especially rabbits, who are edge feeders. No self-respecting rabbit will sit out in the middle of a big field or parked-out woods unless there aren’t any predators for a great distance.

Once in the parked-out woods, they hit on a farm trail that petered out into a deer trail. The underbrush, even in winter, tangled on both sides. Old creeper vines, pricker bushes, and endless mountain laurel kept Uncle Yancy from view. Not far off, he was running flat out. He had fallen asleep, awakening only when he heard Cora talking to Diddy. Age was catching up with Yancy, and he had a habit of dozing off on a warm rock, or in a big rolled-up bale or even a stall.

Dragon, quick as Mercury, flew not five minutes behind Yancy. Dragon was determined to catch the old fox, snap his neck, and throw his carcass over his head. Dragon dreamed of such glories.

Yancy at this moment wondered if he could make it to his den underneath the schoolhouse. He zigzagged through the brush, knowing it would slow down the larger, heavier hounds, then he slid into the creek that fed into Broad Creek. Once in the creek, he stayed there for one hundred yards, trotting over the stones, moving downstream, swimming when he had to swim. A fallen log up ahead beckoned. He clambered up, ran along the log, and then landed on the opposite bank.

The hounds moved on both sides of the creek, with Dragon beside himself, foolishly splashing in the creek. Yancy nearly got away with it, but Asa, wise in his years, saw the log, made for it, jumped on it, put his nose down, and sang out a deep resonant note. Then he jumped off and picked up the line, bringing the whole pack right with him.

Diana, steady, anchored the hounds. Dana and Diddy would glance up front to her, or Cora, for guidance.

Bitsy, visiting Cindy’s barn, shadowed the pack when she heard them. The screech owl flew silently ahead. Almost noiseless in the air, prey doesn’t hear an owl until it glances up and those fearsome talons, even on a little owl like Bitsy, reach down and grab it. Bitsy adored Uncle Yancy since both enjoyed gossip.

“Yancy, Yancy, duck into the overgrown springhouse up ahead. A quarter of a mile. Hit the turbo.”

The springhouse, once used for the schoolhouse, had fallen into disuse. Its stone intact, the sluice of cold water still ran through, capable of keeping milk, cheeses, and meats cool for a day or two even in the hottest weather. Those children attending the school in the 1870s through the 1940s could put their bottles of milk and lunches in tins in the springhouse or even in the sluice and they would be fresh for lunchtime.

Dragon, gaining on Yancy, surged faster and faster, driven by the idea that he would make a kill.

Yancy tripped on a gnarly tree root pushed up between stones; he rolled over and over. Dragon drew close enough to see him roll. Bitsy drove down, fluttering in front of the sleek hound, baffling him for a moment, just enough time for Yancy to recover.

The old fox ducked into the springhouse, a tidy little hidey-hole in the corner.

Dragon howled at the shut door, the big old hinges black, powdered with a slight coating of rust, holding the heavy oaken door in place. He spun around to the side where the water ran through, flattened and wriggled, tried to get in through the sluice. He was too large. The small den, made by an industrious fox generations past, was well placed. Yancy had sucked way back into the living quarters. He blinked, wondering how many exits there were. If Dragon started digging, would Yancy choose the right exit or wind up in the middle of the pack?

Shaker, up with his forward hounds, swung off Showboat. He couldn’t open the door, so he blew “Gone to Ground” as the slimmer members of the pack crawled in the sluice. Once inside the springhouse, the din was phenomenal. Shaker, pure frustration, was outside with the larger hounds and an irate Dragon.

Betty, riding hard, came in, hopped off Magellan, and the two of them sweated over the big old door, creaking on its hinges.

“Damn. I hope Yancy is okay.”

“Yancy can take care of himself.” Betty had learned to admire the senior citizen over the years. He had a big bag of tricks.

They still couldn’t get the rusted door open.

Walter rode up. “Master, may I help?”

“Of course.”

As Walter was the strongest man in the field, Sister readily gave him permission to move ahead of her.

Walter jumped down, put his shoulder to it. The door gave way, the sound of old iron grating on iron eerie in the deepening gray.

Yancy slithered down a pathway underground that hooked right, in the direction of the schoolhouse. He hoped so anyway.

He popped out. Yes, there they all were: the humans, their sides to him, and no one was looking. He didn’t trust Dragon. He knew the hound might not obey the huntsman. He took a deep breath. Bitsy watched with apprehension. Yancy crept up out of the exit hole, slinking, belly to the ground, toward the schoolhouse. He’d be able to use the woods and then he’d come out into the open pastures where he knew he’d have to use every ounce of speed left within him.

Sister, catching movement out of the corner of her eye, saw him. She counted to twenty, considered the circumstances, counted twenty more, then said, “Tallyho.”

Shaker, blowing “Gone to Ground” in the springhouse, didn’t hear. Betty did and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Tallyho. Sister.”

Without a word, Shaker bolted out of there, his hounds following. He vaulted into the saddle, touching the horn to his lips, then thought better of it. “Come along.”

Once the hounds cleared the springhouse, Walter struggled with the door. Shaker blew the hounds to where Sister sighted Yancy. She stood still, horse’s head pointed in the direction in which Yancy was traveling. Her cap was off her head, arm outstretched in the direction, also, the tails fluttering in the strengthening wind.

“Yes!” Diddy caught a scent so fresh it nearly knocked her over.

Within seconds, all were on. A dark coop was nestled in the old fence line between the woods and the pastures. Shaker cleared it first, Sister twenty yards behind. Once in the pasture, they saw Yancy streaking for the schoolhouse, Dragon leading the hounds thirty yards behind him, and the rest of the pack moving up, the young entry showing more speed than Sister had anticipated.

But Yancy had enough of a head start just to make it. He dove into his spacious den, the biggest entrance along the basement of the old clapboard structure. Once there, he flopped on his side, trying to catch his breath. That was a close call. He hated to admit that he was slowing down, his judgment getting sloppy, but it was true.

Overhead, Bitsy shadowed. Sister looked up to see the sturdy little screech owl intently watching the pack. The owl emitted an earsplitting shriek when she landed on the cupola of the roof.

Later Sister reflected on that. There was so much humans don’t know about species cooperating with one another. Just why, she couldn’t say, but that made her think again about the Jim Meads photograph, the one showing a hot glance between Izzy Berry and Dalton Hill.