Outfoxed

CHAPTER 45

There’s a ghoulish streak in humankind. An airplane crashes in a field. People rush to witness the disaster and be horrified by body parts strewn over a mile or so. Traffic slows at a car accident not simply because a police officer demands it but because drivers and passengers can’t resist straining to catch sight of blood and maybe even guts.

Perhaps it’s a fascination with death or a secret relief that this time it’s not you. Whatever, people are strange in a way other animals are not.

More people arrived at the Beveridge Hundred fixture than had gone to opening hunt. Sister, Shaker, Doug, Betty, and Cody were given their .22 revolvers back Friday night, the evening before the hunt. None of them had fired the shot that killed Fontaine. In fact, none of the guns had been fired at all.

Since Fontaine was killed by a .38, Sheriff Sidell had tested Shaker’s .38, as well as Betty’s and Cody’s, since they were carrying that caliber in a holster under their coats. Those guns hadn’t been fired either.

After a short acknowledgment of Fontaine’s passing, Sister Jane nodded to Shaker, who cast hounds into an old house ruin at the rear of the big house. Beveridge Hundred, one of the first plantations built after Europeans pushed into the piedmont, had weathered the fluctuations of finance and wars over the centuries. Outbuildings crumbled during bad times, some were rebuilt during the good times, but the big house was kept running come hell or high water—and both had come to Beveridge Hundred.

Hounds poked around the old outbuilding, fanning out until Diana said, “Here.”

As she was a young hound, normally other hounds would wait for a tried-and-true hound to second the find but Diana had earned the respect of Cora and Archie. They honored her find and within minutes the hounds, huntsman, whips, and field rolled over the sweeping river-bottom meadows of the three-hundred-year-old estate.

The fox executed a large, loopy figure eight, then ran the same territory again in a circle. Sister figured they were on a gray, a distant relative of Butch and family, no doubt.

The loop became tighter and on the third run, now at speed, the fox ducked under a timbered farm bridge to his den. Hounds raced to the den, dug, howled, and celebrated their prowess. The gray was already at another exit just in case the huntsman didn’t call the hounds off.

Shaker dismounted, praised his hounds, and blew triumphantly on his horn.

“I put the fox to ground,” Dragon bragged.

“We all put the fox to ground.” Archie acidly bumped the younger hound, who stumbled.

“I was first. I am the fastest hound in this pack.”

“And the most foolish,” Dasher chided his brother.

The argument progressed no further, for the air, sparkling, and the temperature in the mid-forties suggested another fox might be found if they didn’t tarry.

Shaker trotted the pack a quarter of a mile away and then cast them back toward the big house. They picked up a line, then dropped it. Picked another and dropped it. Scenting became spotty until a solid squatty hound stopped in his tracks. “Hey, what’s this?”

Archie inspected. “Not deer. I vaguely remember this.”

“Bear,” Cora said definitively.

“Ah, well, you know the fox scent is evaporating and I don’t recall us ever being given a lecture about bear, now, do you?” Archie had a twinkle in his kind, brown eyes.

“Well, then!” Cora’s stern waggled a moment and she was off, the whole pack behind her gleefully chasing a bear, gleefully bending the rules because even hounds need to cut a shine now and then.

Doug rode ahead as first whipper-in. Betty rode on the left and Cody on the right. Territory was wide open, rolling hayfields and corn stubble.

The jumps, mostly post and rail or stacked logs, had sunk over the years so even the most timid negotiated them.

On and on they ran under a climbing November sun, pale gold. A thin line of cedars obscured the next field but they soon charged through that, around the edge of freshly planted winter oats and into a manicured woods. Virginians called cleaned-up woods “parked out.”

A roar and a shout from Doug did not halt hounds. Shaker pushed his horse harder while Betty rode into him. Sister realized something was unusual. She held up her hand to stop. Behind her those who couldn’t control their horses bumped into those who could, which sent curses into the air, looks of reproach, and a few apologies.

A black bear, displeased at the attention, stood on her hind legs. She would have broken the neck of any hound who jumped her or torn the life right out of any who attacked.

“Scum!” she bellowed.

Diana, not a coward but not a fool, stopped, as did most of the other hounds.

“Leave it!” Doug shouted while struggling to keep Rickyroo under control.

“I’m out of here!” Rickyroo reared up.

Doug hung on for dear life as Betty and Outlaw rode up. Outlaw, a brave fellow, had no desire to stay in close proximity to the bear but he held his ground as Betty cracked her whip.

“I’ll kill every damn one of you!” the bear threatened.

“Oh my God.” Ricky, utterly terrified, bucked, reared, shimmied sideways, and eventually dislodged Doug, who landed flat on his back.

The bear thought this interesting and she lumbered toward Doug, who rolled over, trying to get to his feet.

Hounds gathered by the fallen whip.

“Back off. Back off. We didn’t know we were that close!” Archie snarled.

“By the time I’m finished with you you’ll never hunt bear again.” Her fangs glistened and she snapped her jaws rapidly open and shut, making a clicking sound.

Shaker pulled his .38 but the bear, on all fours, headed toward Doug and he was afraid to fire. He fired overhead, which frightened the hounds, who associated the sound with stop-this-instant. The hounds moved to Shaker except for Archie, Cora, Diana, and Dragon.

Betty squeezed Outlaw hard and the sturdy quarter horse leapt past the fray and came behind Doug as he managed to get to his feet.

“Back off!” Archie growled as the bear stood up again, ready to swipe the horse.

Doug grabbed Betty’s outstretched arm and using Outlaw’s motion, he put both feet together and bounced once on the ground to swing up behind Betty.

Diana, Cora, and Dragon circled the bear, hoping to confuse her, but she was intelligent as well as angry. She lunged for the horse burdened by two riders and Archie sprang up, grabbing her paw. Cora, Diana, and Dragon struck from behind. Distracted, the bear forgot about Betty, Doug, and Outlaw. She took her free paw and smashed down on Archie’s head. He didn’t loosen his grip. She bashed him again then threw him off like an old rag doll.

The three other hounds let go as the bear ran off. Shaker, once certain that Doug and Betty were all right, hurried to his anchor hound.

Archie lay on his side, blood pouring from his mouth.

Cora lifted her head and howled, a cry of pure anguish, for she loved old Archie. The other hounds followed their strike hound.

Shaker knelt down, joined by Doug.

“Oh, Archie.” Shaker felt for the hound’s pulse.

Tears rolled down Betty’s face. She’d had no tears for Fontaine when she rode up on him after being called in by Shaker. Perhaps it was shock or perhaps in her mind Fontaine wasn’t worth her tears but Archie was.

Shaker lifted the hound, carrying him back to his horse. Archie’s broken neck dangled. Hounds ceased crying and obediently followed the huntsman, although the air was filled with sorrow.

Archie was draped in front of Shaker’s saddle. He mounted up, holding the hound with his right hand while he held the reins with his left.

He rode up to Sister, who was about five hundred yards away but in the cleared-out woods. She and the field had witnessed everything.

“Ma’am.” He could barely speak.

Sister’s eyes clouded. “I think we’ll call it a day, Shaker.”

A field member offered Doug his horse, which was proper. Anytime a staff member loses a horse, a member of the field should always dismount and offer theirs. Although most old-line foxhunters know this, few do it, since staff ride hard.

“Thanks. I’ll walk back to the trailers.” Doug touched his cap.

As he walked back, head hanging, Doug wiped away his own tears. It wasn’t until Beveridge Hundred came into view that he realized he hadn’t seen Cody. She’d been clearly in sight even as they barreled through the line of cedars. He’d lost sight of her at the field of winter oats but then there’s no reason one whip should see another.

However, the pack ran tight. He didn’t think anyone had straggled off.

He asked around as he passed trailers and people untacking their horses. No, she wasn’t back yet.

He walked over to Sister. “Cody’s not back.”

Sister glanced around. She’d been so distraught over Archie’s death she hadn’t counted her whips or her field.

“Ask Shaker to blow her in.”

Doug walked fast now to the hound trailer. Shaker had placed Archie on the front seat of the truck, a towel under him and an old horse blanket over him. Although the hound was dead Shaker somehow felt he had to be covered.

“Cody’s not back. Sister wants you to blow for her.”

Shaker strode to a small rise, held the horn to his lips, and blew three long, long blasts. It didn’t bring Cody but it brought Jennifer.

“I’ll go look for her.”

“No. Not with the bear out there,” Doug commanded her.

Crawford sensed the problem and willingly pitched in. “Let’s unhitch my truck; it’s four-wheel drive. I think we can get back there.”

“We’d better do it,” Shaker grimly agreed, as did Sister, who joined in on the hillock.

As the people turned back, Jennifer stayed on the rise. “Hey, wait!”

Cody, walking arm held against her waist, was leading Motorboat, her chestnut. Jennifer ran out to greet her. Doug followed.

“What happened?” Jennifer took Motorboat’s reins.

“Bear ran right by us. Scared the shit out of Motorboat and me, too. I hit the ground.” She sheepishly grinned.

“Thank God that’s all,” Sister whispered to herself.

St. Just, perched on top of the stable weather vane, said nothing. He was making a point of shadowing the hunt.

A silent pack of hounds rode back to the kennels.

Finally Cora said, “There will never be another Archie.” She paused. “We must have an anchor hound. It’s a hard position to play, kind of like a catcher in baseball. Not much glory. A lot of work and you’ve got to know the batters.”

No one spoke.

Later as the hounds bedded down, curling up with one another, Cora filled the stillness. Every hound’s head lifted as she said, “Diana. You’ll learn as you go.”