Full Cry

by Rita Mae Brown

  Sam smiled. “Yep. You know, if you were a few shades darker, Rory, you’d be a real bro‘.”

  Rory laughed, a genuine laugh. “Sam, you always were full of it.” Then he stopped and said slowly, “You look good, Sam; you look good. I’m proud of you.”

  As Sam walked back to the ancient Toyota, parked up on Main Street, he sent up a little prayer that the good Lord would help Rory find his way. And he prayed for Tony and Mitch. Something wasn’t right, his sixth sense warned.

  CHAPTER 14

  The mist rose off the earth like silver dragon’s breath. Eighty-two people quietly rode past the old Mill Ruins. Its two-story water wheel slowly turning, the lap of water comforting. Tiny ice crystals clung to the millrace, the straight chute of water feeding the mill.

  Thanks to the presence of British photographer Jim Meads, Saturday’s hunt brought out every Jefferson Hunt member not flattened with a cold or flu, as well as cappers from surrounding hunts. Vanity, a spur even to those who deny it, ensured the assemblage dazzled in their best.

  To Sister’s surprise, Dr. Dalton Hill was there, well turned out, riding a handsome Cleveland bay that suited him.

  Artemis must have had a fond spot for the indefatigable Mr. Meads, because she granted perfect hunting conditions. Light frost glittered on grass, stones, pin oak limbs, and the old vines hanging from trees. As the sun rose, this silvery coating turned to pink, then salmon, then scarlet in early-morning light.

  Sister upset people by casting hounds at sunup, but the sun rose at seven-fifteen on January 17, and it would afford Jim spectacular photographs. As Jim had flown in all the way from Wales, she could certainly get everyone’s nether regions in the saddle just as the pulsating rim of the sun crested the horizon.

  Sister beheld each sunrise with hope. Today’s promise hovered with the slightly rising temperature, the light frost, the sweet faint breeze out of the west.

  As hounds moved past the old mill, the mercury registered thirty degrees. Shaker would cast on the east side of the slopes, hoping for enough warmth that scent might lift off the fields. The temperature felt as though it would climb into the midforties by noon; scent should improve by the hour. The Weather Channel’s radar screen had shown a large band of rain clouds, circling counterclockwise. The first streaky clouds might sneak in from the west by nine o’clock. As further clouds moved in, the scent would—with luck—stay down.

  Sister kept a detailed hunting journal. She noted the temperature when starting, the wind, its direction, the first cast and draw, the couple of hounds hunting, her mount, the number of people. She religiously wrote in her journal as soon as she got into the house. She tried to be accurate, to remember each sweep of the hounds. She saved decades of journals. Perhaps years hence, some future master would profit from her attention to detail.

  Crawford spared no effort in his turnout. Sam Lorillard, although in an old habit, looked fine. His coat had been cut for him, as had his still serviceable boots.

  Walter wore his black swallowtail coat. Other members, ladies with colors, wore derbies with their frock coats. Sister liked that look. Because a shadbelly or a weaselbelly isn’t worn as often as a frock coat, many people didn’t own them, even though they might be entitled to wear them. Shelling out eight hundred dollars for the High Holy Day hunts or those special days with other hunts proved tough on the pocketbook, or too much for those inclined to be tight. So a well-cut bespoke frock, or one off the rack that had been modified by a hunting tailor, always created a smart appearance. The entire Vajay family wore perfectly cut frock coats of darkest navy, which was as correct as black. What a good-looking group they were.

  Jim, at six feet four inches and rail lean, had gotten the photographs he wanted as the field filed past the water wheel. He wore sturdy shoes, tough pants to repel thorns, and a much-loved waterproof jacket. Running kept him warm, so he wasn’t bundled up. He was already up ahead, skirting along the side of the farm road. He eagerly snapped away as Shaker, twenty-four couple of sleek hounds, and the two handsomely mounted whippers-in rode by him.

  Originally Sister had planned on entertaining the outgoing Jim, but Crawford begged to have him at Beasley Hall. Crawford reasoned that with his servants, and an extra car, Jim would luxuriate in amenities after his long journey. And Sister could always catch up with her favorite former British airman at tea. She gave in. Because she had a political agenda for Crawford, she wanted to make him happy. Crawford took this as a sign that he truly was on track to be named joint-master.

  Ronnie and Xavier smiled as they rode past Jim. Even Xavier’s weaselbelly didn’t help him look slimmer. He was disgusted with himself and Ronnie didn’t help matters by asking him when the blessed event would occur.

  Ronnie, always in shape, sat his horse smugly, his weaselbelly faded to the best shade of scarlet, his cream colored vest points protruding at the correct length, his fourfold stock tie, so white it hurt the eyes, tied with such aplomb that Ronnie was the envy of all who aspired to such splendor. Ronnie, like many gay men, had a way with clothes.

  Try as Crawford might, he looked too flash, though he was perfectly correct in his turnout. Ronnie, however, had pegged it just right.

  Clay looked good, too, although not as polished as Ronnie. He had a satisfied smile on his face since Izzy continued to thank him for the 500SL. Nothing like wake-up loving to put a man in a great mood. Izzy had already joined the Hilltoppers.

  Sister turned in the saddle, inspecting the long line behind her, snaking through the mist lifting off the millrace. Keepsake, gleaming, felt her turn. He kept his eyes and ears on the pack thirty yards ahead. His powers of smell, not as profound as a hound’s, were good, far better than any human’s. He detected a number of scents and wished Sister could as well. Both human and horse were passionate hunters, but Keepsake felt sorry that his rider’s nose was woefully underdeveloped. Humans couldn’t help it. They had fewer olfactory receptors, and with those pitiful little nostrils, how could anyone suck up scent?

  He flared his wide nostrils, being rewarded with the clear but fading odor of bobcat. Bobcats, if hounds get on a line, will give a rough chase. They’ll shoot through the meanest, lowest ground cover. Hounds get shredded with thorns. It usually doesn’t take long for the bobcat to have his fill of it. Since the bobcat is not a sporting animal by nature, he or she then will climb a tree, viewing those below with thick disdain.

  Hounds lifted their heads, winding.

  Sister noticed, but no sterns moved. She inhaled deeply, smelling the beguiling odor from the pines, the distinctive moist scent of the millrace.

  “Why aren’t you going over there‘?” Rassle, a precocious first-year entry, asked Dasher.

  “Bobcat.”

  “Ooh.” Rassle lifted his head higher. This was the first time he’d smelled such a varmint. Had he seen this particular customer, respect would have been his response. The male bobcat, a tight forty pounds, had padded down to the mill to snatch a little dog food. Walter put dog food and corn there and at other spots for the red foxes. For whatever reason, only reds lived at Mill Ruins.

  While he could and would run, a bobcat wouldn’t shy from a fight. His fangs, his lightning reflexes, and his frightening claws could reduce animals far larger than himself to a bloody mess.

  “Can we chase bobcat?” Ruthie, Rassle’s littermate, inquired.

  “If there’s no fox, we can, but,” Asa warned, “you don’t get too close, and you’d better be prepared to go through hateful briars.”

  “How about bear?” Ruthie was curious.

  “Well, again, if there’s no fox, but it’s not recommended.” Dasher spoke low.

  “And never forget, young ‘un, it was a bear that killed the great Archie,” Cora called back from the front. “Before you were born. I say we leave bear to Plott hounds.” Plott hounds, larger and heavier than foxhounds, were used to track bear. They were slower than foxhounds, possessed deep voices, and never ever surrendered the line once they found
scent.

  “Hear, hear.” Delia, Nellie, Ardent, Trident, and Tinsel agreed.

  “Any more of this talk and we’ll be accused of babbling. Sister will get really upset with Mr. Meads here,” Diana wisely noted.

  Even though they were not yet at the first cast, they were expected to move along quietly, focused on business. Shaker, hearing the chat, glowered at them, saying nothing. He wasn’t a huntsman to chide his hounds unless he felt they were doing wrong and would do so again. The invigorating early morning lifted the pack’s spirits. If they had a few words to say, he’d overlook it, but not encourage it.

  They reached a small pocket meadow, perhaps ten acres. The slope eastward glistened as a light vapor lifted off the warming frost.

  Shaker put horn to lips and blew “Draw the Cover”—one long blast and three short ones.

  “Lieu in there! Lieu in there,” Shaker called, his voice light and high, as hounds associated higher notes with happiness and excitement. Low notes among themselves, a growl, generally signaled discipline or disagreement.

  “I’ll get him first,” Dragon bragged.

  Cora ignored him, nose to the swept-down grass. The coldness tingled. The competing scents of rabbits, the bobcat, and deer all lifted into her amazing nose. The other hounds, noses down, read the pocket meadow. A gaggle of turkey hens had pecked their way through not an hour ago, then flew off as the bobcat came too close. The deer, a large herd, an old doe in charge, moved west to east. A few dots here and there signaled crows had touched down, but for what reason neither Cora nor the other hounds could discern. In warmer weather, the hounds could identify other scents, even insects. No insects in this weather, no pungent earthworm trails. A lone beaver had waddled along the edge of the meadow before turning back to the creek, which fed the millrace.

  The hounds carefully moved over the pocket meadow.

  Rassle was so enchanted with the bobcat scent that he wandered a little too far to the east, where the meadow sloped downward. He stopped in his tracks. His stern flipped back and forth furiously: fox! Indeed, a fresh fox track, too. Rassle had never before found a line on his own, and he was just first year, but he’d been to the fox pen enough, and he had watched the big kids do their job. With astonishing confidence, the young tricolor let out a rip.

  “Red! Big red!”

  Cora flew to him. She put her nose down. “He’s right”

  The others quickly came to Cora, and Asa called, “Showtime!”

  Marty leaned over to Crawford. “I just love that hound’s voice,” she whispered.

  He nodded, having no time to reply because the hounds shot out of the meadow. Sister, never one to get left behind, shot with them.

  Shaker tried to stay up with his lead hounds, Cora and Dragon, but as they’d gone into heavy woods, he skirted the thick part, emerging on an old deer trail. He squeezed Gunpowder, moving as fast as he could.

  Betty on Magellan today—a big rangy thoroughbred given to her by Sorrel Buruss—rocked in his long fluid stride. She covered the left side, the creek side. Shaker, trusting her, figured if there was going to be rough or tough duty, it would be there.

  “Ride to cry,” Shaker told his whippers-in if they couldn’t see the pack.

  Sybil was getting it, though, and the more she whipped-in, the more she appreciated what a difficult, exhilarating task it was. She felt as though she had the best seat in the house.

  “Tallyho!” Betty sang out as a big bushy-tailed red dog fox burst from the heavy woods into a cutover track that Walter hoped to turn into pasture this spring. Betty didn’t recognize the thick-coated fellow. She reasoned he wasn’t a local, so to speak, and she was correct.

  No fool, the fox knew the cutover would make for heavy going for the horses and slow down the hounds, since they were sixty to seventy pounds heavier than he.

  Betty, appreciating his guile, galloped to the old logging road, hoping to keep him in sight. He dashed through the cutover, twenty-five acres of slash, nimbly leapt over the old coop in the fence to the next, large meadow.

  Magellan loved to jump and he took off farther back than Outlaw, Betty’s quarter horse mount. She got left behind, her hands popped up.

  “Sorry, Magellan.”

  “You’ll get the hang of me,” he kindly assured her. He was delighted to have her on his back. His former owner, a hard-riding man, possessed okay hands, but he was a squeeze and jerk rider, which upset Magellan. In fact, the less you interfered with the rangy thoroughbred, the better he performed.

  The red fox, knowing Betty was there and alone, gave her a show. He had a perverse sense of humor. Also, he’d just visited a vixen, and he felt terrific. He pulled up sharp, sat down on the moss-covered rock outcropping in the meadow. A thin veneer of frost covered the bright green moss.

  Betty and Magellan pulled up, too.

  “The only reason men wear scarlet is to imitate foxes,” the fellow said. “All humans secretly want to be foxes”

  “Arrogant twit,” Magellan snorted.

  To Betty it sounded like barking, but his insouciance made her laugh. She heard hounds in full cry perhaps half a mile back.

  To her complete astonishment, Jim Meads appeared at the edge of the meadow, stopped, and took photographs of the fox, Betty, and Magellan.

  “My left side is my best.” The fox slowly turned to Jim. The silver-haired man, big smile on his face, snapped what he knew would be some of the best hunt pictures he’d ever taken, and he’d taken thousands.

  The hounds drew closer. The fox paid not a bit of mind. Only when Cora soared over the old coop, her form flawless and floating, did he bestir himself.

  “Ta-ta,” he called to Betty and Jim.

  Sister saw only Magellan’s tail and hindquarters as the horse took the stout log jump at the southwestern end of the field.

  Hounds streamed over the frost turning to dew, the subdued winter green of the grasses underneath shining through.

  Although it was only in the high thirties, Sister sweated underneath her shadbelly. Silk long Johns stuck to her skin, a trickle of sweat zigzagged down her left temple. She was running hard. She was going to run harder.

  Keepsake, in his glory, would have been only too thrilled to pass Gunpowder. However, he knew to stay behind as huntsman and mount flew over the logs. It irked him all the more since he thought he could outrun Gunpowder. He tired of hearing the gray thoroughbred, a former steeplechaser, deride Keepsake because he was a thoroughbred/quarter horse cross. Keepsake knew he had the stuff. Not all thoroughbreds were snobs, but Gunpowder was.

  The field stayed well together, a testimony to their riding abilities; it would have been easy to get strung out on such a day. The footing started out tight but was getting sweaty in spots.

  Ahead, another fence line hooked into the old three-board fence at a right angle. Sister took the log jump, then turned sharply left to soar over a stiff coop. You had to hit that second jump just right, which meant you had to put your right leg on your horse’s the instant his or her hooves touched the earth from the first jump.

  Sister knew she’d lose a few people at this obstacle, or they’d go past the second jump and wait for the rest of the field to clear before taking it. If a person misses a jump or his or her horse refuses, hunting etiquette demands he or she go to the end of the line. The exception to this is staff. Should a staff horse refuse a jump, which can happen, the staff person, who always has the right of way, may try again. If he or she can’t get the animal over, a person in the field, usually Sister, gives them a lead. Now and then, even the best of staff horses will take a notion to refuse.

  The red flew straight as an arrow, not doubling back, ducking into a den, or even cutting right, then left. He seemed intent on providing the best sport of the last two months. Before Sister knew it, they had run clean through Alice Ramy’s farm. Alice waved from the window. They flew on to the next farm.

  Down a large oval depression twenty feet below, with rock out-croppings and roughly fo
rty yards around, the hounds suddenly stopped. This low land rested above a narrow, strong-running creek, part of a mostly underground creek. The somewhat higher ground in this shrubby area was defended by an outraged badger.

  Badgers aren’t supposed to be living in central Virginia, but here he was, and he was not happy. The first thing that fanned all twenty-five pounds of his bad mood was a damned coyote who had earlier watched him as he dug into a tempting rat hole. When the rat had popped out the other side, the coyote nabbed him, broke his back, and walked off. Didn’t even bother to run. The badger, not fast, gave chase, hopeless though it was. So he had to settle for a morning meal of mice while he dreamed the gray squirrel chattering above would fall out of the enormous naked willow. Squirrels delighted his taste buds. But that wasn’t bad enough. Not an hour later, an extremely rude fox ducked into his den, beheld the badger with no small surprise, turned around, and blasted right out again.