Outfoxed Read online

  “Well, I loved you. I’ll always love you. I guess I was a good wife but not a faithful one.”

  “You were a good wife. I just wish I’d found you before Ray did. I never hated him. He was too good a man. He had his Achilles’ heel. We all do. But he was a good man.”

  “You, too.”

  “I guess we took what we could. Maybe that’s all anyone can do.” His voice grew stronger. “My time is coming. I feel well enough but I know my time is coming. I wanted you to know I love you.”

  She kissed him good-bye and cried the whole way home.

  CHAPTER 11

  The rain finally stopped Sunday night. The grays emerged from their den, making straight for the cornfield on the east side of Hangman’s Ridge. The year, rich in gleanings, kept everyone happy.

  In a few weeks the young would disperse to find their own territory, their own mates. Males might travel as far as 150 miles. Females usually remained closer to their place of birth.

  Butch and Mary Vey had a small litter this year, only four. One little gray male had been carried away by a large hawk its first time out of the den. The other was sickly and died. Inky and Comet, half-grown, stayed healthy. Both parents taught them how to hunt, what to hunt, how to dump hounds, how to cross the road. In preparation for leaving home they now hunted on their own.

  Inky traveled to the edge of the cornfield. She’d eaten so much corn, she sat down. A rustling through the corn, not the light wind, made her crouch low.

  A huge male red fox appeared, saw Inky, and said, “Oh, it’s you.” Without further conversation he moved on.

  Inky sat up and blinked. The red fox, Vulpes vulpes, as he preferred to be called, felt the gray inferior. This particular male, Target, had an especially splashy white tip on his tail. He was easily recognizable to humans, too. He’d been around for years.

  Target’s entire family, four kits, also half-grown, were out hunting, as well as his mate, his sister, and her mate. The reds—a numerous, querulous clan—kept themselves busy, so they rarely spoke to anyone else. They feared no one, not even the bobcats, mountain lions, and bears, quite numerous in central Virginia, since the Blue Ridge Mountains provided food and safety.

  As to foxhunters and their hounds, not only did the reds have no fear, they delighted in exhausting and then maiming their foe. Few sounds were as lovely to a red’s ears as the sound of a human breaking bones.

  If the hounds picked up a gray fox, the reds generally ignored the chase, concentrating on sunning themselves or going into their den and sleeping.

  The grays could take care of themselves. They ran in smaller circles than the reds, some of whom might run straight for miles. Grays also perfected a figure eight, a maneuver incorporating sharp turns and practiced dives into other creatures’ dens. This confused the hounds and infuriated the animal receiving the unexpected caller. However, there was little choice but to entertain the gray until the hounds were called off by the huntsman and cast in another direction. Since the grays were smaller than the red fox, they could squeeze into all manner of hiding places. They also climbed trees, a trick the reds thought much too catlike. Reds intensely disliked cats, who competed for the same game but who also sassed them.

  The grays weren’t overfond of cats but a feline insult was shrugged off. The reds, proud of their position, felt most animals owed them obeisance.

  Inky learned these things from her parents and from experience. She looked overhead as Athena, the large owl, silently glided by. Athena, a deadly hunter, would swoop down, talons outstretched, before her prey knew what hit them.

  Inky didn’t fear Athena. The owl was civil. Since the fox, red and gray, has no natural enemies, they didn’t need to worry about anyone wishing to eat them. Only the small kits were game, and that was usually for hawks or vultures. In droughts or hard times the vultures became aggressive, even attacking newborn calves.

  Athena’s nemesis was St. Just, the king of the crows. They rarely saw one another, since the crow was a daytime creature, but if he caught sight of Athena, St. Just would harass her even though she was four times his size.

  The person St. Just hated above all others was Target. The big red had killed St. Just’s mate, eating her with a flourish.

  Inky sat there, the moist earth filled with enticing messages. October kept all creatures busy. The bears would soon hibernate, so they were eating everything they could. The squirrels gathered more and more nuts, often forgetting where they stashed them. Everyone prepared for winter. Even the humans cut firewood, put up storm windows, and changed the antifreeze in their cars.

  Although it was early, Inky considered going home to sleep. However, she thought an apple might be nice for dessert even though she was full. She nosed out of the corn, sniffed the wind, then headed at a ground-eating trot up to the top of Hangman’s Ridge. From this spot she could see most of the valley. Even Whiskey Ridge, running parallel to the north, was a bit lower. The criminals hanged from the oak tree could have been seen from below. This must have proved a potent warning. The last hanging occurred in 1875, when Gilliam Norris was strung up. He’d killed his entire family—mother, father, two sisters, and a brother—with a service revolver. When the sheriff came to arrest him, Gilliam shot him, too. Took fifteen men, including the sheriff from the next county, to bring Gilliam in. People said he’d lost his mind in the war.

  Inky heard that story, passed from generation to generation. The first victim of the tree was Lawrence Pollard in 1702. An intrepid man, an explorer and founder of towns, Lawrence indulged in land speculation, as did many colonists. He was selling acreage in the Shenandoah Valley, the deal went bust, and Lawrence’s investors strung him up without judge or jury.

  From her vantage point Inky could see the Arnold farm, the barn and kennels and the understated two-story brick house painted white with Charleston-green shutters surrounded by oaks and maples of enormous size. At the edge of the expansive lawn was a small apple orchard. Peach and pear trees were around the house for decoration as much as for fruit. The orchard, though, was laid out in neat rows.

  Inky swooped down the ridge, ran across a downed log over Broad Creek, and was happily in the middle of the orchard in fifteen minutes.

  Raleigh, whom she knew by sight, was in the house. Golliwog, however, was in the orchard.

  “I’ll tell the hounds you’re here.”

  “They can’t get out,” Inky replied.

  “They can make a helluva racket. The humans will get up.”

  “I’ll be gone by that time, they’ll be in a bad mood, and you’re the one that has to listen to them,” Inky sensibly said. “I only want one apple. I’m not going to poach your game.”

  Golly arched her long eyebrows. “How can you eat fruit?”

  “It’s good.”

  The cat shook herself. “Well, get your apple and get out.”

  Inky snatched a small, sweet apple that had just fallen, then darted out of the orchard, passing the kennel on her way home. The hounds were snoring.

  She stopped, apple in her mouth. She put the apple down for a moment and turned. Golly had climbed up into one of the apple trees at the edge of the orchard. She’d heard that the house cat was smart and no friend to foxes. Figuring she was ahead of the game and not wishing further to irritate the calico, Inky picked up the apple. As she walked by the separate runs, Diana, sleeping outside since the rain had stopped, opened one eye, then both eyes, sitting up with a start.

  She opened her mouth, but Inky dropped her apple and quickly pleaded, “Don’t. It will set everyone crazy.”

  Diana walked to the fence. “You’re the black fox—“

  “You stuck your nose into my den. I’ve come for an apple and I’ll be on my way. I didn’t even go near the chicken coop. All’s well.”

  “You know if I were out of here I’d chase you to the James River,” Diana bragged.

  “Ha. I’d run circles around you and you wouldn’t even know it.”

  Diana cocked
her head to one side. “I love the chase. Do you?”

  “For about fifteen minutes. Then I have better things to do. The reds like it more than we grays, I think.”

  “This is my first season. I guess I’ll find that out.” Diana blinked and lowered her head to be closer to the fox. “I’ve been doing okay with cubbing, though, and last year, when I was a puppy, Shaker and Sister walked us every day and sometimes they laid down scent to help us. I think I know what to do if I can concentrate. I lose my concentration sometimes.”

  “This is my first year, too, so I only know what my parents have told me and cubbing . . . I like cubbing. It was funny when you stuck your nose in the den. My brother wanted to bite you. He’s like that.” Inky giggled.

  “Glad he didn’t. My nose is very sensitive.”

  Golly backed down the apple tree. She sauntered toward the kennel.

  “I’d better go. She gave me a fair warning.”

  Diana pricked up her ears. “Golliwog can be very fierce. She scares me.”

  “You know we will all be leaving our dens in a few weeks. Right about the time of opening hunt. There will be good runs then. You’ll have fun. My dad says opening hunt is like a three-ring circus. I’m going to climb a tree and watch.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Already found my place. On the other side of Broad Creek. There’s so much corn and game, my father said it’s all right to live close. He said if hard times come then I might have to push on.”

  “I’m nervous about opening hunt,” Diana confessed.

  “Stay away from the people. And if you’re on Target, the huge red with lots of white tip, be real careful. He’s very smart. My father says he’s incredibly smart but cruel. Target will try to lead you to your death. His son, Reynard, can be cruel, too.” Diana shuddered so Inky added, “Stick to a hound that knows what she’s doing. You’ll be safe then.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll wave if you go by.” Inky giggled again, then picked up her apple and skedaddled, for Golly was bearing down on her, picking up speed.

  The imposing calico stopped. “Diana, you’re loose as ashes. You can’t believe one word from a fox’s mouth.”

  Diana dropped her head. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Satisfied that she had imparted wisdom as well as put that lower life-form, the hound, in her place, Golly strolled, tail swaying to and fro, back to the main house. The night was too damp for her. She was going in the house to snuggle up next to Sister, who was sound asleep. She might clean off her muddy paws and then again she might not. Walking across the old Persian carpets so prized by Sister would get the mud off fast enough.

  CHAPTER 12

  A stiff tiger trap, cut logs shining in the morning mist, like giant’s teeth, slowed Dragon for a moment as he scrambled over, the pack ahead of him. The tiger trap jump, like a coop but with vertical logs, often backed off riders. Sidetracked by an unfamiliar smell, Dragon snapped to when he heard Cora’s authoritative call.

  Twenty couple hounds, forty individuals, had been carried in their special trailer to Beveridge Hundred, an old plantation five miles west of Sister’s house as the crow flies.

  But today it wasn’t the crow flying, it was the hounds. Shaker cast them in the classic triangle cast. Sending hounds on their mission was truly like a fisherman casting his net. Hence, the term “cast.” Most huntsmen threw their hounds straight into the wind, figuring the scent would carry and they’d be off in a hurry. That was a better idea for flat country than for the hills, ravines, pastures, and deep creeks of Jefferson Hunt territory. Shaker liked to give his hounds about fifteen minutes to settle; then he’d cut the corner and move up the side of the triangle into the wind. He planned his hunt and hunted his plan, always dividing the territory to be hunted into a series of triangles.

  The pack struck quickly, running straight. Their quarry ran perhaps seven to ten minutes ahead. The scent held on the still-wet earth. The light shone scarlet as the sun’s rim loomed over the horizon.

  Shaker doubled his blasts as he plunged into a stand of black birches, shot out into the thirty-acre hay field just as hounds crossed over the middle of the cut field.

  Sister galloped about fifty yards behind Shaker. He soared over the tiger trap; Sister and Lafayette easily cleared the big jump. Cody made it, as did Fontaine, who kept his eyes glued to Cody’s perfect butt in the saddle.

  Gunsmoke, Fontaine’s half-bred, thought the horse Cody was trying for Fontaine, Keepsake, a rangy thoroughbred, was doing great so far. But then thoroughbreds always did better when the field was moving fast.

  Marty, Crawford, and finally Bobby safely landed in the hay field.

  Three visitors from Bull Run Hunt kept up with the small Tuesday group.

  At the edge of the hay field the hounds split. Cora headed left toward The Rocks, an outcropping of boulders, while Archie headed right through double-lined rows of cedars into another hay field.

  “Archie, two foxes. Stick with me,” Cora called, her bel canto lilt floating over the mists still not rising.

  This brought Archie’s head up.

  Dragon shot his mouth off. “This scent is hot.”

  “Yes it is, son, but if the fox can split us, we’ll wind up in East Jesus, the whips will be going in two directions, and each fox can further mislead us. We’re on Target. They’re on Aunt Netty.” Archie knew his foxes by the patterns they ran. “Reds.”

  “I’m not leaving this scent,” Dragon howled, nose to the ground. “Cora’s an old bitch, anyway.”

  “Good way to get drafted out, you fool.” Archie turned, flat out now, belly low to the ground, tail stretched out behind him as he streaked for Cora.

  Without hesitation the other hounds, including Diana on her first flaming run, followed Archie. He cut across the hay field, crawled under the old wire cow fence, catapulting over the sunken farm road worn down by three hundred years of use. With one bound he was over the loose stone wall, heading, flying, flashing down to The Rocks.

  Moving in the opposite direction, Dragon touched the earth with his nose, bawled for all he was worth, and charged into a smaller pasture. Hay rolled in large round bales dotted the verdant expanse.

  “Moron!” a taunting voice called.

  Dragon jerked his head up. Sitting on top of the hay round were Target and Reynard, magnificent, shining, as red as the scarlet sunrise.

  “I’ll tear you to shreds!” Dragon bared his fangs, bouncing toward father and son.

  “You fierce beast.” Target, falsetto-voiced, mocked him, while Reynard watched the older, wiser fox sucker in the hound.

  When Dragon was two strides from the hay round, Target casually jumped down, darting into a burrow in the bale. Reynard followed. His tail flicked into this makeshift den just as Target skidded around the bale.

  Growling, saliva dripping, Dragon bumped into the bale as his hind end gave out under him from the force of his sharp turn. His head nearly hit the ground, his two front legs splayed out. He was eyeball to eyeball with a mature copperhead still drowsy and not amused.

  Like lightning the snake struck, sinking her fangs, almost as large as Dragon’s, into his left cheek. He shook his head but she didn’t let go until she’d released her venom to the last drop.

  “Oh, God, it hurts,” Dragon screamed as the snake finally let go.

  “Moron.” Target laughed as Dragon, weeping, tried to outrun the pain. At least he had sense enough to go for the sound of the hounds, maybe a mile off by now.

  Hounds, horses, huntsman were stymied at The Rocks, water spilling down over the sides in a gentle waterfall.

  Aunt Netty, on a ledge behind the waterfall, cleaned her claws embedded with mud. She’d run over the rocks leading up to the small waterfall. Her scent would last for only a few moments on the rock but the morning was damp, the mists were low, and the hounds were close. To be safe she ducked behind the water. She didn’t mind getting a little wet. She knew her scent had been wiped out by t
he waterfall.

  Cora, a trifle overweight, panted. “Aunt Netty works her magic act.”

  In the distance they could hear Bobby Franklin, who’d fallen far behind, talk to his horse, Oreo. “Not so fast. Not so fast. I hate running on rock!”

  “Stop worrying, you fat pig,” the horse replied. “My sense of balance is better than yours.”

  “Everyone in one piece?” Sister laughingly asked.

  “Is it always like this?” one of the visitors asked.

  “Sure,” Fontaine lied, winking.

  A rustling noise coming through the woods captured their attention. Dragon joined them in a few moments. He shook his head, he cried, he rolled over.

  Shaker dismounted as Sister held his reins. “Snakebite,” he tersely informed her.

  “His head will blow up like a pumpkin,” Cody said.

  “Killed my Jack Russell. Remember Darth Vader?” Fontaine said that, which, under the circumstances, was not a helpful recollection.

  Crawford, hoping for brownie points, dismounted from Czapaka. He walked over to Shaker, who didn’t look up but kept his gaze on Dragon.

  “I can throw the hound over my saddle.”

  “No need,” Shaker replied evenly.

  “He’s better off walking back.” Douglas Kinser had ridden in from his outpost.

  “Sister, do you mind if I have Doug walk Dragon back?”

  “No. Betty’s out on your left. Can you get by with one whip?”

  “Two’s better.”

  “I’ll go.” Cody smiled.

  “No, you won’t. I haven’t bought that horse yet, and who knows what you’ll get into. It’s already been a wild morning,” Fontaine commanded.

  “I’ll whip. I’m not the best rider in the world but I can do it. I know most of the hounds by sight,” Marty volunteered.

  “Good.”

  “Fine.” Shaker seconded Sister. “You take the right. Three blasts, short and high of equal duration, means come in to me. You know the other signals?”

  “Well, Shaker, if I don’t you all can come out and find me. Just don’t leave me out until sundown.”