The Hunt Ball Read Free Page B

mounted up, except that water spilled from Tootie’s right boot when she swung her leg high and over.
    Hounds, screaming, were moving on at speed.
    â€œLet’s put the pedal to the metal.” He clapped his leg on Czpaka, who shot off like a cannonball.
    Moneybags, Iota, and Parson gleefully followed.
    Within a few minutes they came up behind the field of twenty-five. As it was a Thursday hunt, the number of riders was smaller than on a Saturday. The mists kept lifting like a slippery veil.
    Marty, Crawford’s wife, turned to see her wet husband as they galloped along. She said nothing because hounds were speaking, but then, even if at a check, she would have remained silent.
    In some ways, the checks separated the sheep from the goats for foxhunters. It was a far better test of one’s foxhunting etiquette than taking a whopping big fence in style. Though one had to admit, the latter was far more exciting.
    They thundered on. Water spritzed off Crawford’s coat, his cap, and Czpaka’s sleek coat.
    They checked hard. Hounds bolted up toward a thick overgrown hillock. By now the riders could see, as the mists hung above their heads.
    Sister waited for a moment. She didn’t want to crowd hounds or her huntsman, Shaker Crown. As field master she kept the riders together, tried to keep hounds in sight yet stay out of the way.
    Shaker hopped off Showboat as Dr. Walter Lungrun, the joint master, trotted up to hold the horse’s reins.
    Down low in the hayfield they’d just ridden across stood Betty Franklin, longtime honorary whipper-in. An old apple orchard was on the left by the deeply sunken farm road leading up to Hangman’s Ridge.
    Although she couldn’t be seen, Sybil Bancroft, waiting in there, caught her breath after the hard run.
    She, too, was an honorary whipper-in, which meant she wasn’t paid for the tremendous time and effort she put into Jefferson Hunt.
    Both paid and unpaid staff routinely perform heroic duties. Even if paid for it, no one enters hunt service without a grand passion for the game. You can’t handle it otherwise. It’s much too tough for modern people accustomed to the cocoon of physical comfort.
    Comet had a den on the other side of Soldier Road, a two-lane paved ribbon, east-west, two and a half miles from this spot as the crow flies. As it was, St. Just, the king of the crows, was circling. He hated foxes and wanted to make sure he knew where Comet was.
    Shaker took a few steps upward but couldn’t get through the pricker bushes and old still-blooming pink tea roses. The remains of a stone foundation could be glimpsed through the overgrowth.
    Comet dashed into an old den there that had been vacant for four years. The original tenant, a large red dog fox, had been shot and killed.
    No foxhunter can abide anyone who kills a fox in such a manner.
    Few American foxhunters want to kill a fox. Even if they were vulpicides, they wouldn’t murder too many. The land, the crops planted, and the ethos of American foxhunting mitigated against the kill.
    Once in the old den, Comet immediately saw room for improvement and decided he’d abandon his den at Foxglove Farm for this one. He’d be hunting in his sister’s territory, but he was sure he and Inky could accommodate each other.
    Like all fox dens, this one was cleverly placed, drainage good, fresh water close by. The original tenants had created many entrances and exits, strategically placed.
    â€œDig him out!”
Trident’s paws flew in the soft earth.
    Hearing the frenzy, Comet laughed.
“You can dig all the way to China, you nitwit. You’ll never get me.”
    â€œDid you hear that?”
Little Diddy couldn’t believe her ears.
    â€œBlowhard.”
Dragon dug harder than Trident.
    â€œNot as bad as Target. That’s the most conceited fox that’s ever lived.”
Diana mentioned a red dog fox who lived over at the Bancrofts.
    â€œGood hounds,