Free Outfoxed by Rita Mae Brown Page A

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“Stick to a hound that knows what she’s doing. You’ll be safe then.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œArchie, 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.”
    â€œYes 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.”
    â€œI’m not leaving this scent,”
Dragon howled, nose to the ground.
“Cora’s an old bitch, anyway.”
    â€œGood way to get drafted out, you