Outfoxed by Rita Mae Brown Page A

circles.
    â€œAll right. Settle. Settle now. It’s another hour before you go on the party wagon.” Shaker called the hound van the party wagon. “No point in wearing yourself out before the party starts.”
    He had backed up the hound van to the draw run the night before. He had only to open the door into the draw run and the hounds would race down the chute to the opened door of the van. This saved time because without a draw run a few hounds, overexcited, would zoom past the van.
    He walked outside the kennel to light his pipe. Shaker wouldn’t smoke near his hounds. Their noses were so sensitive that smoke bothered them. He wanted those noses sharp for the hunt.
    He read somewhere that dogs in general hear six times better than humans and that a human has about five million scent receptors whereas a hound has over twenty-two million. Whatever the numbers, hounds heard and smelled more than a human could imagine. He thought about that sometimes, about how dull our world would seem to a creature with broader, sharper senses.
    What must it be like to see through the eagle’s eye or the owl’s?
    What he saw was the gray giving way to the first streak of pale pink. The clear sky promised a spectacular day, but not for hunting. Those raw days when the smoke from the chimneys hangs low, those are good hunting days. Today scent would evaporate rapidly. However, there was no wind, hardly even a lick of breeze. That would help. He’d have to drop hounds on a line fast and hope for a burst. Whatever line they’d get wouldn’t last too long unless, of course, the fox moved along the creek bed.
    He sucked contentedly on his briar pipe, a Dunhill of great antiquity given him by his father. Lights were on in Sister’s kitchen. No doubt she was already on the phone with a member who needed to know right that moment what Sister Jane thought about wearing Prince of Wales spurs or could the member show up in a running martingale, even though it was improper?
    Shaker knew he had not the patience to be a master nor the money. He’d worked his way up to being huntsman, getting the horn when he was thirty-one, no small accomplishment. In his mid-forties, he had no money other than what he earned and that wasn’t much. His benefits, housing, truck, standing in the community pleased him, but most of all he loved what he did. He loved it more than money, more than anything. In the end even more than his ex-wife, who when he turned forty bedeviled him to think about his future, take a job where he could make some good money. Sheila never understood him but then maybe he didn’t understand her. Women seemed to need security more than he did. He asked for a fine day’s hunting, each hound on the line, and he lived one day at a time.
    He could hear Doug in the stable. Having a good professional first whipper-in made the huntsman’s life much easier. Shaker’s horse would be tacked up and loaded on the van. He could rely on Doug to get ahead of the hounds, an assignment that took a brave and good rider.
    Although young, Doug would carry the horn someday. Shaker had known Doug since he was in grade school. He’d come to the kennel and tag after Shaker and Sister Jane like a hound puppy. There wasn’t much love or stability in Doug’s childhood. He found both at the kennel.
    The back door opened and closed. Sister Jane, dressed except for the barn coat she was wearing, waved good morning.
    Raleigh ran ahead.
“What a day.”
    â€œMorning, big guy.” Shaker ran his palm over the glossy black head.
    Sister beamed, breathing in deeply. “If we can’t get up a fox, we’ll have a perfect trail ride. Not that you won’t find a fox.” She winked.
    â€œI’m beginning to think the fox finds us.”
    â€œThere is that.”
    â€œAnd who had called this morning, ass over tit?”
    â€œOnly Ronnie Haslip. He can’t find his tweed