To Carry the Horn

Chapter 17-2

Several of the frustrated hounds on the other side were watching her with interest. They were rewarded when suddenly she struck the line and gave tongue. The whole pack dashed back across the stream and honored her find, and the hunt was on again.

The stag had gained ground on the hounds by his maneuvers and the scent was starting to dissipate. It held well in the sheltered woods, but each time the hounds burst into an opening, they found the wind had dispersed much of it and only traces remained on the grasses, the whole scent line, like a tunnel of invisible smoke, drifting downwind and rising as the air warmed under the morning sun. When the scent rose above their heads, George knew the hounds would be unable to follow anything other than the traces in the vegetation. Any hope of success depended on closing the distance with the quarry as quickly as possible. The buck had all the advantages at the beginning, being faster than the hounds and in his own territory, but if the hounds could keep contact with him, they would eventually wear him down and bring him to bay.

As the hounds followed the ever more faint line back out into the open field, they lost it altogether in the warmer air and checked. George looked back at Angharad to see if she had seen the buck emerge, but she shook her head.

He turned to Rhian, “I assume it would be considered unsporting to look for the stag here, to redirect them,” he said, tapping his forehead.

“No, you mustn’t do that. It’s cheating. The hounds should use their own judgment as much as possible.”

“Alright, I’ll cast them forward and see if we can’t find the line again.”

He waved the pack forward into the next covert, hoping the more sheltered air would bring them another trace of the line, and Cythraul struck the trace again with joyous cry.

This stretch of woods and meadows didn’t hold them for very long. After the buck had circled in and out three times, trying to confuse the track for the hounds, he headed off for fresh territory to the east, and George was off the map with regard to his preparations the night before. He’d been thinking of the smaller circles made by fox, not about taking a stag across country, and hadn’t looked far enough ahead. Nothing for it but to settle in for the long haul and try to account for the quarry.

He hadn’t yet seen this buck, following behind his hounds, but as they burst into open land he finally caught sight of him far in the distance, bounding down toward a flock of sheep whose heads were raised at the commotion of the hounds far behind him.

Rhys and Benitoe were galloping hard on each side to get close enough to control the hounds, and George pushed Mosby to do the same, Rhian trying to stay close. Worse than losing the stag would be for these hounds to run riot and kill someone’s livestock.

There were no fences around the flock, so George looked for the shepherds or dogs that must be accompanying them. There they were, one shepherd and two outraged herding dogs with a fine view of a stag and a pack of hounds bearing down upon them at top speed.

The quarry was hidden from the pursuing hounds by the low folds of land and they hadn’t yet caught sight of him, intent on the scent as they worked it out on the fly. George on horseback, however, could see it all from further back and higher up. He winced as the stag ran deliberately right through the flock, scattering sheep in all directions, and bounded out of sight into another patch of woods beyond them.

The hounds saw the running sheep and heard the furious shepherd dogs at about the same time, and a few of them hesitated, but Rhymi and Cythraul dove right into the flock before anyone could stop them. George broadcast the thought of the quarry as hard as he could and bellowed “’Ware riot” in a ferocious voice that promised severe consequences to any hound that disobeyed. The rest of the pack followed their leaders into the flock, where they milled like colliding galaxies spitting out woolly white stars.

The chaos that ensued was all on the part of the sheep. The hounds stuck to their work, ignoring both the panicked bleats and the futilely barking shepherd dogs. The buck had deliberately tried to foil his line with the scent of the sheep, and they were having difficulty working it out. Rhymi cast a wider circle hoping to strike the line again and found the buck’s exit point. Her voice lifted the rest of the pack over to own the line and they tore off again in pursuit.

George arrived just as the hounds left, and he waved Rhys and Benitoe on to stick with the pack. “Do you know this man?” he asked Rhian.

“Yes.”

“I don’t see any injured sheep, but maybe there’s a broken leg or some other damage. Please convey our apologies and listen to any complaints, then catch up as best you can.”

Without waiting for her response, he touched his hat to the stunned shepherd and galloped off after the hounds.

The hounds stayed with the buck for another hour or so after that, checking occasionally but never for long, giving him no time to rest. Rhian and Angharad reappeared at the first pause, after the hunt doubled back in the direction of the original woods at Two Pines. The buck seemed to be seeking familiar territory as he tired.

Crossing one open field headed west, George caught sight of him again as the distance between them closed. A good-sized animal with a nice rack, he was clearly laboring, trotting rather than bounding. The sudden roar from the hounds brought his head up—they’d viewed him, and their voices changed as they raised their heads and pursued him by sight.

He made for the nearest covert with the hounds not far behind, and all the riders pushed to close the distance. Once in the woods, instead of the typical twisty trail through the brush, the buck pursued a clear path, and George rode hard on the heels of his hounds as they followed it.

Suddenly the voices of the hounds changed again to an excited high cry, pure as bells. They’ve bayed him, George thought. He broke through into a small clearing and saw the buck backed up against a stone outcrop, facing the hounds defiantly as they clamored before him. He had chosen to fight rather than flee further and be torn down.

Most of the hounds were cautious about getting too close to the flailing feet and threatening antlers, but some darted forward to draw his attention while others tried to snap at something vulnerable, Rhymi and Cythraul in the forefront of the daring ones. George knew he had to end this quickly before any hounds were hurt, and to be merciful to the deer. He dismounted, wrapping the reins loosely about a branch, and drew his hunting sword.

The buck’s concentration was on the hounds before him, his natural wolf-like predators, and not on the man walking up from the side. George judged his moment and thrust the long thin blade into his heart. The deer collapsed.

“Good hounds, brave hounds,” he cried, standing in front of the carcass and barring the hounds from overrunning it. He blew the mort, the death, and made a proud fuss over them, praising each one by name as they quivered with excitement. Then he drew them up to the far side of the clearing and with a stern “Pack up” he put them in Rhian’s and Benitoe’s charge to hold in place. Angharad sat her horse off to the side and watched.

George looked down at the carcass. What would Tristan do, he wondered. “Rhys, I’m hoping you don’t have some elaborate custom for breaking up a deer, because I would have no idea where to start.”

Rhys dismounted and tied up the reins of his horse. “We were never all that ceremonial in the old country, and the white-tailed deer isn’t the red deer. We just gut it and give the hounds their reward on the spot, then we bring it home and hang it on a frame to drain the rest of the blood and cool the meat.”

George cleaned his hunting sword with some leaves and resheathed it. He removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves, Rhys doing the same, and drew the shorter hunting knife. First he removed the scent glands below the tail, working very carefully so as not to pierce them and thus spoil the surrounding venison. He tossed those far into the bushes. Then, with Rhys’s help, he turned the deer onto its back and opened it.

“Do we bring home any of the organ meats?”

“No, just the venison. The large intestine and the meat around the exit is the corbin’s gift, and the hounds get the rest.”

“The corbin’s gift?”

“For the crows.”

“What about parasites in the meat?” George asked.

“I’ll get a fire going. We roast the meat for the hounds before they get it.”

Rhys busied himself with a fire, setting aside some sticks for threading the organ meats while George turned his attention to the gutting.

While the fire was creating a good pile of embers for cooking, Rhys helped George with the basic dressing of the carcass. They worked for a few minutes in silence. George had done this work when deer hunting with a rifle as a teenager, and later when helping the Rowanton huntsman break up dead horses for the hounds, so he knew his way around an animal carcass.

“When we foxhunt, we can give an award to a field member who was in at the death, or who saw his first blood.”

“Yes, we do that, too.”

“For a fox, it’s a pad or a mask. Isn’t it a front foot, for a deer?”

“That’s right.”

George paused to wipe his blade on the grass, then he cut off both the front feet just above the joint. They were surprisingly bloodless, and all too reminiscent of Iolo’s severed hands. He put them aside in a low tree crotch out of reach of the hounds and returned to help Rhys with the gutting.

By severing the organs at strategic points and taking care, they were able to pull a fairly tidy pile out of the carcass without making too much of a mess and began to roast the organs on sticks over the fire. The outdoor exercise in the crisp air made the aroma appealing enough to stir everyone’s appetite and the hounds whined to be released to feast.

The gutted deer would still need to be drained of residual blood, but now they could tie it on one of the horses. Rhys volunteered his, since Mosby wasn’t used to the task, and they lifted it up to tie it on behind the saddle with rope from his saddlebag. The trickiest part was turning the head of the carcass back on its shoulders and securing it so that the antlers faced backward away from the rider and didn’t dangle over the horse’s haunches. The horse snorted at the smell, but stood still for it.

Rhys picked up the large intestine and attached meat with a long stick, and draped it high on a bush in the clearing, then pulled up some grasses to wipe his hands. Crows had already gathered, watching with interest.

Only about half an hour had passed since the death and the hounds were eagerly awaiting what came next. George and Rhys pulled the tidbits off the sticks where they’d been roasting and made a cooked gut pile on the ground, then George stood in front of it and called the hounds to their reward, blowing and cheering them on the horn as before. They snarled over the spoils and contended for their favorite bits, but there was enough for everyone to get a taste.

He thought about the awards and went in search of some large leaves from a sycamore on the edge of the clearing. Let’s hope they’ll like this, he thought, as he wrapped each foot tidily in leaves.

He went on foot first to Rhian, who had moved up with the hounds. “I’m sure this isn’t your first award since you’ve been hunting for many years, but this is your first time with me, and I would like to recognize the excellent work you did here today with this hunt.” He presented her with the trophy and her face lit up.