Читать книгу Haunt Fox - Jim Kjelgaard - Страница 4

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For most of his fourteen years, Jack Crowley had heard about foxhounds and fox hunts. During his own youth, Jack's father had been a tireless hunter, and still thought that, of all hunting, the very finest was driving foxes with a good hound. So did Joe Mason, who owned the farm next to theirs, and Perry Albright, who drove the milk truck. During winter evenings the men had gathered at the Crowley farm and lived again, in memory, hunts of the past. It was true that none of them owned a hound now nor did they even go hunting except on an occasional afternoon. But they still liked to talk about it, and Jack never tired of listening.

Sometimes Dade Matson joined the group. He was always welcome, but there was something about Dade that Jack did not like. He was older than any of the others, and unlike them. They were warm and human, but he was cold. Where their eyes shone as they recalled some especially memorable hunt, or talked of bugle-voiced hounds on a trail, Dade's never did. He only recalled how much money he had received for special pelts.

Quiet by nature, Jack had always sat close to the men, missing no word they said. And during those winter evenings, while the wind howled outside and frost glittered on the windows, his dream had been born. He must have a foxhound himself. He had to know the fun that these quiet, competent men had known. For when they discussed foxhounds and fox hunting they were excited as they were at no other time.

So the summer before, when his farm chores were done, Jack had pedaled his bicycle three miles to the village of Carneyville to pick up a bundle of papers and deliver them to the various farmhouses along the road. He had saved every penny, and in August he bought Thunder.

Jack had chosen him himself from among five hound puppies, all the same age and outwardly as alike as leaves on a maple. But in other ways they were as different as Jack's father and Dade Matson.

Four of the puppies had wagged up and reared against the fence that enclosed them, begging for attention. Though willing to be friendly, even at the age of four and a half months Thunder had not been one to fling himself at any casual stranger. However, when Jack had opened the gate and gone in, Thunder did not run away. Gravely he sniffed Jack over, and experimentally licked Jack's hand. With a leash on his neck, he had trotted willingly along when Jack paid for him.

Then, in Jack's mind, had arisen a little cloud of worry. He had earned the money to pay for Thunder and he had chosen him. But what would his father say now? Not about having the dog, for from the first his father and mother had agreed that he might have it. What would he say about the dog?

He had taken Thunder home, and as soon as he arrived his father came to see the puppy. He was a big, sad-eyed hound with a black upper body, tan lower, and a thin tail. His long ears, black on the outer side and tan on the inner, came within a few inches of the ground as he walked, and he wore a perpetually mournful expression. But within his sad eyes were both gentleness and a deep intelligence. Heavy jowls sagged across his jaws, but his jowls were the only flabby part of Thunder. His legs were long and strong, his chest massive, and his body well-proportioned. His black nose seemed eternally to be questing for some scent. He was a trailing hound of the best type, and his ancestry extended back so far that the beginnings were lost in the mist of time.

There was an overlong inspection as Jeff's father looked at Thunder's chest, his ears, his padded paws, his tail, and even opened his mouth to look inside that. Then his father had rendered the all-important verdict.

"Well, he may be a hound some day."

It was more than enough; coming from his father, it was the highest praise. Thunder became a member of the farm family though, as Jeff pointed out, he was not a house dog. Let him live with the wind, the weather, and the worst and best the elements might offer. A hunting hound had to know and to meet all of it. So Jack had fixed him a bed on the porch, between the woodbox and the wall.

The night Star stole the chicken, Jack was fast asleep when Thunder bayed. Even then, Jack was not sure that he awakened at all; he seemed to be living in a dream, a dream that echoed with the musical thunder of a bell-mouthed foxhound. Jack stirred in his bed, vaguely aware that he should get up and find out about it. Then he went back to sleep.

The next time he awakened, a very dim light filtered through the curtains in his room. Jack yawned and stretched, and came completely awake. He sprang out of bed, shivered as his bare feet struck the cold floor, and padded over to look out the window. A gasp of delight escaped him when he saw the thickly driving snow. His father had always said that hounds run best on good snow.

Jack wriggled into his clothes and ran down into the kitchen, where the big woodstove cast a welcome heat. The big clock that ticked steadily away on the wall said a quarter to seven and only a faint forerunner of daylight slanted against the windows. Jack thought of the still-falling snow, and of the many tasks it was sure to bring. There would be drifts to break away so doors could be opened, paths and roads to clear, the woodpile to uncover, and all the dozen things that they had probably forgotten to do yesterday afternoon. Then, somehow, the chores would have to be worked in.

Jack warmed his shoes beside the stove and sat down in a corner, near the woodbox, to put them on. His mother was already cooking breakfast. She finished mixing batter in a bowl and began to drop pancakes onto a steaming griddle where round patties of sausage were already browning. Jack licked his lips.

Today, certainly, the school buses would be unable to get through the snow. He and his father would work around the farm and do whatever needed doing. Tomorrow, Jack hoped, the roads would still be blocked and the farm work caught up. He looked again out of the nearly dark window, toward the hills. Tomorrow there was some hope of getting out with Thunder.

It was true that Thunder was only an eight-month-old puppy and his father had said that it was not wise to expect too much out of him this winter. He might trail a little but probably wouldn't yet be old enough to understand what trailing was all about. Still, all dogs had to start sometime.

Jack continued to stare out of the window, and only his body remained in the kitchen. The rest of him, the part that mattered, was out in the hills. Thunder was tonguing strongly on a hot trail and his rolling roars echoed back. Jack raised his shotgun, drew down on a running fox, and—

"Jack!"

Jack looked guiltily up to see that his mother had put the wheat cakes and sausage in separate dishes on the table. His father was sitting down to eat, a faint smile on his face. A big man, who could fight a fractious horse to a standstill or toss a hundred-pound bag of grain on a wagon, Jeff Crowley was still very gentle and understanding.

"Better come and eat, Bub," his father said.

Jack wrenched himself away from the hills and Thunder. Back in the kitchen, he realized with a start how hungry he was. It did seem that he was always hungry, not only at meal times but whenever he thought about eating.

Jeff forked six pancakes and three sausage patties on his plate and Jack took the same. He lathered the pancakes with fresh butter and drowned the whole plateful in maple syrup. Then he began to shovel it into his mouth.

"Don't eat so fast," his mother admonished.

"Sorry, Ma," Jack mumbled.

He dropped his fork and stared vacantly across the table. Again, in his mind, he was up in the hills with Thunder. He would not, he felt, even need a shotgun if Thunder really knew how to trail a fox.

"I declare!" his mother said. "That boy either eats like a pig or he doesn't eat at all!"

His father said, "Would you be thinking of the fresh snow, and a fox hunt?"

"That's right!" Jack said. His father always seemed to know.

"Forget it," Jeff advised. "You'll have to wait for a crust anyhow; no hound could run in this. Besides, there's work to be done. Have some more pancakes."

Jack took three more pancakes and one more sausage patty. Then he ate a piece of apple pie and suddenly wasn't hungry any more. He looked at the big stack of pancakes and the four patties that were left. Thunder would have a hearty breakfast, too.

"I'll feed Thunder," he said.

His father reached for the coffeepot. "Do that. Then we'd better get started. It's quarter past seven already."

Jack buckled on knee-length rubber overshoes so that they came outside his trousers. He put on a wool jacket, and a cap with a strap that buckled beneath his chin. He thrust wool mittens into his pocket, picked up the plate of pancakes and sausage, and went out to find Thunder's dish.

Thunder always knew when he might expect breakfast and was always at the back door to greet Jack with wagging tail and a hand-licking tongue. But this morning he was not there, and for a long while he had not been there. The space between the woodbox and the wall, where Thunder usually slept, was drifted over with snowflakes. Had Thunder been there or even if he had slept there lately, his body heat would have melted the snow.

Jack stared hopelessly into the snow draperies that hid the barn and almost blotted out the lilacs, thirty feet from the porch. Last night's dream, the voice of a foxhound cutting through the storm, came again to him. In that dismal moment he knew that he wouldn't find Thunder at the barn or in any of the sheds. On the trail of a fox, his beloved hound was somewhere out in the storm. Jack felt a sickness in the pit of his stomach.

The hand that held the breakfast he had intended to give Thunder was limp as he went back into the house. He put the plate on the table and stared at it unseeingly. His father's voice broke the wall of misery that engulfed him.

"What's the matter, Bub?"

"Thunder's gone."

"I expect he went to the barn, or the shed."

"No, he didn't."

"How do you know he didn't?"

"I heard him last night, tonguing on a trail. He's gone out to hunt a fox."

His father said nothing, but he was looking at Jack in a way he had never looked before. Inwardly Jack felt a burning shame, and bit his lip to hold back the tears. His father's look told him plainly what Jeff was thinking. Good hounds, the only kind worth having, dedicate themselves wholeheartedly to the hunt and to their masters. It went without saying that a good master should be just as loyal to his hound. Thunder had been betrayed. When he heard the hound baying, Jack should have got up and gone out.

"Come on, Bub," was all his father said.

They stepped from the back porch into thirteen inches of undrifted snow. Still-falling snow clung to Jack's eyelashes, melted on his face, and coated his cap and jacket. He knew without being told that a strong hound at the peak of its powers could not possibly run very far in such fluffy snow. An eight-month-old puppy would do very well to make any headway at all.

The everlasting shame was that Thunder was somewhere out in the endless hills, alone. Jack had deserted him, and he must face that. Wanting to get a shovel so that he might clear paths, he started toward a tool shed built on the side of the house. He was halted by his father's voice.

"Never mind that now."

Jack looked around, surprised, but did not voice the question that was in his mind. Through the years he had learned to accept his father's leadership because his father always knew the best way to get things done. Side by side, plowing through snow that reached almost to their knees and fighting their way through drifts that came above their belts, they went to the barn. His father unlatched the door and they slid in quickly, before too much snow could blow in with them. Jack climbed into the haymow and began to fork down hay for the cattle and horses.

A stock barn on a winter's morning, and especially just after a heavy snow, is the most delightful place imaginable. Body heat of cattle and horses keeps it warm. There are a thousand different odors, most of them pleasant. The labor and fruits of the summer are there stored for the winter, and within them is a promise that spring and summer will come again. But this morning Jack felt no delight.

After feeding the stock, he gave the cattle their ration of grain and filled the horses' feed bins with oats. All must have fresh water, and when that had been taken care of Jack went back into the storm and made his way to the pigpen and chicken house. He fed and watered the pigs and chickens. When he returned to the barn, his father had finished milking.

Jack waited with heavy heart, for not until night would their tasks be ended. The snow was relentless. It had filled the roads and paths, and not until they were cleared would those at the Crowley farm be able to move freely. The bull-dozer blade would have to be hung on the tractor so his father could begin clearing roads while Jack shoveled paths.

But instead of starting toward the machine shed, Jeff said, "Wait here. I'll be back in a minute."

Jack sat down on an upended pail and waited miserably. He tried to tell himself that Thunder was not in trouble, but he knew that couldn't be. The snow was deep and getting deeper. Any puppy caught out in it, and all alone, was sure to be in plenty of trouble.

His father came back carrying a .22 rifle and two filled paper sacks. Jack looked up questioningly, and Jeff handed him one of the sacks.

"Stick it in your jacket, Bub."

"What is it?"

"Lunch. Come on."

He led the way to the shed where they stored axes, ropes, sleds, fishing tackle, and all the odds and ends that must be well tended but for which there was no room in the house. Jeff Crowley took his own snowshoes from the peg where they hung and nodded toward Jack's. Jack's heart leaped and his hands trembled, for now he knew.

The creature comforts and immediate needs of every living thing on the farm had been taken care of. There was much work to be done and all of it was necessary, but all of it could wait while they went into the hills to hunt for a lost foxhound puppy. Jack looked gratefully at Jeff, but couldn't speak for the lump in his throat.

They laced on their snowshoes and went out into the fluffy snow. It was soft and yielding, and despite their gear they sank deep. Jack remembered that new snow, unless it is a light fall over a crust already formed, is never good snowshoeing. They were in for some hard work, but that didn't matter. They were going to look for Thunder.

From past experience, Jeff went directly to the tool shed where the three remaining chickens scratched contentedly in litter. With the practiced eye of an experienced woodsman he looked keenly about, and at once his glance found the feathers that were scattered around. Stooping, he studied the dirt floor.

"Look here," he exclaimed in surprise.

Jack knelt interestedly beside him. The floor of the shed was soft dirt, and Star had left his paw prints as plainly as they would have been imprinted on snow. But instead of the conventional paw mark of a fox, which is not unlike that of a dog, these had an extra toe on each front paw.

"A six-toed fox," Jeff said. "We'll know him if we see him."

He went to the door and looked into the storm. Jack waited. There were tracks in the shed, but blowing, drifting snow had long since wiped out any that might have been outside. There was no trail to tie them to the fleeing fox and the lost dog, but after a moment Jeff spoke confidently.

"He came from the south slope."

"How do you know?"

"The wind's been north since last night, and no hunting fox will travel any direction except into the wind. Thunder must have surprised him right after he caught the chicken, and for a while he would run the straightest course out of here."

"Wouldn't he drop the chicken?"

Jeff grinned. "I don't think so. Any fox hungry enough to come right into a shed and get a meal is likely to hold onto it as long as he can. Come on."

They bent their heads and plunged into the driving snow. There was not a single track, no sign whatever, to show where Thunder had gone. But Thunder would follow the fox and Jeff knew foxes. He was trying to think like a fox and in so doing to follow a course that a fox might have laid out.

Never hurrying, but never faltering, Jeff worked the probable trail. Snow flew about them, so that they could see only objects within a few feet, but Jeff Crowley knew every slope in the hills and every landmark. There was little danger of becoming lost.

They left the fields and entered the woods, where both stopped to rest. Heavy snow still fell but it was not cold, and both were sweating. Jeff spoke loudly above the wind.

"What time was it when you heard the hound tonguing?"

"I don't know exactly. I think it was early in the night."

Jeff nodded. "There wasn't so much snow then. They'd have run quite a way."

He cut around the hill, heading up a wooded valley. A half hour later he stopped again and pointed. In a wind-whipped aspen, whirled there by the wind and caught on a branch, was a single chicken feather. A warm glow began at the tip of Jack's toes and crept upward to the roots of his hair. His father really knew his foxes and they were on the right trail. For the first time, Jack felt reasonably sure that they would find Thunder.

They quartered up the valley, always taking the easiest path and stopping frequently while Jeff concentrated on the trail he was trying to reconstruct. A burdened fox with a dog on his trail would choose the clearest path because he could run fastest on it. He would run around deep drifts instead of wasting time trying to plow through them. He would avoid steep cliffs and heavy thickets. His one idea would be to stay ahead of the hound.

It was past noon when, on the crest of a wooded hill, they stopped to eat their sandwiches. Brushing the snow from a boulder, they sat down and rested. Then Jeff started down the opposite side of the hill into a copse of shriveled beech brush. He went slowly, taking time to look and listen, and always trying to choose the path where a fox might have run.

In mid-afternoon the wind was cut by a different sound. A quarter of a mile away it was, across the sloping nose of a hillock and toward the mouth of a wooded draw. It came again, the melodious baying of a foxhound. Jeff swerved toward the draw.

A little way up it, hungry and exhausted, but still fighting through snow that rolled over his back, they found him. Thunder's tongue lolled, his sides heaved, and his strength was almost gone. But he was still pushing himself through the snow, searching for the scent that had somehow eluded him. He had lost the fox, but the deep, true instincts of a born trailing hound told him that it could not be forever lost. If only he kept seeking, he would find it again.

Thunder sank down in the snow and wagged a whip-thin tail. He smiled with his eyes, but wriggled in protest when Jeff knelt beside him and cradled him in his arms. A moment later he was resting across Jeff's shoulders, where he finally sighed and relaxed. Jack looked wonderingly at his father.

There was about him no anger or irritation because he had lost a whole day, but only the satisfaction of a job well done. A hunter himself, Jeff knew and understood a fine hunting hound. As they headed back to the farmhouse, he turned to Jack.

"You picked yourself a real hound, Bub."