harbored some doubt.
Cora ran over, Diana by her side.
“Tattoo isn’t smart about bears yet. Better make sure.”
A bit faster, Diana reached Tattoo and Tootsie first. She put her nose to the ground, inhaled deeply, her long nose warming the scent as it traveled to her brain.
“Yes!”
she bellowed.
Cora seconded Diana’s cry. The whole pack flew behind them, singing as a choir.
Right behind his hounds, Shaker encouraged them with rounds of “Yip, yip.”
Betty could be momentarily glimpsed in her brown tweed bye-day jacket, as Tuesday hunts did not require a formal kit, then she disappeared down a slope. Being a saucy, confident fellow, the fox cut right toward her. He evidenced no fear of Betty or Outlaw. What’s one human and a horse?
“Tallyho!” Betty yelled.
The red fox lifted his head at her cry, picked up some speed, launching himself off the steep bank of the creek. Betty knew the best crossing was a good football-field’s length down the creek. No time for that.
“Outlaw, let’s do it.”
Without hesitation, the sturdy horse gathered himself at the bank’s edge to leap straight down about four feet. The cold water splashed up on Betty, some running into her boots. The footing—good, not rocky, as she’d looked for that—held up. They half walked, half swam in the deep spots to the creek’s other side, where an otter slide made getting out a whole lot easier than getting in.
“You are the best horse in the world.” An invigorated Betty patted him on the neck as both horse and rider tried to keep the fox in view.
“I know,”
Outlaw replied.
In the field behind her, Sister galloped down to the easy crossing. A four-foot jump down into water could dislodge some riders, even strong ones like her. Not every horse in the field was as bold or handy as Outlaw.
Once on the other side of the creek, Sister stopped for a moment. Even with all the splashing behind her, she heard the hounds and kicked on. The easternmost forest of Old Paradise must have been where the glacier tired of pushing all that good topsoil down from Canada. Old rock outcroppings, some twenty feet high, appeared like a giant’s cast-aside dominoes. They didn’t seem to have evolved from the land but seemed to have simply been dumped in the spot. A few had shapes that could be mistaken for goblins. At least some of the horses thought so.
Kasmir Barbhaiya, a wealthy Indian gentleman who had moved to Virginia, proved his leg on this day when his extraordinarily beautiful Thoroughbred, a big fellow at seventeen hands, literally jumped sideways—all four feet off the ground. His leg never moved, his grip remained steady.
“It’s a monster!”
the deep bay warned the horses behind him.
Naturally, a few believed him so they shied from the odd stone formations.
Three riders parted company from their mounts, who did not have the good grace to stand and wait for their riders to remount.
Two scared horses thundered by the other riders, causing human cries of “Loose horse!”
Sister heard them and thought to herself,
Loose rider
. Not that she herself hadn’t now and again provided entertainment for othersover her long life by, for example, popping off, sliding face-first in mud, or taking a fence while her horse did not. The list could go on and on.
Sister’s mother told her when she was a little thing on a lead line that you don’t become a rider until you fall off at least seven times. Mother had seen many a spectacular crash, quietly proud that her daughter took it in stride: no excuses, no tears. Mrs. Oberbeck did not believe in raising wimps. She used to shout at Jane, “Leg. Leg, Janie!”
The two horses who’d dumped their riders came up, blowing hard, by Lafayette.
“You’ll not get by me, you field peons,”
the talented gray snorted.
With that, Lafayette put on the afterburners, tears filling Sister’s eyes. He pulled away from the two runaway horses—neither Thoroughbreds—as though they had
Cora ran over, Diana by her side.
“Tattoo isn’t smart about bears yet. Better make sure.”
A bit faster, Diana reached Tattoo and Tootsie first. She put her nose to the ground, inhaled deeply, her long nose warming the scent as it traveled to her brain.
“Yes!”
she bellowed.
Cora seconded Diana’s cry. The whole pack flew behind them, singing as a choir.
Right behind his hounds, Shaker encouraged them with rounds of “Yip, yip.”
Betty could be momentarily glimpsed in her brown tweed bye-day jacket, as Tuesday hunts did not require a formal kit, then she disappeared down a slope. Being a saucy, confident fellow, the fox cut right toward her. He evidenced no fear of Betty or Outlaw. What’s one human and a horse?
“Tallyho!” Betty yelled.
The red fox lifted his head at her cry, picked up some speed, launching himself off the steep bank of the creek. Betty knew the best crossing was a good football-field’s length down the creek. No time for that.
“Outlaw, let’s do it.”
Without hesitation, the sturdy horse gathered himself at the bank’s edge to leap straight down about four feet. The cold water splashed up on Betty, some running into her boots. The footing—good, not rocky, as she’d looked for that—held up. They half walked, half swam in the deep spots to the creek’s other side, where an otter slide made getting out a whole lot easier than getting in.
“You are the best horse in the world.” An invigorated Betty patted him on the neck as both horse and rider tried to keep the fox in view.
“I know,”
Outlaw replied.
In the field behind her, Sister galloped down to the easy crossing. A four-foot jump down into water could dislodge some riders, even strong ones like her. Not every horse in the field was as bold or handy as Outlaw.
Once on the other side of the creek, Sister stopped for a moment. Even with all the splashing behind her, she heard the hounds and kicked on. The easternmost forest of Old Paradise must have been where the glacier tired of pushing all that good topsoil down from Canada. Old rock outcroppings, some twenty feet high, appeared like a giant’s cast-aside dominoes. They didn’t seem to have evolved from the land but seemed to have simply been dumped in the spot. A few had shapes that could be mistaken for goblins. At least some of the horses thought so.
Kasmir Barbhaiya, a wealthy Indian gentleman who had moved to Virginia, proved his leg on this day when his extraordinarily beautiful Thoroughbred, a big fellow at seventeen hands, literally jumped sideways—all four feet off the ground. His leg never moved, his grip remained steady.
“It’s a monster!”
the deep bay warned the horses behind him.
Naturally, a few believed him so they shied from the odd stone formations.
Three riders parted company from their mounts, who did not have the good grace to stand and wait for their riders to remount.
Two scared horses thundered by the other riders, causing human cries of “Loose horse!”
Sister heard them and thought to herself,
Loose rider
. Not that she herself hadn’t now and again provided entertainment for othersover her long life by, for example, popping off, sliding face-first in mud, or taking a fence while her horse did not. The list could go on and on.
Sister’s mother told her when she was a little thing on a lead line that you don’t become a rider until you fall off at least seven times. Mother had seen many a spectacular crash, quietly proud that her daughter took it in stride: no excuses, no tears. Mrs. Oberbeck did not believe in raising wimps. She used to shout at Jane, “Leg. Leg, Janie!”
The two horses who’d dumped their riders came up, blowing hard, by Lafayette.
“You’ll not get by me, you field peons,”
the talented gray snorted.
With that, Lafayette put on the afterburners, tears filling Sister’s eyes. He pulled away from the two runaway horses—neither Thoroughbreds—as though they had
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