AN IMPSON VALLEY FOX HUNT. 
R. J. LONG. 
A few nights ago some one on the edge 
of town wound a few blasts on a hunting 
horn; for what purpose I do not know. 
It may have been a recall to some errant 
dog or it may have been that the musician 
simply wanted to refresh his ear with the 
mellow notes. Whatever his object he did 
one thing, and that was oscillate the 
brain cell containing the memory of my 
first and last fox hunt. 
Before that hunt I had been a scoffer 
at the enthusiasm shown by devotees of the 
chase. “What sport,” I asked, “can be 
found riding across country frosty nights 
listening to the bawling of a lot of 
hounds?” Those to whom this question 
was addressed, knowing my love for all 
other forms of sport, would perhaps in- 
quire, “Did you ever run a fox?” On my 
admitting that I never had, they would ex- 
press their contempt for my ignorance. 
How I came to be converted was in this 
way: Ben Bedford, one of the wildest 
hunters that ever tore along in the wake 
of a bugling pack, won the love of a bright 
eyed Indian girl attending school in this 
city. After their marriage, Ben suffered 
the fire in his smithy to go out and moved 
to Indian Territory, setting up as a way- 
side Vulcan in the beautiful valley of Imp- 
son, 25 miles from the nearest railroad. 
Ben prospered. There was much horse 
shoeing and other work for a clever smith 
like Ben, and besides Choctaw marriage 
had given him the right to fence and cul- 
tivate, or rent to others, as much land as 
he cared to. Saxon like, Ben had a good 
eye for fertile soil. Game was abundant; 
the waters teemed with fish; his hounds 
were lean and hard and the gray foxes 
gave him the sport he loved best. 
When Ben wrote to his brother-in-law, 
Kinzie Pickard, and me, in the fall of 1900, 
to come and hunt, I was made glad. We 
took along the bird dogs, for I have ever 
been, in lawful season, a pesterer of whir- 
ring Robert White. Ben’s wife was away 
on a long visit, but as each man was a 
competent cook we fared well. I am not 
going to tell how the bass bit in Ten Mile, 
Buck and Cypress creeks; how Kinzie 
killed red squirrels in the bottoms: or 
how I fogged up the birds over old Faust 
and Pancho. It is enough to say that we 
feasted on bass, birds, and turkey breast. 
We had been there to days, and Kinzie 
announced one morning that he purposed 
running a fox that night. I told him he 
might run a fox if he wanted to, but that I 
did not propose to engage in any such 
123 
silliness. They worked on me that day 
with argument and threat until I reluc- 
tantly consented to go. Preparation began 
at nightfall. Tom Click, a neighbor, could 
not go, but contributed 7 lank, lean music 
boxes, while we had 6. Meanwhile a great 
and unpleasant suspicion had grown upon 
me. From certain glances I had inter- 
cepted and chuckles overheard I concluded 
that I was to be ridden to death or lost 
in the hills; so when we selected our 
horses I chose a black mare of racing 
strain, the fastest thing in those parts. 
They might ride me to a frazzle, but run 
away from me, never. 
It was a great white night, the 6th of 
November, when we started down the val- 
ley with the shadowy figures of the dogs 
trotting around and before us. Ben and 
Kinzie were joyous and elated, while I was 
silent and dubious. I was dissatisfied. Al- 
ways thin blooded, the frosty air was biting 
me; my dissatisfaction increased. My com- 
panions drew rein about 2 miles from home 
and sat listening. The dogs had been on 
forages on each side of the road, but with- 
out any decided results. Presently Ben 
remarked: 
“They ought to strike somewhere 
here.” 
“Yes,” I snarled, “and we ought to be 
at home in bed.” 
“Shut up!” retorted Pickard, and silence 
ensued. A few minutes we sat thus, when 
far to South of us sounded a cry that 
was like mellow wine to the blood. It 
was the voice of that good old campaigner, 
Drive; he who had thrashed and domi- 
nated every pack he ever ran with. The 
cry was answered from all sides. Two 
of Click’s dogs darted across the road. 
Kinzie and Ben were pounding the road 
50 yards away, and the black mare was 
tugging to go. I loosed her rein and found 
myself tearing along in my first fox chase. 
It was easy sailing a while, but we soon 
turned off into a bottom road that was 
ugly and where the shadows lay deep. 
There was no slackening of what seemed 
to me a desperate pace. Emerging, a long 
ridge lay bare and white before us; gaining 
its crest every note of a wonderful chorus 
floated up to us. I was glad I came; my 
blood was popping hot; all else was for- 
gotten in the witchery of moonlight and 
riotous melody. I was at once a full 
fledged fox hunter. 
There was tacking a while in the scant 
brush, and then the chase led straightaway. 
Helter skelter we went down the ridge in 
in 
