January, 1923 
Thomas. . Some suggested one place, 
some another. Nelson spoke: “I’ll tell 
you where to go; clown to the Britton 
Old Fields on Mingo swamp. There is 
a red fox down there that drifted in 
from somewdiere, and these dogs of ours 
can’t even annoy him, so as we have 
both wind and speed to-night let’s try 
Old Red.” 
No sooner said than assented to, and 
we turned our horses toward the Old 
Fields. 
O NLY one dog among the newcom¬ 
ers had struck my fancy as we 
rode along: a snow-white bitch with the 
exception of her ears, both of which 
showed black and glossy in the moon¬ 
light. I noted that she was long of 
limb, deep in the chest, slim-bellied— 
the living, moving picture of speed. 
“Shaw’s Siren,” said Nelson. My 
heart beat faster. Would Black John 
ever pass her in a race? We reached 
the edge of the Old Fields. 
“Go, boy! He’ll hunt for ’em!” 
Twenty-seven dogs turned loose; 
thirty-three men on horseback, some 
talking, some listening for a “strike.” 
“I tell you, boys, if we jump Old Red 
to-night, we needn’t hurry our horses 
until he has made his first round,” said 
Joe Thomas. “Why?” I asked. “Be¬ 
cause,” he replied, “every time we’ve 
run him, he’s taken the same route, 
about a fourteen mile circuit down by 
Morrisville and back, and has so far 
shaken them all off before the end of 
the second trip.” “He won’t have time 
t o ‘shake’ to¬ 
night, he’ll have f 
to run,’’ said 
Shaw, dryly. He 
had no doubt j 
about his beauti¬ 
ful white bitch. 
“How will we 
know,” I asked, 
“whether we’ve 
jumped Old Red 
or not?” 
“I can tell you 
in fifteen min¬ 
utes,” replied 
Thomas, “wheth¬ 
er”—yow ! yow ! 
Two short, sharp 
cries off to the 
right about a 
quarter of a mile 
away. 
‘‘Siren’s 
struck,” said 
Shaw. 
“Bow! bow! 
bow-u, bow-u”— 
another took up the scent and the cry, about seven miles up, and come back 
then another and another as the trail on the other side.” 
yelps here and there, the trailing pack pet of leaves and straw — on through 
had hushed. They were making for the 
“jump,” while farther away there still 
rose and fell at regular intervals the cry 
of the big black hound. 
Five minutes passed and “bow! yow!” 
Siren had joined him, and just a second 
later another tongue—Patty had joined 
him, too. And now, as seconds went by, 
new tongues were added to the rising, 
swelling notes of music, such as man 
may never make. 
“Come on, boys,” called Thomas, “we 
may beat them to Cassell’s Ford. That’s 
where he’ll cross if it’s Old Red, and I 
think it is.” 
“How far is it to the Foid?” I asked. 
“Four miles,” he replied. 
The clattering of the hoofbeats on the 
frosted earth shut out all other sound 
until Joe Thomas stopped us short to 
listen. 
“Yes,” he said, “they're headed that 
way, and nearly there. Let’s ride,” and 
away we went, some cantering, some 
galloping, some trotting. We reached 
the Ford to find the dogs two miles 
ahead and going like the wind. Again 
we halted a moment for a blowing spell 
for the horses, and as the rolling vol¬ 
ume of sound died away in the distance 
Nelson spoke: “If there are any horses 
in the crowd good for forty miles be¬ 
tween now and sunrise, follow me. I 
know his route. The rest of you can 
wait around, or join us when we come 
back, an hour or two from now. He’ll 
cross again at the forks of the swamp, 
the moonbeams and shadows of a calm, 
still night, on and on, and now, as we 
slackened a bit, not far away, there 
struck once more on the straining ear 
the blood-stirring cry of the chase. 
Then on again and faster now, until 
the yelping, flying pack comes into view. 
They all still held on fairly well, but 
now, as we slackened down at the heels 
of the pack, we could all plainly distin¬ 
guish two ringing tongues ahead. Siren 
and Patty were leading, Black John just 
twenty steps behind. 
A T last the Forks were reached and 
crossed, and back we went while 
the steady unbroken cry of the pack, and 
the yells of the hunters echoed and died 
away in the silent forest. Back to Cas¬ 
sell’s Ford and back to the Old Fields, 
and on past them, the other hunters 
dropping in as we passed them. At ten 
o’clock, after one hour and thirty min¬ 
utes running, a few of the dogs dropped 
out. A sudden turn, a momentary break 
in the cry of the leaders, and away we 
went again. “Old Red, the scent is hot, 
you’ll hardly shake them now,” I thought. 
A semi-circle of five or six miles and 
back to the Ford. At ten thirty, after 
two hours running, the fox took another 
sudden turn, this time down instead of 
up the swamp. Again Joe Thomas 
spoke: “Boys, that’s a devil of a tack 
he's on now, thick as hops. Nelson, 
you and Jim Smith follow me so that 
if he runs down there for an hour we 
can see which dog’s ahead. When they 
turn back, you 
' fellows spread 
out about a quar¬ 
ter of a mile 
from the bridge 
and watch for the 
leaders. If he 
can’t dodge them 
down here in the 
thicket he’s a 
goner, but he’ll 
try the same old 
route up the 
swamp. We wall 
cut in ahead of 
them if they turn 
back and be back 
here when they 
come across. 
You all know the 
dogs the bet is 
on; the white 
bitch with black 
. A AS 
A-'W 
Every dog along the route had joined the pack 
grew warmer, until the fields began to 
ring. Suddenly, above the blending of 
the tongues near at hand as they warmed 
to the work—beyond, half a mile away, 
there rose a hoarse gutteral cry. “How, 
how, how, u, how-u-u.” 
The leading dogs of the trailing pack 
stopped to listen, and listening knew 
Black John was running. The watches 
marked 8.30. But for a few straggling 
Seven men rode out to follow. Strik¬ 
ing into a blind road leading up the 
swamp, Nelson stuck spurs to his horse 
and we were gone. 
Over bushes, under bushes, over logs, 
under leaning trees, over ditches, now 
high in air as your horse rose to clear 
a log, now with your head bent down 
by the side of your horse’s neck to 
avoid a limb—on over the frosted car- 
ears and the big 
black dog with 
that devilish 
tongue.” 
The cry passed beyond our hearing 
now, but not for long, for presently we 
heard them once more and this time 
they were headed back toward us. 
“Mind, now,” cautioned Shaw, as we 
began scattering on the road, “not a 
word until the fox crosses the road or 
you’ll turn him back. After he is over 
you may yell yourselves hoarse if you 
want to.” 
As the cry drew nearer, Thomas, Nel- 
(Continued on page 46) 
