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way.
    If another hound, say a flanker, a hound on the sides of the pack, found scent before she did, Cora would slow, listening for the anchor hound, the quarterback, to speak. If the anchor said the scent was valid, then Cora would swing around to the new line, racing up front again. She had to be first.
    If the anchor hound said nothing, then Cora would wait for a moment to listen for someone else whom she trusted. All she waited for was
“It is good.”
If she didn’t hear it soon, then she’d push on.
    For years the anchor hound of the Jefferson Hunt had been Archie, a great American hound of substance, bone, deep voice, and reliable nose. Archie, a true leader, knew when to knock a smart-ass youngster silly, when to encourage, when to chide the whole pack, and when to urge them on. He died a fighting death against a bear, ensuring his glory among the pack as well as among the humans. They all missed him.
    Diana, though young, possessed the brains to be an anchor hound. No one else exhibited that subtle combination of leadership, drive, nose, and identifiable cry. Cora knew Diana would become a wonderful anchor, but her youth would cause some problems this season. Like a young, talented quarterback, Diana would misread some signals and get blitzed. But the girl had it, she definitely had it.
    In fact, the whole D litter, named for the first letter of their mother’s name as is the custom among foxhunters, oozed talent. And in Dragon’s case, overweening conceit.
    Puppies taunted one another, their high-pitched voices carrying over the yards drenched in late-afternoon sunshine.
    â€œPipe down, you worthless rats,”
Cora yelled at them.
    They quieted.
    â€œToo bad Archie can’t see this litter. He was their grandfather. They’re beauties.”
Diana watched one chubby puppy waddle to the chain-link fence between the yards, where he studied a mockingbird staring right back at him from the other side.
    â€œBabblers.”
Cora laughed.
“They are beautiful. But
the proof is in the pudding. We’ll see what they can really
do two seasons from now. And don’t forget”—she lowered her voice because gossip travels fast in close quarters—
“Sweetpea just isn’t brilliant. Steady, God
bless her, steady as a rock, but not an A student.”
    Sweetpea was the mother of this litter.
    â€œI wish it were the first day of cubbing.”
Diana sighed.
    â€œDon’t we all. I don’t mind the walking out. Really. The
exercise is good, and each week the walks get longer. You
know next week we’ll start with the horses again, which I
enjoy, but still—not the same.”
    â€œHeard the boys in the pasture yesterday.”
Diana meant the horses.
“They’re excited about starting back
to work so long as Sister, Shaker, and Doug go out early,
really early.”
Diana sniffed the air. A familiar light odor announced the presence of Golly grandly picking her way through the freshly mowed grass toward the outdoor run.
    Diana rose, shaking the dirt off.
    Cora, too, smelled Golly.
“Insufferable shit.”
    Diana laughed.
“Cora, you’re crabby today.”
    â€œIt’s the heat. But that doesn’t change the fact that that
cat is a holy horror.”
Cora curled farther into her cool mud crater. She wasn’t going to talk to the calico.
    Golly reached the chain-link fence.
“Good afternoon,
Diana. Your nose is dirty.”
    Diana sat down at the chain-link fence.
“Keeps the
bugs off.”
    â€œI wouldn’t know. I don’t get bugs.”
    â€œLiar,”
Cora called out.
    â€œTick hotel,”
Golly fired right back.
    â€œFlea bait. You hallucinate. I’ve seen you chase the
ghosts of fleas,”
Cora replied, giggling.
    â€œI have never hallucinated in my life, Cora. And you
can’t get my goat, ha,”
she said,
“because you’re a lower
life-form and I’m not letting you