MacKinlay Kantor - The Voice of Bugle Ann

THE VOICE OF
BUGLE ANN

MACKINLAY KANTOR

THE DERRYDALE PRESS

Published in the United States of America
by The Derrydale Press
An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.
4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706

Distributed by NATIONAL BOOK NETWORK, INC.

Copyright 1935, by MacKinlay Kantor
First Derrydale Printing 2001

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kantor, Mackinlay, 1904

The voice of Bugle Ann / MacKinlay Kantor.

p. cm.(Derrydale Press foxhunters library)

ISBN: 978-1-58667-069-6

1. Hunting dogsFiction. 2. Dog ownersFiction. 3. FoxhoundsFiction. 4. MissouriFiction. 5. DogsFiction. I. Titles. II. Series.

PS3521.A47 V65 2001
813'.52dc21 00-048549

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of
American National Standard for Information SciencesPermanence of
Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.481992.
Manufactured in the United States of America.

To
Dennis M. Kelly

All thanks to George Proctor, Will Martindale, Dan Longwell and Tom Duncan; and to certain fox-hounds of high and noble birth.

THE AUTHOR

HER VOICE was something to dream about, on any night when she was running through the hills. The first moment she was old enough to boast an indivdual voice, Springfield Davis swore that she would be a great dog, and within another month he had given her the name she carried so proudly.

One of her great-grandfathers, many generations removed, had followed Spring Davis away from home when he went off to join General Claiborne Jackson and his homespun army among the prickly-orange hedges, so there was logic in the inheritance which put that trumpet in her throat.

She was slender, like hounds of the Spaulding line, and not as sprawling or cumbersome as the good-natured, long-tongued Walkers. Any one in Missouri who knew anything about fox-hounds had heard of the Davis dogs, but somehow there never came to be a Davis line. It was all in the family, and there existed a haughtiness in the old man which wouldnt permit him to have Davis dogs running anywhere except in the ranges along Heaven Creek. That was why Bugle Ann was still a maiden at five years, long after old Calhoun Royster or the Lanceys would have seen to it that she carried on her business in life.

And Spring Davis was prudish past the point of ridicule, though no one would have dared to laugh at him. He hated the common word for a female dog, and would not let it touch his tongue. He called his she-dogs ladies or girls, and there was a firm beauty about him when he spoke to them. You wouldnt think that a man like that could ever be tried for murder, or become a convict.

Those things did happen to Spring Davis, at eighty-two. They didnt affect him as they would have affected most men of eighty-two. Whenever he heard the gongs and whistles which sent him about his gray routine at Jefferson City, he must have banished those sounds from his consciousness. He must have imagined instead that he was sitting by a fire at the edge of Bachelors timber, listening to the dogs as they hunted out of Chilly Branch Hollow, with Bugle Anns cry echoing against the blackness of the sky.

BAKE, SAID old Cal Royster, put some wood on.

Baker went to the woodpile beyond the red circle and found a piece of rotten stump. Well have a good moon by next week, he said, and jammed the wood upon the coals.

I dont give shucks for moonlight, exclaimed Cal Royster. Give me a black-dark night, when the fox aint shadow-shy. Any fool ought to know that. I dont know where my boys get such notions as moonlight nights.

Across the fire, Spring Davis tapped his pipe against the heel of his boot. He stopped, suddenly, head tilted to one side. The firelight turned his shaggy mustache and eyebrows to fluid metal.

Listen, he said. Getting sweet.

His son, Benjy Davis, rose to his feet. He moved like an Indian; so did his father. There was something of the Indian in Benjys twenty-year-old face, tanned and narrow and bony.

His black eyes glittered. Hes a mighty sweet fox if theyve had him away over toward the river! We aint heard a sound for twenty minutes.

There were five men around that fire at the edge of Bachelors timber. Four of themSpring Davis and his only son, Benjy, and Calhoun Royster and his oldest son, Bakerwere the most ardent fox-hound men in the county. The fifth man was no hound man at all; he was a new insurance agent from Wolf Center. He had eaten supper at the Davises, and he was beside that fire only by invitation and sufferance.

He inquired, What do you mean, Mr. Davis? Getting sweet.

It sweats, Spring told him. The fox does. They can smell him better after hes been running awhile. Thats getting sweet.

Now even the agents untrained ears could detect a faint distraction amid the common night soundsthe hush of sleeping forests that never sleep, and which is really no hush at all. The sound came from over past the Armstrong place, far past Chilly Branch and across the ridge beyond, and it was as eerie and elusive as the calling of wild geese.

Youll hear her in a minute, whispered Springfield Davis.

The confused murmur became a tiny baying: the tongues of many dogs, eager and striving in spite of their two-hour run.

Thats Toul Sector, Bake Royster declared. Bake had been in the war, and all the Royster dogs were named Toul Sector or Border Service or General Bullard or some such name.

Its not Toul Sector, said Benjy. Not that nearest one.

Calhoun Roysters tone showed the jealous annoyance which he displayed frequently with the self-assured Davises. Its no Bugle Ann, neither, he snorted. Nor no Bill Bryan, nor Cox, nor Frances Cleveland, nor any Davis dog.

Reckon it is a bit turkey-mouthed for one of ours.

Old Spring Davis loved to hear Cal swear in his beard. So he continued, Ill tell you, Cal. Its an Armstrong dog. Theyve picked up an Armstrong as they come past.

Royster stood with head wiggling on his humped shoulders, his bearded lips hanging open as he tried to take that baying apart and examine it.

What Armstrong dog? he demanded. He seemed to be weakening.

Id say it was Jackie Cooper, that little pale-faced two-year-old.

Old man Royster listened a moment longer. He gave a defeated snort. Then his ire mounted. Where in hells Bugle Ann, anyway?

Maybe shell quit, and come in, muttered his son.

Benjy whirled, and for a moment the insurance agent thought that he was going to strike Bake Royster. No Davis dog ever come in without being called, before a fox holed, Benjy said. Except one. You remember him. We shot him the next day.

Spring nodded. Easy boy.... Guess theres bound to be a black sheep in every tribe, though this dog was white. Dont you folks worry about Bugle Ann. Youll hear her soon enough.