An’ he thought this outstandin’ fox was just the ticket . . .” —he must be able to feel how it throbs; why doesn’t he stop? “Shh, Lee; Henry will notice. Besides, I hear you cry at night sometimes, too.” Now the sparks race up to the dark! Like little fiery nightbirds—“You do? maybe I should explain . . .”—up and up and up and then gone, like little nightbirds— “But the things is, at just the time this ol’ boy wanted us to come hunt down his fox, this bluetick bitch of Hank’s she was right in the middle of heat an’ havin’ to be kept in the barn so’s every mutt in the country wouldn’t be after her. Hank, he still wanted to bring her along, sayin’ that as soon’s the hunt got goin’ none the other dogs would pay any attention to her condition. But Ben, he says, ‘Dammit, boy, don’t try to tell your Uncle Ben about what a animal will frigging pay attention to and what he won’t: those dogs would leave a whole treeful of foxes to mount that bitch of yours ...I mean I know about these sorta things. . . .’ an’ Hank, he says that we didn’t have to worry about his dog gettin’ mounted, that she could outrun anything on four legs he didn’t care what kind of attention it were payin’ her . . .” —Henry is a nighthawk from behind, perched against the flames. “Shh, Lee.” “Don’t worry about him, Viv—” Doesn’t he care if Henry hears? “—he can’t hear us; he’s too wrapped up in his story.” Or doesn’t he care to leave me alone so we can just watch the sparks, or listen to that faraway belling of that one lone dog (scrabbling up loose dirt, sliding, leaning to corner a stump, a log up! Molly soars over the deadfall in her path without breaking stride, forepaws folded back against her scratched and bleeding breastbone, ears spreading for the jump like nicked wings; at the peak of her jump, across weightless expanse of brush, she saw him for the first time since he had broken through the pack—a round wobbling black ball flecked with the glisten of moonlight, boring ahead through the wet fern: bay-OO-OO-OOHRR!—then stretched forth her paws to catch the jar of earth running again) that one baying dog so far away and so beautiful . . . doesn’t he care? “Viv, listen to me, please.” “Shh, I’m listening to Henry’s story.” “But Ben he says, ‘Henry, I don’t know as I’d let that boy bring that Jezebel along an’ that’s the truth—we’d be watchin’ a rape instead of a hunt.’ But Hank he says we just gotta let him bring her ’cause there won’t be another hunt or another fox like this for her to learn on in years!” —the hand presses, slight desperate pressure: “But I have to talk to you—to somebody ...please. And I might not have another chance.” But doesn’t he feel that pounding there? “No, Lee, don’t . . .” “Well, we fussed and fussed about it for a spell and anyhow what happened is Hank talked Ben into lettin’ him bring her along just for the trip, just so’s she could watch the hunt, not even run in it—an’ Ben says all right. ‘But listen here,’ Ben says, ‘you keep that whore up front in the cab with us on the trip over—sit her in your lap or something, just don’t put her in back with all the other hounds; they’d be so rundown with screwing her that by the time we got across the hills to the hunt they wouldn’t be able to see nothing but tail, or trail nothing but cunt! Assuming they had the strength left to run a trail at all. ...’ ” —she tries to stop her ears against the words at her cheek— “I must tell you something. Viv. About Hank, what I was planning to do. And why”—against the needle-sharp hook of pain she senses lurking beneath the words, tugging at her flesh; “It all started a long time ago . . .” But in spite of her efforts to stop the words she can feel some of the need getting through: he doesn’t need me that much, he couldn’t— “So Hank’s bitch rode up front all the way over, sitting in his lap. We got there an’ it was just comin’ daylight, I recall, sun was just comin’ up. An’ there was another fella there an’ he had him six or seven dogs. An’ when they saw how we’s all favorin’ Hank’s bluetick—I mean had her up in his arms by god—they wanted to know what kinda damned animal we had that had to be treated so special. Hank says, ‘The best goddamned animal of its kind in the state.’ This feller with the other dogs, he winks at me an’ says, ‘Why, we’ll just see about that!’ An’ goes into his pocket for his wallet and lays a ten-dollar bill on the car fender an’ says, ‘Right, here we go, sport. Ten to one. Ten dollars to your buck, my old brake-legged beat-up mongrel here finds that fox before your pedigree.’ An’ points over at his dog, about the finest-lookin’ walker I ever see in my life with three or four these Kennel Club badges from field trials on his collar. Hank starts to eat pie about then an’ say he can’t let his dog run because of a game leg or some such an’ this guy gives him the horse laugh an’ brings out another ten-dollar bill an’ plunks it down an’ says, ‘All right, twenty to one an’ I’ll hold my flea-farm back the count of fifty.’ Hank, he looks up there at me an’ I just shrug on account it’s Ben’s pick-up an’ Ben’s hunt, an’ Hank’s about to have ............