When the eventful hour came, Simon, mounted on his trusty mule, Beck, with his master’s old horn on his back, and Dinah trotting behind, with head and tail down, overtook the other hunters just out of Graham, on the Haw River road. The night was fine, and the ground in first-class condition. The atmosphere was fresh and sweet, after a light shower, and the weeds and grass sufficiently damp to hold a scent. As Simon rode up, Mr. Williamson remarked: “Well, old fellow, if Dinah has the proper stuff in her, and we hit old Sandy, she will have an opportunity to do her best to-night, for the weather is ideal.”
“Yes, sir; dat’s so; Mr. Fox’ll smell mighty good arter de little sprinkle. I ain’t sayin’ much erbout my dog yit, ’cause she ain’t never run but one or two foxes in her life, but I feels lak she wuz des gwine to fall in wid de res’ an’ do her part.”
Some of the mischievous chaps in the party twitted the old negro about his hound, calling her “skinflint,” “meat-catcher,” “rabbit-chaser,” and the like, but he laughed and advised them to wait and see.
The hunters had not gone far when Trump, a young dog, routed a rabbit, and drove him flying across the road. Five or six puppies joined in and hurried old mollie-cotton-tail to the thicket of a near-by stream. Soon a turn was made and all came back. The dogs were close behind Brer Rabbit, and a new mouth carried the lead. Uncle Simon, with much joy in his heart, cried out: “Listen at dat horn-mouf! Dat’s Dinah, an’ she’s in front!”
Mr. Williamson was charmed with the deep bark of Skinny Dinah. It was wrong to encourage the rabbit hunters, but the boys could not refrain from galloping ahead to see the race. Dinah was literally splitting the wind. She did not tarry or linger, but picked up the scent here and there and hastened on. Simon blew his horn and all of the culprits, except Dinah, came in; and her tongue ceased. It was surmised that she had caught the rabbit and was eating a second supper. Soon she overtook her proud owner, her mouth blood-stained and her sides sticking out. The laugh was on the darkey.
Far to the right came the melodious note of Trouble, the faithful old strike dog. He had ranged toward Bull Nose Creek and struck a hot scent. Mark, Mr. Williamson’s colored valet, declared, “Dat’s where dey strikes ole Sandy, an’ Trouble knowed where to hit him!”
The hunters struck a gallop and the dogs were “harkened” in—Jerry, Jude, Kate, Sing, Music, Flora, Black Bill, Red Ball, Trumpet and Flirt. Strive, a big, deep-mouthed, bob-tailed hound, opened some distance in front of the rest. He was a fast trailer, making time and ground by sighting logs and wet places ahead and hitting here and there. He had good dog sense and knew the ways of Reynard, and, under his leadership, the pack soon had a running trail.
Mark dismounted and examined the track. “It sho’ is ole Sandy, Mr. Lawrence,” said he. “If you don’t believe it, come here an’ look.” And so it turned out.
The dogs moved across Cedar Hill toward Holt’s Bay and Drowning Creek. The young hounds, all but Dinah, were chiming in at the rear. Dinah seemed interested, but lazy. However, she kept nibbling at the track. As the hounds went in on the north side of Holt’s Bay, old Sandy slipped out on the other side. Red Ball, the famous leader of the pack, got a live scent of the cunning fox as he set out, and rushed through the thicket, bawling as he went, and picked up the hot track. There was consternation among the dogs for a moment, but in a jiffy every last mouth, even that of Dinah, was giving tongue behind Red Ball.