Fitzrapp flicked his ivory-handled crop against one of his shining boots, at loss just how to handle this interloper.
"Mrs. Andress is a widow, sir, and somewhat under my protection." He offered this bit of news gratuitously. "Your accent tells me that you're from the States."
The mouth of Childress twitched whimsically. He had been in the United States and recently, but he was not "from" there in the sense meant by the assured master-of-hounds. He grasped the opportunity to cover his connection with "The Force" by an equivocal return.
"I haven't noticed much difference in accent either side of the line," he said. "Shall we join the bunch?"
Childress was not asking permission, not on this any-man's range. He did not wait for answer, but headed toward the hunters.
Their arrival found old Poison offsetting his lack of straight breeding by a strength of character that was causing considerable tumult among the hounds. The Strathconna fashion-folk hunted with a cross between the Russian wolfhound and the English grayhound, swift runners, quick at turning, but not always eager to kill. Gladly had Poison taken upon himself, it seemed, the right to toss the coyote. Then, moved by jealousy, the blooded pack had attempted to take the "brush" away from him.
By the time the sergeant arrived, the police dog had put three of them hors de combat, and was holding the rest at safe distance by threat of savage fangs. None of the men riders had cared to dispute the strange canine's right of possession on behalf of Mrs. Andress, who was clamoring for her prize as the first human in at the death.
"Me and mine sure are interfering with this hunt, folks," cried Childress as he reined the mare and sprang to the prairie sod.
He strode toward his dog, who began an indeterminate, equivocal wagging of his tail. "You darned old scoundrel!" he began, in a tone that only pretended to chide. "Can't you get it through your peaked roof that we're not invited to this party? Give me that wolf!"
The blow he sent Poison's way was accepted by that discriminating beast as a caress, and the dead coyote promptly was surrendered. Picking up a thirty-five pound specimen of the prairie pest, Childress turned toward the young woman, who still sat his horse and had just finished parking her disordered hair. Old Poison slouched at his heels, casting defiant glances from side to side at the other dogs.