On the hill-side the men opened their line to cover a wide stretch of the mountain, and plunged upward through the scrub of pines and oaks. There was much running about of the dogs, and desultory barking, corrected by spicy admonitions from their masters, until the ascent's steepness forced silence upon them by the weapon of difficult breathing.
Once 'Gene Frady tripped on a root and fell headlong, pitching his torch into the dry duff a man's length before him. There was a rush to stamp out the incipient fire, the autumn terror of the forests, before any one lent a hand to help the fallen. Robertson went half-way up his leggings in a spring, and stood swearing fiercely, while the rest jeered at him and ordered him to move on before he muddied up a good drinking-place. Bob and Friedrich pushed on on adjoining courses, an occasional cry of "malerisch," or "zauberisch," showing that von Rittenheim was regarding the scene as well as the sport. On the other side of Bob climbed Wendell, sullenly self-reproachful in the Baron's presence, yet of too exuberant a nature not to be alive to the excitement of the chase.
Of a sudden a hound gave voice,—the bay that makes hunters of us all. The other dogs rushed to his standard, yelping, barking, galloping from all directions across their masters' paths, until the forest seemed suddenly alive with them. One after another found, and added his note to the general cry that trailed off into the distance. The men who had started to follow paused, and the rest drew together.
"Rabbit," suggested Bob, disgustedly, and the others nodded, and began to whistle for their retainers.
Singly they returned, with swinging tongue and pendant ears, and a disposition to sit down and contemplate the scenery. Then once more came a cry, the steady bay of a dog at stand. His companions instantly forgot their fatigue, pricked up their ears, pulled in their tongues, and started towards the herald, with all the huntsmen in pursuit.
Gathered about a veteran oak, whose blasted top betrayed it the lightning's victim, were grouped the dogs, each one shoving to better his place in the bunch, each with tuneful throat and uplifted tail. Occasionally one from the outskirts would rush around the crowd of his fellows and try to push in from the other side of the ring. The ones nearest the tree snuffed at a hole in the trunk between the roots, and dug fiercely with their forepaws.
"Holler, ain' hit?"
"Yes. He's went in that-a-way."
"Don' look like hit's holler up fur."
"No. Reckon we c'n chop him out."