Crazy Like A Fox

CHAPTER 6

A fine mist like a thin white veil covered Tattenhall Station on Saturday, September 16, at seven-thirty A.M. The temperature, 50°F, promised an hour of decent scenting given the moisture, but the morning would warm up, the mist would disappear, and with it, the scent.

Sister usually kept young entry near the home fixtures during cubbing. As they walked this country all summer, if a youngster wandered off, rarely, or overran the line way too far, the hound would know where it was and find the way back to the horn, the pack, or if all else failed, the kennels.

But this year’s young entry and last year’s entry, now second year, had worked together so well, so early, Sister thought to take a chance and go to this westernmost fixture, the former Norfolk and Southern railroad station. Across the road farther west reposed Old Paradise, once one of the most beautiful estates in Virginia, started by a very pretty woman right after the War of 1812. Thanks to her robbing British pay wagons and supply wagons, all that delightful money rolled in as Sophie Marquet kept the cash and sold the supplies to the American forces at a patriotic discount. Old Paradise, at five thousand acres, had been poached by Crawford Howard. He rented it from the two DuCharme brothers, neither of whom could keep up the place, neither of whom had spoken to the other since 1960, improved it, then laid cash on the barrel. They caved and sold.

When The Jefferson Hunt had Old Paradise as a fixture, that land, when combined with Tattenhall Station and some surrounding estates, plumped out at twelve thousand acres. What fabulous hunting, fabulous views. The DuCharmes apologized profusely to Sister. She said she understood. She did.

As Crawford painstakingly brought back the glorious huge stone stables, revived the fields, restored the fences, Kasmir Barbhaiya refurbished the old train station, allowing the hunt to use it as a clubhouse while he restored Tattenhall lands to fertility, building a surprisingly modest house, a true old-style Virginia center-aisle frame farmhouse with a wraparound porch. Crawford, knowing he couldn’t outspend Kasmir, for a rich Indian is rich beyond most rich Americans, practically reeled back in shock when he beheld the pleasing, proportional light yellow clapboard farmhouse with Charleston green shutters. He felt it was a rebuke to his plans of grandeur, and it was. Kasmir had no need to show off. Indian he may have been, but he acted like a true old-blood Virginian.

Crawford sniffed that this was the result of the British ruling India as long as they did. The elite packed off their sons to Harrow, Eton, Groton, then university in England, so the boys became as upper-class British as the British, which is also to say, in many ways, Virginian.

What Crawford didn’t say or realize was that he was vulgar. Everyone else said it for him.

This Saturday a field of fifty-nine people showed up, including Sara Bateman. Each week more Jefferson members joined the hunt as the excitement grew and the mercury slowly, too slowly, dropped. They also missed their friends.

They didn’t miss much today. Shaker cast from the back of the train station; the hounds struck a line in a skinny minute, opened wide, and ran due east.

Sister, grateful that she rode Matador, a former steeplechaser, sailed over a stiff seven-board coop, stiff to keep out the cattle now on Old Paradise. Crawford put up fencing, but he didn’t realize that some cattle are fence walkers and if they’re not policed or put in pastures with stout fencing, those buggers will get out.

A seven-board coop is anywhere from three foot six inches to three foot nine inches, depending on the width of the boards. Taking such an obstacle at a gallop clearly was not for the fainthearted. A few checked their horses, waiting for Bobby Franklin to come up to a gate where they now joined Second Flight. Everyone else made it over the coop and the hounds were flying, just flying.

The huge pasture dipped down a bit toward a narrow creek running toward a much larger broad creek, which flowed easterly. As that creek fed into another, the waters eventually would find their way to the mighty James River and thence to the ocean a good one hundred fifty miles away, depending on the topography.

The creek itself proved no obstacle, but the additional moisture created slippery footing as the horses leapt over. Again everyone made it, but not without a bobble or two.

Betty Franklin whipped-in on the right while Tootie Harris performed this service on the left. Tootie, young and supple, seemed a part of Iota, her own horse. Part of her salary included Iota’s board, since her father had withdrawn all economic support.

The fox, a half-grown son of Earl, the red who lived in Crawford’s restored stone stable, had never been hunted before. Like the young hounds, he had to learn.

Dragon, in the lead, couldn’t close the gap, for the little fellow had quite a start. Suddenly the scent evaporated. Hounds stopped.

“Noses to the ground,” Diana ordered.

“Why does this happen?” Pickens, a second-year, whined.

“Happens more during cubbing,” Trident, older, answered. “The temperature bounces around and so does the scent. Keep at it. We might pick it up again.”

Dragon, a braggart, announced, “Lucky fox. I would have chopped him.”

The other hounds ignored this. No one was going to close that gap. The young fox ran like blazes.

The humans, grateful for the check, breathed heavily, leaned over to check tack, pull up their girth an inch if necessary, took a swallow from their flasks. Some flasks were incendiary. Others, like Sister’s, carried iced sweet tea. Gray Lorillard, right next to her, imbibed something far more potent, then cheekily blew her a kiss.

“Worthless,” she said under her breath, for one shouldn’t talk while hounds are working.

He winked and nodded.

Steady old Asa, wise, walked toward a line of Leland cypress, some undergrowth beneath as Kasmir had not gotten to tidying up. Actually, Sister would have been thrilled if he didn’t tidy up. More cover for foxes.

The hound sucked up the air, a slight snuffle as he did so. He walked with deliberation. His stern began to sway, then moved like a windshield wiper.

Diana, younger but she never missed a trick, watched her old mentor. She joined him. They walked along side by side. He stopped. Sniffed again. So did she.

“Here!” Asa bellowed, his deep voice filling the air.

“We’re on,” Diana commanded and the two hounds took off, the others quickly joining them.

Sister, Shaker, Tootie, and Betty loved watching hounds collapse on a line. Those in the field who liked good hound work were also impressed. This was textbook stuff, and with young entry, too.

Hounds moved through the undergrowth emerging on a trail in the woods, the old tire ruts pointing both north and south. Horses ran in the raised space between the tire tracks. By now Bobby Franklin had caught up to First Flight.

Freddie Thomas, an attractive woman, a strong rider, rode in Second Flight today as she was on a green horse. Better safe than sorry. She’d bring this mare along; she had her made hunter, so she could ride First Flight when she chose to do so. The riders checked again, the mist seemingly tangled up in the treetops, leaves still heavy on the branches, a spot of color here or there. The real color would explode mid-October. Out of the corner of her eye, half turning in her really expensive Tad Coffin saddle, Freddie caught a movement. The hunted fox quietly walked right behind her horse.

The rider behind her, Ben Sidell, the sheriff, counted under his breath, “One, two, three.”

Freddie picked it up. “Four, five, six.”

When they reached twenty both sang out, “Tallyho.”

One must always give the quarry a sporting chance, hence the count to twenty. People forgot in the excitement of a view, but it really was bad sportsmanship.

Shaker swiveled around in his saddle. “Come along.”

Hounds had heard the tallyho, knew what it meant. Happily they reversed field, forcing the riders off the road, horses’ rear ends now in the woods, heads facing out. Otherwise, a nervous horse could kick a hound, or the huntsman.

Both Ben and Freddie had removed their caps, holding them in their hands, arms outstretched, pointing in the direction in which the fox was moving.

“Get ’em up.” Shaker encouraged the pack.

Dreamboat struck first, then they all opened.

Shaker wove through the woods, twisting this way and that. The field followed. Gray bent low onto his horse Wolsey’s neck, as a branch grazed his back.

Slowed them down.

The young fox burst out onto a meadow, heading for the county road that ran north and south dividing Tattenhall Station from Old Paradise. He ducked under the fence, blasted across the road, and ducked under the Old Paradise fence, an old stone wall rehabilitated by Crawford at breathtaking cost. While people loathed his personal showiness, they all admired his restoring what was original about Old Paradise.

A herd of deer grazed in the field. The head doe lifted her head, hearing the horn.

“Bother. Let’s go,” she ordered her group.

The little fox headed for her.

She paused. “Don’t be scared, Sonny. Run in the middle of us. It will throw them off.”

Shaker came out on the road. The hounds soared over the stone fence. The huntsman looked at his Master.

“The MFHA says we can stay on a hunted fox even if it goes into another hunt’s territory,” he said.

Sister knew Crawford’s was an outlaw pack. So did Shaker. The rules didn’t apply to him, nor would Crawford have obeyed them. This flitted through her mind. She didn’t want to start the season with a fight, because sooner or later he would hear about it. On the other hand, hounds roared on full throttle.

“The hell with it.” She squeezed Matador, taking the fence in a graceful arc as Shaker, next to her, did also. They looked like a perfect pairs team.

Everyone followed. Poor Bobby had to ride a quarter of a mile to a gate to get in.

The head doe, now into a woods, rock outcroppings looming ahead, stopped.

The fox stopped with her.

“There’s an old den in there. No hound can get into it but it will be easy for you. You’ll be safe. It’s a well-trained pack so they won’t follow us, but if you jump up on that first rock, walk along the top, you’ll see the den between the two boulders behind.”

“Thank you.” He did as he was told.

The head doe circled, going back toward the roar but far enough away from the hounds. She wasn’t worried about the hounds. She was more worried about the horses. Once a horse had dumped his rider, run to the deer, and joined them. She never forgot that, and probably the horse hadn’t either.

The young fox found the den. How wonderful, he thought, as it was very large with an exit in the rear. Best not to be in any den with only one way in and one way out. Best of all, leaves piled up from last year partly covered a rubber ball, a shiny toy truck, and a lead rope. Toys!

Parker reached the den after a scramble up the first covering rock.

“I know you’re in there.”

Feeling safe, the fox called out, “I am.”

The hounds joined Parker but they couldn’t even dig as it was all rock. The den was between two boulders that formed a crevice, but the den really was huge and tight as a tick. No rain or snow would get in.

Ardent, Asa’s son, peered into the den as best he could. “You did good for a kid,” the hound complimented him. “What’s your name?”

“Sarge.”

“Well, Sarge, we’ll see you again before this season is out.” Ardent turned, walked back over the first large rock, and jumped down.

The rest of the pack took turns jumping up on the first large rock; only three could fit onto it at a time. Everyone sang.

Shaker rode up. Tootie quickly came to him, taking Kilowatt’s reins as the huntsman dismounted. He walked to the large rock. “Good hounds. Good hounds.”

“He’s in there. If you just give me time, I’ll figure out how to bolt him,” young Pickens promised.

“Dream on,” Cora, the matriarch, this probably her last season, replied. “Nothing will get him out of there. He’s a smart little fellow.”

“I could wait him out. Surprise him,” Pickens, ever hopeful, said.

“Pickens, he can smell you just as easily as you can smell him. You’d have to hide about a quarter of a mile away,” the older and wiser Delia, mother of the D hounds, advised.

Sister, standing perhaps ten yards back so the field could have a close view, looked upward at lowering clouds. Bobby Franklin arranged Second Flight right by First so everyone could appreciate the ritual.

Shaker put the horn to his lips and blew the warbling, satisfying “Gone to Ground.”

Betty Franklin, slightly off on the right just in case the pack took a notion, turned her head.

Far in the distance, a mournful echo, deep, returned “Gone to Ground.”

“Echo,” Gray whispered.

The echo continued after Shaker ceased the distinctive notes. Deep, deep the sound seemed to linger forever.

Sister, intently listening, knew this was no echo. This was the call of an old hunting cowhorn, the timbre unmistakable. She shivered a moment.

Shaker interrupted her reverie, if that word could be applied to what she was feeling. “Master?”

“Yes.” She blinked.

“How about I hunt back?”

“Good idea. Shaker, you heard that?”

“Did. Curious what sound does.” A crooked grin appeared on his rugged face. “Sounded like my old papaw blowing.”

“I wonder.”

“Madam?” He addressed her properly.

If a woman was your master it was either master or madam, if one was a hunt servant. Half the time they both forgot in the heat of the moment and he called her “Boss.” She almost always properly called him “Huntsman” during a hunt if he called her “Boss,” but she readily forgave him. They had worked together for years in such harmony as to make even the most trying of days a joy.

“Just thinking. A beautiful sound, that low call. Well, yes, let’s go back. I’d like to get out of here before Crawford shows up, if he’s around.”

Shaker’s grin widened. “He’s not. If he were, he’d be here cussing us like a dog.”

A half hour later, at a trot, no new scent, everyone was at Tattenhall Station.

Tattenhall Station’s walls reverberated with the laughter, the chat. The breakfast was in full swing.

Kasmir asked Freddie, “How do you like your saddle? You look comfortable in it.”

“I nearly died paying for it, I swear, but my riding has improved, and my horse is happier, especially this young one. It was worth every penny, plus the countless fittings.” She smiled. “I never really believed a saddle could help one be a better rider, but I do now.”

Alida Dalzell, a warm, highly intelligent woman in her early forties, dating Kasmir, talked to Sister. “Wasn’t that something, the fox running with the deer?”

“They are so smart. He was a little guy with a big brain.” Sister smiled. “Inexperienced whippers-in go after the hounds. They don’t think to look for the fox.”

“Half grown, you think?”

“Yes. He’ll be looking for his own den if he doesn’t already have one. By October or November, the fathers have pushed out all the sons. They have to make their way in life. I think the fox we ran is by Earl, the handsome red who lives in the stone stables at Old Paradise.”

“You can tell?”

“Often you can. Like dogs, they have distinguishing features, family traits.”

Alida laughed. “Like people.” She paused, sipped her refreshing gin and tonic. “It’s still warm enough for gin and tonic.” She held up her glass. “Sister, I cherish your advice. I travel up from Carolina twice a month, Kasmir comes down. I am thinking about relocating here. What do you think?”

“We’d be lucky to have you, and Kasmir would be beside himself.”

“There’s a lot to think about. I’ve built a good business there. It’s how Freddie and I met, at a conference. I gave a talk about forensic accounting, we discovered we both hunted, she invited me here, and I couldn’t believe it. You all have been so kind to me.”

Sister touched Alida on the shoulder. “Honey, it’s easy to be kind to someone who rides as well as you do; you actually listen to people, and you make Kasmir laugh. You know how I love him. If they’re all like him halfway across the world then it will be India’s turn to conquer.”

“He wants to take me there to see where he grew up. I think I will be overwhelmed. Just to think of how ancient the culture is, how rich the history, how mixed-up the politics.” She laughed a bit.

“You don’t have to go to India for that.” Sister clinked glasses with her. “You come here. I will help in any way I can.” She then called out over the heads of a small group.

“Sara. You had one of those Tad Coffin saddles made, too. Alida loves hers.”

“After a few adjustments, I agree. Now what are you up to? I know there’s more coming.” Sara laughed.

Sister explained. Her phone was in the truck, but as Sara had never known Weevil, she offered to show her the video. Sara needed to haul her horse, Shane, back, and said she’d watch it later but not right now.

“Before you go, let me know. I brought the treasurer’s reports that I copied for Dale.”

“Without receipts I don’t know what he can tell.”

“Me neither, but I thought if something proved really amiss in the books Dale would know.”

“You think this has something to do with money? From 1947 to 1954?”

“Well, don’t most murders involve love or money?”

Sara smiled. “I think you’d know by now. That’s sixty-three years ago.”

Sister brought her drink to her forehead to cool off for a moment. “You’re right. I don’t know why this has gotten under my skin.”

Sara nodded. “Love or money.”

True enough, but in a way neither woman could have predicted.

Hours later, back at Roughneck Farm, horses cleaned, fed, and turned out, hounds the same, Sister and Gray had taken their showers and collapsed out on the verandah to drink and drink in the long, long twilight.

“How did Crawford take it?” He sipped his Scotch.

She pulled her sweater tighter over her shoulders. “Surprisingly well. It’s dawning on him that he actually needs us.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“No, really. Maybe it’s Marty.” Crawford’s wife. “Or Skiff. But I think he’s beginning to realize we can divert the Master of Foxhounds Association from blowing this outlaw pack thing up. He thought he was bigger than the MFHA. Richer, yes. Bigger, no.” She breathed in the delicious evening air. “It will take time to play out.”

A brand-new shiny blue Lincoln Continental crept down the farm road, slowed by the turnoff to the house, kennels, and barns, then moved forward. They heard the car stop, the door slam.

Tootie’s small house couldn’t be seen from the main house but one could hear, especially on a night like this.

A knock on the door and then, “Tootie!”

Sister sat bolt upright. “What?”

Gray now sat upright with her.

They heard the door open and Tootie’s voice, her surprise clear in her tone, answer. “Mother.”

“Dear God,” Sister blurted out.

Dear God didn’t cover it.