Crazy Like A Fox

CHAPTER 21

In the distance, the slap slap slap of the huge waterwheel could be heard. Saturday, October 7, Sister did as Gray suggested, moved the cast time to eight A.M. Given that Thursday had been canceled due to the torrential rains of Tuesday and Wednesday, a large field assembled.

Wind after the rains helped dry out the soil just enough so the footing was springy, slick in spots. Rickyroo, Sister’s Thoroughbred mount, at thirteen, loved the footing, loved foxhunting, loved Sister. What he didn’t love was other horses pushing his behind. Wolsey, turned out with Rickyroo, actually didn’t push him but unkind words were spoken. Irritated the hell out of the Master’s horse. He was first, not even first among equals, but first. He didn’t need any lip about his hindquarters.

Shaker’s horse for the day, Kilowatt, would not have lowered himself to chat with a peon in the field. Betty Franklin’s Outlaw, a friendly Quarter Horse, would flick his ears and swish his tail when he passed the field, but he usually had something pleasant to say. Kasmir Barbhaiya’s Jujube, ridden by Tootie at the request for some seasoning, paid not the least bit of attention to the fifty-two horses and riders. All his senses focused on this new task at hand.

Kasmir on Nighthawk rode with Alida on Lucille Ball, so named for her flaming chestnut coat.

Many a horseman or houndsman would counsel newcomers to foxhunting not to name a horse something like Devil’s Boy, nor a hound Viagra. The wisdom was that the animal would live up or down to his or her name. Hounds and horses understand language. This old wives’ tale, as many newcomers thought of it, proved to be true more often than not. And thanks to studies at a Hungarian university, as well as at American ones, it was becoming evident to those needing scientific proof that yes, animals did understand language—at least higher vertebrates did. And they learned it like humans: left brain for logic, right brain for emotion and creativity.

Had anyone known that, witnessing Lucille Ball cut a caper would have made them laugh. Too late to change the redhead’s name now. Once a run commenced, Lucille would settle down. Until then there was prancing, snorting, sideways trotting, casting her eye backward to let Alida know she saw everything, absolutely everything, including the fact that Alida carried her crop sideways so Lucille knew it was in her hands. Lucille could have cared less. She knew her 1200 pounds pitted against Alida’s 135 meant she would win. Alida put up with it because Lucille could jump the moon, had gaits smooth as silk, and was bold, wondrously bold. You put her to anything, you were going over.

A guest, Marilyn Davidson, told Alida to take Lucille to the back of the field. Alida, too much of a lady, squelched the retort, which would have been, “Why don’t you learn how to ride? Then you wouldn’t mind my horse.” All she did was turn her head to reply, “Once we’re going she’s an angel.”

No sooner was this out of her mouth than bam, they were going.

Mill Ruins sat four miles north of Chapel Cross. The soil was not as rich as that at Chapel Cross; the lay of the land was similar, good flat pastures that, heading west, quickly turned into ravines with thick woods. Mill Ruins took advantage of the faster running waters of the feeder creek, wide, to the Tye River miles and miles away, which poured into the James at Buffalo Station. That fast-moving water provided the energy for the mill’s waterwheel. The original settler back in 1752 knew what he was doing. The waterwheel still turned. A miller could grind grain, if one could be found.

Hounds struck to the right of Walter’s house. Sister took a little feel of Rickyroo’s reins, for the pastures were extensive and with a slight roll. They were perfect for galloping, as was the footing.

Staff smiled broadly because a youngster had found the line and had been honored by the pack for the first time. Audrey, nose to the ground, knew she’d joined the big kids. Her littermates, not quite two years old, Aero, Angle, and Ace, desperately wanted to prove themselves. Young, fast, they bunched up right behind their sister. Dasher flew by them. He was called Dasher for a reason. His littermate, Diana, joined him. Pride of place belonged to them and, in their prime, they had plenty of gas in the engine.

Pride of place in the hunt field belonged to the Bancrofts, in their eighties still riding First Flight. Gray fell back to allow them to move up behind Sister. An hour of hard running didn’t faze them. By the second hour they would wind up in the middle of the field.

At this moment, no one was too concerned with their place in the field, because the entire pack shot across the newly mown pasture, jumped over a tiger-trap jump, and headed north into another pasture, large hay bales dotted about like shredded wheat.

Tinsel stopped a moment to check out a hay bale. Yes, the fox had been there but was now gone, so Tinsel needed to catch up.

After twenty minutes of sublime music, hard running, hounds threw up at the junction of Miller’s Creek with Tidy’s Corner. No one ever knew how Tidy received the name. Off of Miller’s Creek, the mill run ran like an arrow back to the mill. Tidy’s creek’s lesser force added to the sometimes turbulent Miller’s Creek. The mill run smoothed out the water to the wheel, but baffles existed along its mile-long route, where water could be slowed if necessary. Too much force could harm the gears in the wheel. If the paddles broke, that was an easy fix. If the gears were damaged to the wheel or the grindstones, that caused big problems. Those former millers thought of everything.

So did the fox. He dabbled at the corner, zigzagging between both creeks. Hounds found tidbits of scent but nothing held. Given that they were American hounds, their work ethic was sensational. The devotees of the three other types of foxhounds would praise their hounds, too: Crossbreds, English, Pennmarydel. But American hounds have ever been prized for their drive. What could be lacking sometimes was biddability, listening. That’s why Sister, Shaker, Betty, and Tootie played with them once they were six weeks old, and walked hounds throughout the year for the rest of their lives. You want them to listen. Even more, you want them to want to listen.

They were listening now as Shaker encouraged them.

“Find your fox. He’s here.”

“Where?” Parker wailed.

“If you’d shut up and put your nose to ground, you big baby, you might find him,” Cora reprimanded him.

Tatoo, steady, not a flashy hound, walked northward. A tingle. He walked a bit faster. More tingle.

“Think I’ve got him.”

Cora loped over, putting her nose to ground. The two lovely animals walked shoulder to shoulder. Both made hounds, they didn’t want to open if they weren’t sure, or if the scent faded. Important to push a hot line in the direction in which the fox was moving. And no made hound wanted to run heel—which is to say backward—although they do it for a few moments to double-check their efforts, the intensity of scent.

Foxhounds, bred as we know them for over a thousand years—and more than that if one goes back to ancient Greece, where they might not be recognizable as our foxhounds but they were scent hounds—over all those centuries, the animal improved. A foxhound is born to hunt. That is what it lives to do.

Sister and some of those with her were also born to hunt, a drive unfathomable to many people in the so-called modern world. They couldn’t realize that the human is a medium-sized predator. It’s how we survive. It’s what we are.

So those foxhunters, rapt attention, observed the ancient ritual.

Even Marilyn Davidson, unaccustomed to the pace, watched. As she hadn’t parted company with her horse on that hard run, her own confidence soared.

Now Ardent joined Cora and Tatoo. Sterns waved slightly.

“A lot of back and forth,” Ardent commented.

“New fox,” Cora replied. “We haven’t picked him up before. He’ll learn we don’t give up.”

The fox, young, moved into the woods, ground falling away now. A vixen, Hortensia, who knew Mill Ruins well as pickings were good, called to the youngster.

“Come over here to me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The pack will find your scent again. You’ve never run before. I’ve never seen you here. This place is overrun with those stupid hounds about once every three weeks.”

“I came off the mountain. Too many coyote.”

“Follow me. Step in my footsteps if you can. We will reach another fork in the creek. You jump into the creek and swim as far as you can. I’ll lead them away.”

“Aren’t you scared?”

“What’s your name, son?”

“Ewald.” Noticing her raised eyebrows, he said, “Mother named me.”

“Well, Ewald, the hound doesn’t exist who is as smart as the fox. But you have to learn.” A loud song picked her head up; she listened. “Okay. They’ve found your line and they’re about seven minutes away. Jump in. Swim as long as you can and don’t worry, they’ll pick up my line. Climb out and if you swing back toward the mill, you’ll find an old abandoned outbuilding. Good place for a den. I take it your father threw you out?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“A little early for that. Usually you young fellows are sent on your way the end of October through November.” She listened again, as the whole pack was singing now. “Don’t leave the building until you hear the big trailers pull out. Rumbling engines—you’ll know. Make that your den. Been empty for years. Oh, one last thing. James is the big red fox who lives behind the mill. He’s a pain in the ass. Don’t fret. I’ll fix it if he becomes troublesome. He wants to tell everyone what to do. Go. Go now.”

Ewald jumped into the creek, swam upstream. Hortensia watched, waited until she could identify Dasher’s voice, then trotted due west, heard Cora, Ardent, Trooper, Tatoo, and broke into a flat-out run. This was going to be like taking candy from a baby.

Tootie, on the right of the creek, watched as Betty did from the left side of the creek. Dasher reached the spot where Ewald had leapt into the creek and Hortensia had turned right.

“Vixen! Hot, hot, hot!” he screamed.

The whole pack screamed behind him as the field turned right on a rutted farm road, the worse for the recent rain. After the rain the red clay was serviceable if slick. A few downed trees, trunks conveniently without limbs, provided impromptu jumps. Bobby Franklin had a devil of a time getting around a few of these.

On and on they ran as woods got thicker, the temperature slid downward.

Hortensia paused at an open meadow, then scorched the earth running to the other side, in which stood a two-acre crop of marijuana just ready to be harvested. She sped through plants as high as a horse’s head, laughing as she ran. On the other side of this botanical treasure, she, being a gray, easily climbed a tree, walked out on a thick branch, and dropped onto the heavy branch of another tree, where she flatted herself to watch the show.

Four minutes later, the entire pack blasted into the marijuana. Tootie rode to the right of the crop. Given the density of it, she couldn’t ride between rows so she rode at the edge. Betty, now on the other side of the creek, held up far down at the southern edge of the crop, in open pasture.

Sister held up as Shaker blew hounds to him.

“She’s here. The scent burns!” Twist was beside himself.

Hounds, baying, continued to thrash through the thick crop. Reaching the foot of the tree, no vixen.

Cora, wise, looked up. “How do you do?”

Hortensia grinned. “Lovely day.”

The conversation abruptly ended as a scythe of rat shot whooshed through the tall swaying plants.

The owner of this illegal crop, hearing the commotion, had been following it in his truck, now parked about forty yards back on the farm road.

Tootie, startled, as was Jujube, called out to the hounds, “Go to him!”

“Go to hell.” An irate, middle-aged man, cap pulled low over his head, cussed at her, then shot at the hounds again.

“Ow!” Tatoo screamed, blood now squirting from the rat shot in the hindquarters and leg.

The hounds melted into the marijuana to join Shaker.

Tootie dismounted and, reins in hand, walked to Tatoo, on the ground. “Good boy. Good hound.”

“I’ll kill that worthless cur!” The grower leveled the rifle at Tatoo’s head.

“No, you won’t.” A handsome blond man appeared behind the grower, wrapped both hands around his neck. “I’ll kill you first. Drop the goddamned rifle!”

The fellow did just that, choking for air.

“Hold hard, young lady. I’ll help you with the hound.” He then whispered in the grower’s ear, “If you ever harm a hound again or speak filth to a lady, I will kill you.” He tightened his grasp and the grower’s arms flailed. “Do you understand?”

All the man could do was try to nod his head.

Hortensia watched with great interest.

The handsome fellow pulled the man to the ground, picked up his rifle, and smashed the butt of it into his head as he, coughing, tried to crawl. Then he calmly wiped his fingerprints off the rifle, checked for a pulse, smiled at Tootie. “He’ll live, unfortunately. You walk your horse. I’ll carry the hound until we near the field. Are you all right?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Tootie, dazzled by this fellow, noticed he wore ratcatcher; a cowhorn on a rawhide string hung on his back, out of harm’s way.

Shaker sat still, worried, blowing hounds back. They hurried out of the field to him.

Sister, hearing the shots, held the field at a distance from the marijuana. Shaker couldn’t go into the crop because hounds would go where he did. Sister, keeping the people calm, resolved to go in if hounds did not come out and if she didn’t see Tootie. Hounds wouldn’t follow her. They would stay with Shaker.

Betty covered her ears. The sound of gunfire never proved reassuring. Sweat trickled between her breasts. Outlaw, ears forward, stood like a rock.

One by one, Shaker counted hounds. No Tatoo. No Tootie. He blew again.

Tootie, moving at the edge of the heavy crop, called out, “We’re okay.”

Nearing the open pasture, the man stopped, lifted Tatoo over her saddle. “I think he’ll stay. You’ll need to pick out the rat shot and wash him, but nothing’s broken.” He paused, smiled at her. “You’re a good whipper-in.”

Tootie, overwhelmed, simply nodded her thanks.

“Are you all right? That was a nasty shock.”

“I’m okay. I’m just worried about the hound.”

He lifted off his cap, faded, hard used, and kissed her on the cheek. “The hound always comes first. Go on now.”

Jujube, tractable now, slowly walked toward the pasture.

When she turned to look back, the man was gone.

Seeing her reach the corner, Sister began to dismount.

Gray rode up. “A master’s feet should never touch the ground. With your permission.”

She smiled. He rode off and she thought, Now there’s a foxhunter. She also thought to herself what a divine man Gray was: calm, collected, in control, and hers, all hers.

“Hold hard, Tootie.” Gray rode up, swung his leg over, and lifted Tatoo, who whined, off the saddle.

Tootie, ashen, breathed deeply. “There’s a crazy man in there. He shot at the pack. I’m lucky he didn’t shoot me.”

Gray put his arm around her shoulder. “All’s well. Let’s get Tatoo back.”

Shaker, on sight of Tootie, rode up, dismounting. The pack followed. Gray put down Tatoo, Shaker knelt, examining the rat shot.

Tootie filled them in. She said she had help but she didn’t know who it was. Someone well turned out.

Neither man paid too much attention to this. “Ronnie!” Shaker bellowed.

Ronnie Haslip left the field, hurrying up to Shaker, Tootie, and Gray.

“Ride back to the trailers, will you? The key to the party wagon is in the truck. We’ll get out to the road. Bring it up, will you?”

“Of course.” The trusted fellow nodded and turned, riding off.

“Let’s not broadcast too much. Sister will know how to handle this. If it were up to me, I’d find the bastard and throttle him,” Shaker said as Gray lifted Tatoo in his arms again.

“The fellow who helped me choked him, threw him on the ground, then hit him in the head with the butt of his rifle. He took his pulse—he’s not dead.”

“If I find him, he will be.” Shaker on foot, leading Kilowatt, walked, the pack with him, while Gray continued to carry Tatoo. Tootie led his horse and her own.

Gray, to the other two, quietly said, “We can tell Sister what occurred once hounds are on the trailer. Or Tootie, you can tell her, and Betty and Shaker can get hounds back. The less people know of details, the better. God only knows what will be on Facebook.”

“Jesus Christ.” Shaker spat. “People have no sense.”

“You just figured that out, did you?” Gray lightly said.

Reaching the road, Gray gratefully put down Tatoo, who stood up, wobbly. Blood trickled out of a few rat shot holes.

“Digging out the rat shot will sting. Some of this will have to fester out.” Shaker again examined the sweet hound. “Goddammit. Goddammit it to hell!”

They waited as Sister took the field back in. Betty joined the pack just in case someone took a notion, plus there was no reason to stand at the far end of the marijuana patch now.

Tootie filled her in.

“Think we should call 911?” Betty asked.

“Hell no. Let him suffer.” Shaker smiled, then added, “And I bet you fifty smackers that marijuana crop will be burning soon. Someone will call Ben Sidell from back at the trailers.”

“Ah.” Betty blinked.

“That’s where Sister is different. She’d find the fellow, speak to him about foxhunting, and pay him off. Woman would have made a great old-time politician,” Gray commented.

“What’s the phrase, ‘Better to have them inside the tent pissing out than outside the tent pissing in’?” Betty remembered it correctly.

“Now everyone is morally pure.” Shaker laughed.

“Right.” Gray laughed also.

They chatted, petting hounds, loving on Tatoo. Famous Amos, Ronnie’s horse, regaled Outlaw and Wolsey with tales of Ronnie trying to tie his stock tie in the trailer.

Kilowatt listened. “Why doesn’t he do it at home? Shaker does. Mirror’s better.”

“Because my human is always late. He needs a wife.”

“Famous, Ronnie’s gay.” Outlaw giggled.

“You think I don’t know that? I said he needed a wife; I didn’t say that poor soul had to be a woman. She should hear Xavier”—he mentioned a childhood friend who had been out of town for two weeks on business—“who says to him to go online and look for a date. It gets worse.”

“Can you imagine if we could go online?” Kilowatt wondered.

“You’re cracked.” Jujube finally said something.

“That Lucille Ball is a babe. What a beautiful mare.” Outlaw half closed his eyes

“Redhead. She’ll run you crazy. Push you away from your feed bucket on the fence line. Squeal if you even brush by her. Too much work,” Kilowatt sensibly spoke.

The conversation didn’t finish because Ronnie drove right up.

“Quick work.” Shaker, leading Kilowatt, loaded hounds.

Betty and Tootie, on foot, also helped.

Gray laid Tatoo on the passenger seat in the truck.

“I can sit with him on my lap,” Tootie offered.

“He’ll be fine. They’ll be glad to get to the kennels. You all go in to the breakfast.” He slid into the driver’s seat, drove off.

Tootie, Betty, Gray, and Ronnie, on the ground, reins in hand, looked toward the mill, which seemed so far away.

“Anyone need a leg up?” Gray offered.

“Not yet,” Ronnie replied.

Once in the saddle, they walked back, talked about Audrey hitting the line, older hounds honoring, what a good day it had been until hitting the weed.

“How much marijuana do you think is out there?” Gray asked.

“Government flies over in helicopters,” Betty replied. “Infrared photography, right?”

“Waste of time and money.” Gray’s legs lightly hung on Wolsey, a fine horse, very kind. “They get a photo, cops are on the ground. They rush over to destroy the crop. Someone else goes to who owns the land, and half the time the owner is absentee. Big deal. Here’s the way it works. Why is one form of relaxation—or self-destruction, if you feel that way—legal and another is not?”

“Got me there.” Ronnie nodded.

“Because some people think smoking a joint is a gateway drug. Next come heroin and cocaine.” Betty provided the usual argument.

Tootie, patting Jujube’s glossy neck, said, “No, what comes next is an opioid crisis. It’s got nothing to do with marijuana.”

“A fine mess, isn’t it?” Ronnie felt tired, although they hadn’t hunted more than an hour and a half. The half was standing in the pasture.

“Sometimes I think our entire country is just one big contradiction.” Gray liked things to make sense.

“You know, it probably always was. Now we have news, non-news, and fake news twenty-four hours a day. The contradictions jump right out at you.” Ronnie half laughed.

“The trailers.” Gray, jubilant, headed for Sister’s rig, as did Tootie and Betty.

Ronnie and Famous Amos walked onto Ronnie’s trailer, not far from Sister’s.

Horses tended to, the four finally made it to the breakfast. Walter pressed a drink in Sister’s and Betty’s hands. Ronnie grabbed an ice cold beer, one of the craft brews from Route 151, remembered his manners, and brought Tootie, in the middle of a group questioning her, an iced tea.

Sister broke up the group, put her arm around Tootie’s shoulder. “Let’s sit for a minute. We can go into Walter’s tiny reading room.”

She pointed to the reading room. Walter nodded and they walked in, Sister closing the door.

The room, about the size of a big stall, ten feet by twelve, was tiny but perfect. A chintz sofa with green pillows to match the leaves from the print invited them. The walls—bookshelves, top to bottom—testified to Walter’s abiding interest in medical history as well as regular history, especially medieval England. The walls were painted hunter green; a fireplace with a mahogany surround took up one wall, with a glorious Heather St. Clair Davis painting over it. The two women fell onto the sofa.

Tootie tried to remember everything.

“I should know who owns that land, but I don’t.” Sister finally tasted her drink, a gin rickey.

A gin rickey is a summer drink, but it tasted perfect at that moment.

“I didn’t recognize the guy with the gun. Maybe he’s not from this county. The weed growers cover a lot of ground. Then again, he could be a Washington lawyer out for an extra buck.” Tootie raised her shoulders.

“Walter told me one marijuana plant sells for twelve hundred dollars right now. A lot of money back there. Tell me again about the man who helped you. I want to make sure I’ve heard things correctly.”

“He walked up behind the guy, the farmer, and he put his hands around his throat. He must have been strong because the man dropped his rifle, threw it down, really, which he was told to do. He choked. He tried to get away. My savior”—she smiled—“was strong. He told me he’d help me with the hound. He said to the farmer if he ever hurt a hound he would kill him and if he was ugly to me, he’d kill him. Then he threw him on the ground. The farmer had had his own hands on his throat, and he was coughing. The blond man picked up the rifle and smashed the butt into his head. Then he picked up Tatoo and walked with me until we got near the field.”

“Tell me again what he was wearing.”

“He had to have been in the field, although I didn’t notice him. He wore ratcatcher—a bluish tweed, beige britches, old brown hunt cap, tails down, which was odd because tails down is only for staff. And the cowhorn was odd. He had it slid behind his back. Oh, his tie was, I don’t know, one of those regimental ties.”

“And he was blond?”

“Blond. Six feet, at least. Gorgeous. Sister, he was one of the most gorgeous men I have ever seen. You think I would have noticed him in the hunt field but I pay attention to the hounds. I don’t know how he got behind that farmer but I’m sure glad he did. The farmer said he’d shoot the pack and shoot me. I said that before, didn’t I?”

“You did. When something like this happens, details come back bit by bit, I think. And this man, how old?”

“I’m not good with age. He wasn’t middle-aged. Young, but not as young as I am. Sister, he was gorgeous. Didn’t you see him?”

“No. He wasn’t in the field.”

“He was in hunt kit.”

“I believe you. It’s just he wasn’t in the field. I think you encountered the man who is blowing his cowhorn after our hunts.” She paused, took another drink, thought a moment. “You liked him?”

“I did. He was a real foxhunter. I could tell that just by how he handled Tatoo.”

“Yes.”

“But why would he follow the hunt and blow his cowhorn? I’ve heard it.”

“I don’t know.”

“Thank God he was there, Sister. I don’t know if that guy would have killed me, but I think he would have killed Tatoo. The blond man really did save me, and he was so kind, kind eyes.” She blushed a moment. “He said I was a good whipper-in.”

“He would know.”

“Who is he? You know him? I want to meet him, thank him properly. I should do something after what he did for me and for Tatoo.”

“He is—or was—a huntsman. I believe you saw Wesley Carruthers. Weevil.” She took a long, deep breath. “He’s been missing since 1954.”