Crazy Like A Fox

CHAPTER 28

The clatter of hooves in the covered bridge at After All reverberated. Sister thought each time they rode through the red painted bridge that this is what their ancestors heard, the sounds common in the past. Now few covered bridges remained, although some people did build them on their estates. Romance lingers in a covered bridge.

A good fifty-two or -three people, in their best ratcatcher, as it was Saturday, October 14, walked through. Hounds on the east side of the bridge, the house side, already began working Broad Creek moving north.

Tootie remained on the left bank of the creek while Betty Franklin covered the right.

Dew glittered on the deep green grass, on the few leaves that had already fallen. The temperature would lift in twenty minutes as the mercury was rising. A robin’s-egg-blue sky, never helpful as it meant a high pressure system, filled with a few creamy cumulus clouds, added to the beauty. However, just because it was high pressure didn’t mean hounds wouldn’t find scent. The temperature, nudging just over 40°F, would help; drawing along the creek would also help. Often little wind tunnels blew over creeks, the moisture carrying scent.

The field, jammed with the regulars, added to the excitement of the day. Kasmir and Alida rode together. Tedi and Edward rode right behind Sister, as this was their property and they were the oldest riding members of the hunt. Bobby Franklin shepherded Second Flight. Cindy Chandler, Foxglove’s owner, sat on Booper, who looked at everything. Booper wanted to hear hound music. Walter Lungrun, Ben Sidell, Freddie Thomas, visiting for the day, Monica Greenberg—sidesaddle, as always—and Amy Burke—also sidesaddle—dazzled everyone.

Yvonne and Aunt Daniella rode in Gray’s Land Cruiser. Each time Yvonne beheld the smartness of cubbing hunting kit, she became more determined to ride. Cubbing allowed more individual expression in attire. She couldn’t wait to put her list together. She knew it would take years before she earned her colors but her clothing, formal or informal, would be bespoke, her boots made just for her, and she would wear a derby, perhaps with a veil rolled up on the ribbon. She’d tapped the inside of a derby and found out it was hard, as hard as a hunt cap. Tootie told her it depended on the derby, just as it depended on the hunt cap. She also inflamed her mother’s desire by telling her that when she earned her colors she would be entitled to wear a shadbelly: tails. That did it. Tails and a top hat. And perhaps just the lightest touch of lipstick, for a lady should not be made up in the hunt field. This did not prevent “the girls” from their mascara and a hint of blusher. Hairnets contained long hair and some ladies, in a derby, wore an elegant bun just outside the hat.

The men pretended not to be too aware of fashion, but every single one riding this October morning wore a tweed or light tan jacket, cut to perfection, drawing the eye to those broad shoulders. Their britches were also tan; a few rode in brick britches. The true hard-to-find mustard britches were usually saved for formal hunting, and at that time if he had his colors he wore white britches. Each man wore his butcher boots, no tan tops. The coats carried the subtle colors of the tweed or windowpane stripes. The boot color was in synch with the coat colors. Dark brown, peanut brittle, plain black, or an elegant oxblood/maroon, boots reflected a brown tweed, a blue tweed, or a jacket with a burgundy windowpane. A man’s shirt might be pink, white, light blue, or an egg crème, with a tie that echoed something in his tweed coat. His cap would be brown if the boots were brown, black if the boots were black or oxblood. And, of course, he was nonchalant about it. Getting the harmony between cap, boots, and jacket took concentration. Over the years it became second nature.

Even if a woman was wildly in love with the man in her life, she couldn’t help but breathe deeply upon observing the smartly turned-out men.

Sometimes Sister thought the entire point of men foxhunting was to weaken women. She and Betty would giggle about it, and they supposed a lady riding sidesaddle weakened the men. The point was foxhunting was extravagantly heterosexual regardless of one’s sexual proclivities. It was one of the few venues where straight men competed with gay men for who was the best dressed.

Hounds checked a large tree log alongside the creek. Sister turned to examine The Jefferson Hunt field. How splendid they looked, how shiny their horses. She was not a bragging woman, but she was extremely proud of the field and the condition of the foxhounds. Coats gleaming, fluid movement off the shoulder, bright eyes, and such happiness she loved being part of them. She greeted most of them when they left their mothers’ wombs. What is it about watching an animal or human grow, mature, fulfill its destiny?

Once in a discussion years ago with Ray, he said, “Destiny is slavery.” Without rancor, that discussion continued for years.

The last of the field left the bridge. No more clop clop.

Noses down, hounds worked that log. Someone had walked over it hours ago.

Giorgio swore, “Aunt Netty. Has to be the biggest crab in Virginia.”

Angle, only his second time at After All, as young entry, wondered, “Who is Aunt Netty?”

Dreamboat laughed. “We’d be here all day but I can tell you, old as she is that girl can run.”

Zandy added, “She also ran off her husband, Uncle Yancy. She’s a neat freak.”

“Uncle Yancy had a relaxed attitude about order.” Diana kept pushing.

Dreamboat joined her. “Heating up a little.”

“Let’s be sure before we open. Scent will be tricky today. Good low. Will vanish high as the temperature rises and this is Aunt Netty’s signature. She knows everything,” Diana counseled.

“Here!” Dragon had run ahead.

“That ass!” Diana spat, ran up to check the spot.

Now all the hounds, sterns waving, walked in a line as the line literally heated up. Soon they trotted and finally they opened, but they weren’t running hard, working but not running flat-out.

The territory, expensive and manicured near the house, was easy going, but soon the line slipped into the woods, tidy near the house but the farther away they moved, the rougher it became.

“She’ll head for the forge,” Pickens predicted.

“Unless she goes to the Lorillard place for extra treats.” Taz knew his quarry.

Aunt Netty’s den, very impressive and very neat, was in Pattypan Forge. Uncle Yancy had two outside dens at the Lorillard place as well as his special nest on a wide plank above the mudroom door. Aunt Netty tried and tried again to horn in on it all. She said she’d clean for him. A big fib. She’d nag him to clean. So Uncle Yancy would buy her off with doughnut pieces, or yesterday’s T-bone, to take back to the forge. After wheedling, she would scoop up her bounty and head back, often eating it all before she arrived home. Then she’d fall asleep in her den. The old girl ate a lot but didn’t put on weight. She refused to reveal her secret.

Hounds stopped, for Aunt Netty had stopped. A conversation with a bobcat must have taken place. The two predators parted. Aunt Netty turned toward Pattypan Forge, across the creek, water flowing southward, a mile and a half away. The path narrowed.

The club cleaned up the trails just before cubbing. In the nineteenth century the road to the forge, wide enough for horse-drawn carts, had closed in after World War I, when the forge closed. But half a road remained open, thanks to the hard work of the club members and Walter Lungrun’s small Caterpillar bulldozer.

“Hotter,” Dragon, out front, called.

They opened, running hard on the solid dirt road. Goldfinches in bushes complained and flew up, which meant Aunt Netty had not passed by in the last fifteen minutes. On they ran, the footing good, the grade slightly downhill.

The forge appeared, wrapped in vines. Hounds sailed through the long windows, glass long gone on most of them.

They gathered around one of Aunt Netty’s entrances and exits. She prudently had a few. In the rafters, Athena observed the commotion below, blinking from time to time.

“Aunt Netty,” Giorgio called her.

Nothing.

“We know you’re in there.” Pickens stuck his nose in the den.

Not a peep.

Asa, deep voice, said, “Oh, come on out and show us your bottle-brush tail.”

A hiss floated up from the depths of the den. “You’ll pay for that, Asa. I used to have a full tail until I got that skin problem.”

“Why didn’t your fur grow back?” Zandy, in all innocence asked.

“How the hell should I know?” the red fox growled.

Asa, older, replied, “Netty, Sister put out sardines in an open can with medicine. You ate everything. She did this once a week. So you were cured. I think you shave your tail.” He baited her.

Shaker, off Gunpowder, walked into the forge. “Well done.”

“What’s so well done about it? They have noses, don’t they?” Aunt Netty bitched from her den.

Shaker, hearing the barking, couldn’t help but laugh. He blew “Gone to Ground,” then praised everyone as he led them out of the forge.

Athena laughed, too. “Hoo. Hoo. Hoo.”

As the hounds moved off—people, too—Aunt Netty emerged, looking up at the huge owl. “How can you laugh? They were so rude.”

Athena spread her tail feathers. “Tails are important.”

“Feathers don’t count. Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“Yours, of course, darling, but the young hound didn’t mean any harm.”

“He needs to learn his manners. This younger generation.” Aunt Netty turned up her nose and repaired to her den, where she had leftover pie crusts, such a delicacy.

Shaker headed toward the Lorillard place. Usually a bit of scent was there. His hope was he’d pick up scent, run for a good ten or fifteen minutes, then retrace his steps to see if Aunt Netty had gotten sloppy. He doubted she would, for he knew her, too. Everyone knew Aunt Netty, but hounds might pick up visiting fox, since the food supply drew them in. After All enticed foxes, bobcats, even bears, as there was a lot to eat. The berries ripened. Many were already stripped off the bushes and vines, but enough remained to bring in anyone who liked fruit. Foxes love grapes, berries, sweet treats. Bears do, too. The harvested cornfields delighted all but the obligate carnivores.

On the left side, Tootie faced fallen trees, thick woods. She picked her way through, as she had only a deer path for guidance. Sooner or later she’d come out near the old toolshed at the Lorillard place.

Betty, on the cleared roadside, had a much easier time. But if hounds turned west, Tootie had to be there.

All she heard was the crack of twigs, an occasional boo-hoo, but hounds didn’t open. If they did, she’d need to wiggle her way through all this.

She heard more twigs crack behind her, then slow hoofbeats.

Turning around she saw Weevil on Clipper, one of the Bancroft Thoroughbreds.

He squeezed alongside of her, tipped his hat. “Miss Harris.”

“How do you know my name?”

He pulled a fixture card from his tweed pocket.

“Do the Bancrofts know you’re on Clipper?”

“No. No one in the stables. I can tack up a horse in two minutes. I’ll take him back shortly. He’s a splendid fellow but then, they can afford the best.” He paused. “Still have to ride them, though—which they do.”

“Thank you for what you did for me. I’ve been trying to find out who you are and—” Now it was her turn to pause. “Sister showed me a video of you at the Museum of Hounds and Hunting. That was you, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” He trained his deep brown eyes on her.

Brown eyes and blond hair, a warm combination, which was not lost on Tootie, who found herself simply staring at him. Then she managed to say, “People say you disappeared in 1954. You’re a ghost.”

He heard the horn. “Follow me. I can show you a better way through this and you’ll wind up behind the house instead of the old shed.”

“You know this country.”

“I do, but anyone with good topographical maps can figure it out.”

“You’re not a ghost, are you?” Tootie smiled.

Weevil smiled back, clearly taken with her. “Give me a little time. I will tell you everything once I have matters settled.”

“Revenge?”

“Justice.” His voice was even. “Simple justice and honor. Come along. If they hit, we’ll be thrown out.”

He picked up a trot, ahead of her now, and she followed. They reached some large rotting fallen tree trunks, and jumped them, then Weevil stopped. He pointed to the earth off the path.

“See the old stone pile? It was once a marker, fallen down. In colonial times, here and in Canada, people piled stones at crossroads, or put up numbered squares. So go left—which seems wrong, as you are going away from the shed. Pick up a stronger trot. We have more ground to cover.”

She followed his lead and within seven minutes, at the edge of the woods she saw the back of the Lorillard house. She also saw Uncle Yancy sitting on the back porch. As hounds sounded louder, he circled the house, laying down fresh scent. Then he walked to the family graveyard, jumped on the stone wall, left more scent. Ran across the graveyard, jumped back up, retraced his steps exactly, and ducked under the large front porch, to one of his outside dens.

“Tallyho,” Tootie whispered, and laughed.

“Miss Harris, I need to get back, untack, and turn out. But I wanted to see you and I hope I haven’t frightened you. I can’t very well call upon you until I get this thing settled.”

“Well, you can call me Tootie.”

“Weevil.” He grilled a rakish grin. “But I promise you will know everything.”

“You aren’t going to kill anyone, are you? This is so peculiar, unnerving.”

“Well, that’s the point—and I will draw out the game. Not much longer. You have no reason to do so, but trust me.”

She looked into his eyes. “I do trust you. I owe you, and if I can help you, I will.”

“You don’t owe me anything and I truly pray you don’t have to help me. You said you trust me and that lifts my heart.” He grinned again. “Good hunting.”

He melted back into the path, asking for a trot. He was the most relaxed, fluid man on a horse she had ever seen.

Then hounds rushed up the road, now out of the woods, right on Uncle Yancy’s line. Tootie drew near the graveyard; she stayed well away from it, but where she was pleased Shaker. Sure enough, hounds ran the circle around the house, ran to the graveyard, leapt up the wall, leapt down, moved through the graveyard and back out again, and then were stymied.

She smiled. How smart of the fox to draw them out, then retrace his steps. She heard Weevil’s voice in her head: I will draw out the game.

When? Where? How? And what was the game?