Fox Tracks

CHAPTER 11

The old Gulf sign swayed high up on a sturdy metal white pole, while below the white cinder-block station from the 1930s sat on the north side of the crossroads known as Chapel Cross. The station’s new and computerized pumps indicated some concessions to the twenty-first century. Binky DuCharme loved his old gas station. Inside, colorful nostalgic posters from the thirties, forties, and fifties hung on the walls.

Binky’s wife, Milly, kept a tidy office: a counter and two small tables with oilcloth tablecloths. She had painted the wooden chairs orange and dark blue, the old Gulf colors.

Traveling east, this was your first shot at gas. Traveling west or north, this was your last because you’d run into the Blue Ridge, and the roads deteriorated into rutted dirt ones. I-64 and Route 250 gave the only good driving west to Augusta County. One would need to go all the way north up to Route 33 for a decent paved highway or south to Route 56 in Nelson County to get over the mountains.

The ancient Blue Ridge Mountains, while softened by time, were still mountains and not easily traversed. In their youth, they towered above the Alps, the Rockies, the Andes. Now, trees covered them so they blazed magenta from the redbuds and white from the wild dogwoods in spring. People journeyed from around the world to see their vibrant fall colors. The entire Appalachian chain dazzled onlookers from Maine down to Georgia, but Virginians nodded and smiled when people said they’d seen such lovely color in Vermont. Of course, it was, but it wasn’t as sensational as the colors in Virginia. Not that a true Virginian would ever say that. Never wise to brag. But you can be sure they believed it.

Driving with Walter to the Gulf Station, Sister stared out the Jeep window at the sun in the western sky. Deep Prussian blue shadows filled the hollows. The spine of the mountains blazed with millions of tiny rainbows from the ice on the conifers, as well as the ice wrapping the deciduous trees. Creamy cumulus clouds in a turquoise sky completed the beautiful tableau at three in the afternoon.

Walter, behind the wheel, said, “Supposed to snow a bit Friday night, light, but continue on into Saturday.”

“I know. I think we’ll be able to hunt, though. The Bancrofts always get After All in shape even if it’s a blizzard.” She smiled, thinking of how much the Bancrofts had done for the club during her tenure as master. Nudging into their late seventies, Edward and Tedi were slightly older than Sister. They showed no sign of slowing down, despite a bit of a stoop when walking, but this is often the case with horse people. They go until they drop. If they drop during a hunt so much the better. They died doing what they love.

The two-century-old church for which the crossroads was named, Chapel Cross, came into view.

Binky’s father had tactfully built the gas station just out of sight of the beautiful chapel. Old Francis DuCharme was a thoughtful fellow. His two sons usually were, too, so long as they were apart.

Walter pulled into the gas station. Milly opened the door to the office as they got out of the Jeep.

“Made hot chocolate,” she called, waving them in from the cold.

Binky was behind the counter, a red greasy rag in his back pocket. He stuck his head into the garage, and yelled at his son. “Art, he wants a new muffler, too.”

Up under a 2002 Ford F-250, Art grunted, “Okay.”

Binky closed the door, grabbed two cups to help Milly, and sat down without ceremony. “Crawford.”

“Yes.” Sister gratefully took the hot chocolate.

“I hear through my niece that he’s made big promises.” Binky, mid-fifties, getting chunky, stared at his cup. He loathed Crawford, but the promises were tempting.

“He keeps his word,” Sister replied. “I serve on the Custis Hall board with him. If he says he’s going to do something or pay for something, he does it.”

“He’s so pushy,” said Milly, unable to hold it in. “Driving around in that big red Mercedes. He certainly wants everyone to look at him.”

Binky patted her hand lovingly. “He’s all those things, Baby, but he’s also filthy rich and we need the cash.”

“I know, dear, I know.” She sighed, then turned to Sister. “I hate this. We’ve been friends for over forty years and now Richie Rich wants to hunt our land.”

Walter responded: “I can speak for Sister although she’s known you longer than I have. Nothing will change our friendship, but it would help us if we knew exactly what Crawford has offered.”

Binky cleared his throat. “He will put up new fences on our property, which means we can run cattle again. Cattle are bringing in top dollar.”

“I estimate the fencing alone to be about two hundred thousand dollars.” Having had to fence his own farm, Walter guessed roughly what the lower pasture land on the DuCharmes’ five-thousand-acre estate would need.

“I don’t know what the cost would be,” said Binky. “We always cut and dried our own timber when I was young, but we can’t do that anymore. The sawmill might could start up again, but Milly and I have to run the station with Art, of course. I hate to say it, if you decided to help out in a similar way with fencing, I don’t know if I could run the sawmill equipment which would reduce the fencing costs.”

“You could if you put your mind to it. You’re still strong,” Milly, still slender bordering on skinny, offhandedly mentioned, which Binky liked, naturally.

“Binky, you’ve always been strong,” Sister agreed.

“Vitamins.” He laughed. “Oh, Crawford also said he’d put in a new furnace in the big house, new plumbing, too. Now that sounds good for Alfred. Doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

The house, so imposing with its four white Corinthian columns, hadn’t had heat for fifteen years. All the pipes had burst during the first hard winter. With reliable heat and hard work, the rest of the place could be restored.

“If Margaret marries, the place will be hers.” Milly and Binky dearly loved their niece, a sports physician.

Margaret had acted as the go-between since the mid-eighties when the DuCharme brothers fell out over the disposition of the family estate, which neither of them could afford to keep up. There were other reasons, too—old emotional scores to settle, overheated and irrational—often the case in family disputes.

“Umm.” Binky remained noncommittal.

“Milly, Binky, there’s no way we can match that generosity. You must take it.” Sister said this without rancor.

Binky looked down. “I hate that son of a bitch, too. He’s only doing this to get back at you.”

“He always wanted to be a master, and when he kept getting passed over, he left in a huff, started his own outlaw pack,” said Sister. “Crawford is a man who has to appear to be on the top of the pole. He was very generous to Jefferson Hunt when he was a member.” She paused. “I can’t stand him either. I can see his good qualities, but they’re overshadowed by his overweening ego. Yes, he’s made a fortune. He’s an astute businessman, but he doesn’t know squat about hunting. He’s one of those people who could ride for fifty years and never know what was really going on.” She shrugged.

Walter got to the point. “It would be glorious if Old Paradise were reborn,” he told Binky and Milly. “As you know, Kasmir Barbhaiya’s land now runs up to your easternmost acres. We will be hunting his land, of course. Should the fox cross over into Old Paradise, however, according to the laws of the Masters of Foxhounds Association of America, we have the right to pursue it. Hard to knock hounds off a hot line anyway.” He folded his hands together. “Will you be all right with that?” Walter asked.

“Sure,” Binky said. “I don’t care if you hunt it along with Crawford. He’s the one with the grudge.”

“Well, there’s not a lot Crawford can do about the MFHA since he’s an outlaw pack,” said Walter. “He can’t buy them off because he’s not obedient to their regulations. Nor do they recognize him.”

Binky remarked, “Bet he could buy his way in.”

A long silence followed this, then Sister said, “As far as I know, that hasn’t happened in my time but I can’t say that it hasn’t happened in the past. The beauty of the MFHA is that the founders and the board were always people of wealth. They couldn’t be bought. But today, it sure seems that money can be a crowbar into whatever you want.”

“Ah, hell, look at Congress.” Binky’s mouth turned down.

“Honey, don’t start,” said Milly.

“She’s right. She’s right.” Binky cut off a brewing tirade.

“We are living through a time of complete corruption,” Sister sadly remarked.

“Maybe it was always that way,” said Walter. “Maybe now we just know it, thanks to constant media coverage.”

“Hell, they’re corrupt, too!” Binky nearly shouted.

Emerging from the garage area, Art closed the door behind him. “Sister, Walter, how are you doing?”

“Good. Yourself?” Walter inquired.

“Keeping body and soul together. Walter, do you still want me to drop off those big rubber water troughs?”

“Sure. Anytime. Just leave them outside the barn. Art, before I forget, if you need to add a surcharge since gas prices have gone up again, do it.”

Art’s face relaxed. “Thanks, Walter. Gas prices are killing me. Even just hauling stuff around the county. Both my trucks are diesel. Through the roof.” He stopped for a moment. “A lot of people are putting off buying stuff, fewer deliveries.”

“It’s happening all over the nation,” Sister chimed in. “Not that knowing other people are hard up makes it any easier.”

“Misery does love company,” Milly said.

“No, it doesn’t, Mom,” Art replied good-naturedly before returning to the garage.

Driving farther west to Old Paradise, Sister and Walter discussed the meeting. They passed the brick chimney, all that remained of the estate’s old gatehouse.

“Glad I took the Jeep.” Walter negotiated the packed snowy road.

“Wranglers can go through anything. You know what else is incredible, the old Land Rovers. Now they’re so plush. I mean they still can go through everything, but I’d feel guilty taking a hundred-thousand-dollar SUV through two feet of snow or mud. Gray’s Land Cruiser costs a lot, too. With a Wrangler, you don’t worry about the expense.”

“No, you just worry about the gas.” Walter pulled his vehicle into the brick dependency where Alfred lived.

In the 1840s, over one hundred fifty people lived and worked on Old Paradise. Many were slaves, whose skills as wheelwrights, cartwrights, blacksmiths, and gardening experts proved useful. After the war, those Old Paradise people who stayed in the county began new lives as tradesmen. Those who stayed on Old Paradise, often less skilled, kept working the fields. That became tremendously difficult during these barren years, as there was no seed or horses to pull ploughs. But the DuCharmes and their former slaves kept plugging. Mostly, vegetables kept people alive. There was no meat. They finally scratched together enough money for two draft horses so a much larger area could be cultivated. By the 1880s, things improved enough that a decent future no longer seemed impossible.

Alfred also agreed to Walter’s request, allowing Jefferson Hunt to stay on the trail of a hunted fox if he ran west onto Old Paradise’s property. The two masters of that hunt tactfully did not mention their earlier meeting with Binky.

Alfred knew full well that Walter and Sister had to have seen him. “Heard Binky’s lost weight,” he said.

“Did. I think he’s still working on it,” Sister replied. “Alfred, you’re the one who does your best to keep up the fields. Crawford’s money has to be a big help to you.”

“It’s fencing that’s the key. Cattle will turn this ship around. Fertilizer’s come down from the original gas panic, still thirty percent higher than it was ten years ago. I tell you, well, I don’t have to tell you, it’s harder and harder to farm. But his money, the free labor, well, it’s a godsend.”

“I think it is, too, Alfred,” Sister agreed.

Walter said, “What about corn? It’s bringing high prices.”

Alfred laughed. “Ethanol will ruin engines in about ten years’ time. So the auto markets build these great engines, then we’re forced to put in gas that will create problems. You mark my words. But, yes, if we grew corn, it should be profitable. I’d rather stick to cattle. Don’t need to buy so much equipment. Can’t afford the labor either.”

“You’re right,” Walter agreed and Sister nodded. “Thank you for taking time to see us.”

“I always have more time in winter and it’s good to see you. I need to go out more. Margaret’s been at me. She says her mother—and she always says her mother—wouldn’t want me alone. You know, my wife’s been dead seven years.”

“Seems like yesterday.” Sister had liked Alfred’s late wife.

Alfred threw up his hands. “Where does the time go?”

“I expect cavemen asked that.” Walter laughed.

“Yep.”

Ever interested in stock, Sister asked, “Hey, what kind of cattle are you going to run?”

“Herefords. I like the horned ones, like their personalities, but I can’t go through dehorning cattle. I’ll get a few Polled Herefords, hope for the best. It will take time to get back into the game. The predictions from the ag magazines are the cattle market will peak in 2015, but it should stay high.”

“Let’s hope so,” Sister said.

“I look at the unemployment figures and I want to say, ‘Hey, we’ve got plenty of work but you’ll get your hands dirty,’ ” Alfred simply stated.

Walter replied, “Even if a lot of those folks would be willing to do agricultural work, they don’t know how. My old mill is in great shape. I could grind grain. People would be able to buy local flour. Everything still works.”

“Wouldn’t that be something?” Alfred’s eyes shone. “I’d love to see that mill running again.”

“Hey, I hear Art’s back into his country waters business.” Sister smiled.

“Now there’s good money. No taxes.” Alfred laughed. “I turn a blind eye. I get along with my nephew, but I don’t want to know his business.”

“Smart,” Sister agreed. “To change the subject, when I was first married, I recall about one hundred low acres planted with tobacco, down there by the deep creek of your land, that bottom land.”

“We had a good allotment,” said Alfred. “Let it go when the shit hit the fan. And do you know, I never saw a dime from the Tobacco Commission to help against the losses?”

Virginia’s Tobacco Commission, established in 1999 to disburse Virginia’s share of the national settlement against cigarette makers, did give money away over time, but most of it found its way to Mecklenburg and Russell counties, those hardest hit by the destruction of the tobacco industry. Even today, most of the old ’bacca counties suffered the state’s highest unemployment rates.

Sister nodded in sympathy.

Walter quipped, “Up in smoke.”

Driving back to Sister’s farm, the two hunt masters reviewed their list of other landowners who might fall prey to Crawford’s machinations.

Sister reviewed those who might be in financial distress. “He can’t buy them all off.”

“He can,” countered Walter. “Some people don’t even drive a hard bargain. The DuCharmes do, plus he had to satisfy both brothers. But other folks might be happy with nothing more than a new run-in shed.” Walter bit his lower lip. “You okay with how we divided up the ‘at risk’ group?”

“Sure. I’ll start my calls after Saturday’s hunt. Oh, Tootie will be here.”

“Good. Be good to see her.”

“Do you mind if I put her on the hunt with Betty, to let her whip-in? She’s always wanted to do that, and I could never really distribute one girl without offending the others, since her class had so many good riders. It was easier to keep them all in the field.”

“You know a lot of people owe their hunting to you. When you think of how many youngsters started with Jefferson Hunt, me being one. Now they are adults and their children hunt with us. I love seeing that,” said Walter, driving down the highway.

“I do, too.”

“You know, Sister, I have a bad feeling that our troubles are just beginning.” He switched the subject, as people who have known each other for years do.

She turned in the car seat to view his handsome profile. “Me, too, Walter. Me, too.”