Fox Tracks

CHAPTER 22

The huge waterwheel at Mill Ruins gently slapped the stream that ran strong in the deep mill race, ice at its edges. As the hounds cast behind the mills, Sister and the field waited by the impressive structure built in the late eighteenth century. Generations of Virginians had driven their wagons to the mill, left their grain behind only to return later. Though no longer in use, the waterwheel still demonstrated to visitors how much could be accomplished without electricity. Hunting here at Mill Ruins had inspired Cindy Chandler to build her own much smaller waterwheel.

Filling up the field were Cindy, Gray, Donny Sweigart, Kasmir, his best friend High Vajay, Ronnie, Xavier, the regular hardcore hunters, of course, along with the Saturday folks. Sister counted twenty-three in First Flight. Bobby shepherded a bit more than thirty in his.

The chill settled into their bones as they waited by the water. Walter Lungrun—on Clemson, his most reliable horse—was glad he could help out this Saturday by having the Jefferson Hunt at Mill Ruins. It was to have been at Mousehold Heath. Although established in 1807, Mousehold Heath was a new fixture owned by a nice young couple, the Jardines.

Unfortunately, a sinkhole opened up in the Jardines’ driveway, followed by more caving in. Jim and Lisa frantically called Sister at eight on Friday night. She drove over. She stood on one side of the hole, the Jardines on the other. It was too late in the evening for road work from a paving firm. She called Kasmir on her cell, as he was always repairing, building, doing something handy. By ten that night, Kasmir and a few of his men brought over two dump trucks filled with riprap. Afterward, the Jardines’ drive was still relatively impassible, although Jim could jolt over with his old Land Rover. Kasmir would finish up on Monday, and then the Jardines could call a paver to cover it up, smooth it over.

Lucky for all, Walter stepped in with Mill Ruins. On every Jefferson Hunt fixture card, the club member had been directed to go to Mousehold Heath. A last-minute change meant everyone would need to be notified. The hunt club secretary, Adelaide Merriman, sent emails. However, a few members did not get Adelaide’s emails, so Walter and Sister divided up the names and called to make sure everyone got the message.

Being a master meant one handled events both on and off the field. Most clubs did their best to help landowners, too, and Kasmir actually would have been upset if Sister hadn’t called him to help out the Jardines. This was one of many reasons why Sister loved her people and why she loved being a master. She liked to solve problems.

Next to High, the Bancrofts and Kasmir watched the water spray off the wheel. As the sun hid behind clouds, it looked like diamonds instead of rainbows.

Damn, I hope they hit soon. Sister thought.

Asa must have read her mind. The old hound walked out from behind the mill, a few other old fogies with him. Coming out on the farm road to the back acres, he lifted his head, deeply inhaling. He put his nose to ground, sounded out with his basso profundo voice, and they were off!

As Sister crossed the wooden bridge, hoofbeats reverberating, she patted herself on the back for not retiring Asa.

The light gray clouds hung low. To the west, the sky darkened. Although sloppy, the footing wasn’t too bad, as Walter kept most of his roads in sterling condition, regularly bringing in loads of crusher run. Alongside, white-streaked fields showed all the snow had not yet melted.

Five minutes beyond the bridge, the brisk trot turned to a gallop. Staying together, the pack ran parallel to the road in an open field. Betty kept up with them. Sybil did, too, but once she reached the end of the northern meadow, she jumped into a woods out of sight. The pasture on the right continued on. Hounds stuck to the line on the larger right pasture. They easily jumped its stone fence, which had been laid in 1780. These days a stone fence costs a bundle. In 1780, it was one way to clear the fields—but once laid, those stones held forever. If a few became dislodged, you put them back up. Nothing compared with them.

Sister’s six-year-old Thoroughbred, Aztec, a handy 15.3H, popped over the fence. He’d started the day fussy but settled in with the run. Like most Thoroughbreds, standing around bored him. And like most Thoroughbreds, he saw no reason to keep his opinion to himself.

Bisected by the farm road, the hounds split. One group veered toward Sybil while the larger group stayed straight on. Both groups picked up speed. Sister stuck with the larger goup.

Shaker blew them on, but right now the hunt was in the hands of the whippers-in. Sybil needed to send the splinter group back to the main group. The problem was both groups were running hard on hot scent. They’d come upon two foxes. As it was mating season—the time of the best runs, usually—a huntsman wanted to keep his hounds on the dog fox.

However, you had to see the fox tracks together, before guessing who was who. The male’s prints were usually slightly larger.

Sybil was deep in heavy conifers and hardwoods. She rode to cry, as it was difficult to see. Betty, still out in the open, moved closer to the main pack, based on cry as well. Her job now was to keep the main pack together. If they shot out toward her, she’d stay right with them.

By definition, a whipper-in is either sitting still, freezing their butt, or running for Jesus.

With the small splinter group of hounds, Tootsie heard Shaker blowing them back.

“What do I do?” The young hound worried. “This scent is scorching.”

Trinity—one year older, with the same bloodline—advised, “Keep on. How do we know the others won’t lose their line?”

“But aren’t we supposed to obey the huntsman no matter what?” asked Tootsie.

“Listen, kid, if they lose that line, that whole bunch will come over here, as will Shaker.” Trinity laughed. “We will have saved the day. He’ll take credit for it.” Trinity laughed again.

Steady on with the main group, Asa felt a shift in the wind, then he sniffed in a kaleidoscope of scent. The pack had come up on a crossroads, a meeting spot for deer, fox, and bear. They had all been here recently. The dogs stopped for a moment to tease out the fox scent line.

DeDe, a young hound from the “D” line, circled the crossroads. “I don’t know what I have.” He inhaled another snoutful.

Asa hurried over. “That’s the scent of boar. Ignore it, and pray we don’t run into the damned pig.”

“Over here.” Diana called, and once again they were running their fox.

The path through the rightward woods opened onto a high meadow. Here, an old three-board fence sagged in parts. Some boards were missing, but the coops held up.

Sister and First Flight jumped in, while Bobby looked for a low place to step over.

The hounds moved along more deliberately than before, but they stuck to it, even while Sister and the two fields of hunters could hear the splinter pack of hounds just screaming.

“Should we go to them?” DeDe asked.

“No, we should not,” Asa firmly replied.

Sybil, riding next to those hounds, was having one of the best hunts of her life. The red fox burst out in front of her, crossed a narrow path in the woods, then crossed back up ahead. Fox, hounds, and Sybil found themselves out on that same high meadow as the main group but a good half mile farther down.

All of a sudden, the sky filled with crows flying low over Sybil’s fox. The crow called St. Just hated foxes. He led the squadron of birds, but the fox easily evaded them, dropping into the sunken farm road. Crossing the old rutted mess, the red fox shot out on the other side of the road, circled partway and then, at last, took refuge in an old shed.

Within five minutes, the fox hunted by the main pack also ran into the shed.

Fortune smiled on Jefferson Hunt this day. If the foxes had not come back together, who knows when or how the pack would have been reunited?

Riding up to the shed door, Shaker saw it was locked.

Walter dismounted, and pulled a heavy key ring from his pocket. He tried the key that was to fit this lock. Didn’t work.

“This isn’t my lock,” Walter said to Shaker.

“It’s okay,” said Shaker. “I don’t need to get in there. I’ll blow ‘Gone to Ground’ out here.”

Walter swung back up on Clemson, riding over to Sister as Shaker blew the magic notes.

Once done, Walter said, “Sister, something’s wrong here. I’m going back, and I’ll take someone with me if you don’t mind. I need to cut the lock.”

“Fine. Take Gray.” She turned, calling to her boyfriend. When Gray heard the request, he rode back with Walter.

Shaker smiled at Sybil, picked up the hounds and the two whippers-in, and the pack walked down the rutted road to the creek. Whenever there’s a mill, there’s water for miles—certainly more than enough to satisfy a pack of thirsty hounds.

Walter and Gray reached the stables in twenty-five minutes. They untacked their horses, wiped them down, threw down some hay, and hung up fresh water buckets.

“You’ve got bolt cutters?” Gray asked.

“Yeah, I do.”

Once equipped, the two men piled into Walter’s Jeep, drove out the main drive to head west toward town. Close to a mile down the state road, they came to the bumpy farm road at the edge of Walter’s land. Bouncing and sliding back to the shed, they reached it without too many head bruises. A seat belt could only do so much.

Walter was large and powerful like Sister’s Big Ray had been. He easily snapped the hardened lock throat. He swung it around, dropped it out of the lock slot to open the door.

The two men stepped inside the cavernous space.

At the end, two large den openings announced good living for foxes.

Gray lifted his head and inhaled much as the hound Asa had done at the beginning of the day’s hunt. “Tobacco,” he declared.

Sniffing, Walter shrugged. “Yeah, but why?”

Gray looked down to where it appeared boxes had been stacked. A few little squiggles of shredded tobacco dotted the floor. He knelt down, took off his gloves, and pinched the slivers between his thumb and forefinger. He stood up, dropping the meager find into Walter’s hand.

Walter smelled it, then held it under Gray’s nose.

“It’s pretty good tobacco.” Gray shrugged as he faced the physician.

About twenty years apart in age, the two fit men stood in the large space, pondering the possibilities when a vixen carefully peeped out of her den.

Neither man noticed, so she remained still to better study this oddly built species. Why they all didn’t fall flat on their faces she didn’t know.

Walter again smelled the tobacco. “I don’t get it.”

“Contraband,” said Gray. “Sister’s been doing research since that fellow was murdered in Manhattan. There are millions of dollars to be made—that are being made—on contraband tobacco. Smuggling cigarettes into states with high cigarette taxes appears to be a profitable black market.”

“Jesus Christ.” Walter whistled. “Why the hell are they using my shed?”

Gray replied, “For one thing, it’s far out here and you don’t use it. The road testifies to that. As to how long they’ve been using it, who knows? But I would figure the tobacco is prepared in one location, rolled, packed, brought here. When a seller needs more, I guess it’s shipped to them. They are likely finished here or we’d find more evidence: shredded leaf or empty packs, stuff like that.”

Walter scraped the concrete floor with the toe of his boot. “Keeps the moisture out.”

“Right. This is a good place to stash goods.”

Walter dropped the shards of tobacco into his pocket. “Well, it’s someone who knows the territory.”

“I’m thinking it’s someone who hunts,” said Gray.

“This isn’t a poacher,” said Walter. “Like what happened on your place—that could have been the work of poachers. I don’t have poachers.”

“Actually, Walter, I was thinking this is the work of someone who foxhunts.”