Fox Tracks

CHAPTER 31

The Norfolk and Southern route ran through Tattenhall Station, a wooden Victorian train station much like others built during the heyday of rail travel. Now only freight trains rumbled through, their schedules irregular, unlike the old passenger trains.

Over time, this station and many others like it fell into disuse, then disrepair. When Kasmir Barbhaiya bought the property a little over a year ago, he stabilized the structure, repaired the plumbing, cleaned it, and repainted it. He couldn’t bear to see the destruction of such tiny bright pieces in the mosaic of a grand past. This Saturday, the large parking lot, with its potholes all filled, gave promise to a huge hunt field.

Kasmir’s vast holdings were well foxed with reds and grays.

Coyotes stuck closer to the Blue Ridge Mountains and, as this was a year when game was plentiful, they posed little problem at Tattenhall Station. For now.

It was always in Sister’s mind, and Shaker’s, that this omnivorous adaptable species was as lazy as a human. If coyotes could eat without working for it, they would. Any farmer with fowl not secured at night found themselves the next morning without their geese, ducks, and chickens. Then, too, coyotes were happy to pick up puppies, kittens, and small house dogs. Best of all for the rangy canines was the humans’ garbage, easily torn up. No working at all for that. Unwittingly, people brought the coyote closer.

However, even like a fundamentally lazy human such as Carter Weems had been, coyotes will work when pressed.

Hunting at Orchard Hill three weeks ago, Sister had seen coyote tracks. She had known they belonged to a coyote because, although the size of a domestic dog, they are in a straight line, the hind feet often stepping into the prints left by the forefeet. She wasn’t too worried about it because it was their breeding season, too. Males travel long distances to find a mate. All the female has to do in most mammal species is throw on a little lipstick and wait.

Directly across from Tattenhall Station was the red brick utilitarian volunteer fire department building on the east side of the tracks.

Sister lifted up on Matador as Shaker mounted Kilowatt, Kasmir’s gift to the club last year on February 19. This was February 18, and unknown to Kasmir, the nonhunting members of the club—usually married to hunting members—had decorated the inside of the station with a banner thanking him and declaring it St. Kasmir’s Day. The hunt breakfast would be the usual fare, but today High Vajay and his wife, Mandy, had also brought special Indian dishes beloved by Kasmir.

The focus of all this gratitude was utterly unaware of it since the hunting ladies of the club, directed to divert his attention before taking off, easily did so. In his mid-forties and widowed, Kasmir was ever mindful of the ladies.

Shaker looked straight up at the lowering gray clouds. “The Weather Channel was right.”

“I give it an hour,” said Sister. “What about you?”

“Think you’re right.” The huntsman agreed with his master that the snows were due soon.

Betty and Sybil were already mounted and waiting to move off. Betty had Tootie with her. Sister wanted Tootie to ride with each whipper-in a number of times and once or twice up with Shaker, so she would know how the huntsman operates. Tootie had to work up to Shaker though.

“Well, let’s do it,” Sister said to Shaker and then in a louder voice for the field, “Hounds, please.”

They walked behind the station, a huge expanse of pasture before them, wire fence interspersed with coops. Kasmir would eventually fence the property, which would cost a fortune but look terrific. Right now his energies were focused on bringing the pastures back and fixing up the modest Virginia farmhouse he lived in. Someday he might build a larger home, but that would be something he would do with a wife, if someday he found another woman to love, who would love him for more than his money.

Sister, as always, counted heads. Thirty-two in First Flight. Bobby shepherded fifty. Many people had come out because they hoped it would be a good day, and others because the word had passed about the celebration for Kasmir.

The group walked along, hounds fanning out in front, searching for scent. On the nearby road heading to Old Paradise, Sister spotted Crawford, his hound van, Sam driving the horse van, and three stock vans driving by—also, Tariq in his Saab, looking longingly at the huge field.

“Doesn’t miss a chance, does he?” Sister heard Edward Bancroft say to his wife and Gray as they rode up behind her.

“He had to see us, too,” Sister remarked knowing Jefferson Hunt’s large field would inflame Crawford.

The banter ended. Strictly speaking, it was out of line, as hounds were drawing in at the end. They all saw Tootie and Betty, horses’ heads pointing south, hats off.

Softly calling to his hounds, Shaker turned them south. Asa, out today, surged forward with Diana. Right behind them were two young entry, Parker and Pickens. The youngsters stopped, turned slightly right toward the west, noses down, and opened.

The older hounds rushed toward them, noses down. They opened, too. The fox zigzagged a bit, then straightened out. He was a large red fellow with a magnificent brush.

This section of Tattenhall Station—all pasture—afforded everyone a fabulous view of a fox running well ahead of hounds, all of the dogs singing and running as one.

The snowflakes began to fall. The fox disappeared in a slight swale, then reappeared farther down, heading back toward the tracks. Gaining a little more time on the pack, he really opened up. Diddy, Diana, all the young entry and second-year entry moved as fast as they could. The older hounds comprised the middle of the pack. This early in the hunt, no one lagged behind. On those long days toward the end, a few hounds would be perhaps ten or twenty yards behind the pack, a sign that they should be retired at the end of the year.

No one popped off. The tight footing wasn’t slick yet. The mostly flat pasture had a soft roll here and there, such as the little swale the fox had used.

The big red fellow crossed the north–south road. Sister cleared a stiff coop in the fence. She had three strides before she was out on the road, then over that. Three more strides and over the stone fence at Beveridge Hundred. Out of sight now, the fox dodged into the Christmas tree rows at Beveridge Hundred, a little sideline for the farm. The bushy Douglas firs, already over Sister’s head, blocked any sight of the clever critter. She could see some of the hounds in the row in which she ran, but the hounds were all forward, in many rows.

Silence.

She came to a halt. Shaker and the pack stood at a culvert under the farm road, a forest on the other side. Hounds cast, furious to relocate the scent, which had been hot, hot, hot. Nothing.

“I know it’s here,” Pickens cried in frustration. “He has to be here.”

Shaker moved them along into the woods. Nothing. He came back out, walked down the farm road toward the house, which was a mile distant. Nothing. Then he returned to the spot where the hounds lost the scent. Zilch. After moving in all four directions, he sat for a moment, collected his thoughts, then collected the hounds.

How a fox can vanish has mystified people since Aesop’s time. Shaker sure didn’t have an answer.

Shaker walked down to the state road, turned left, dropped over the slight bank onto flat ground. Walking along the fence line, he kept the pack off the road and the field was now behind in a single line. A coop appeared in a thick forest on Tattenhall Station land. Cleanly set, one had only to face it squarely and leap over into a nice path in the woods. Rarely used, the black coop was only two and a half feet high. But a horse had to jump from open land—a wide view—into a dark woods and a narrow lane.

Sister, legs of iron, gave Matador a firm squeeze. Over they went. The horse appreciated a clear signal and was a bold fellow anyway, a source of argument back in the barn: Who was the bravest? Matador knew that he was. The Bancrofts got over the coop nicely, as did Kasmir, High Vajay, Mandy, and Xavier, who had lost a lot of weight, which his horse greatly appreciated. For whatever reason, Ronnie Haslip crashed the jump. Ronnie was a good rider, too. Even moving off, Sister heard the crack behind.

When a horse refuses or you part company, you must return to the rear so as not to impede anyone else’s progress. Ronnie walked his horse back and mounted up. But when horses see another horse refuse a jump they are certain a horrid goblin lives under the coop. Today’s riders that were behind Ronnie had a devil of a time getting over that small obstacle. It quickly became clear who had a solid horse and who was a solid rider. The worst was when one horse rode right up to the jump, then slammed on the brakes. His rider took the jump. He didn’t.

Sister couldn’t wait for those who had fallen. To do so meant losing the hounds. Maybe the field master can find hounds and maybe she can’t, but if she winds up blowing the covert because she’s in the wrong place, there goes the hunt, or at least the hunt on that fox. The people in the rear of the field, now upset, strained to hear if the hounds had picked up the scent of a fox.

The person assigned to ride tail today was Ben Sidell, a fairly new rider but on a bombproof horse, Nonni. Ben had had his hands full at the coop. Fortunately, everyone was fine, as were their horses, but Ben couldn’t get into the woods until everyone was safely over.

When one lady’s horse refused three times, Ben said nicely, “Best you go back to Bobby Franklin.” Down the road at a gate, Bobby was in the pasture bordering the woods.

Without a word, the lady did as she was told. All very proper, but disappointing to the rider.

Snow fell heavier now, caps turned white, shoulders also. However, it didn’t feel as cold as a freezing rain or sleet, and the beauty of it, as well as the sound of snowflakes hitting tree limbs and pine needles, delighted most everyone.

Hounds moved along, a bit of scent here, a bit there, but not enough to open. They stuck to it. These are the situations that demonstrate the ability of a pack. Any group of hounds looks great when scent is burning. And there’s nothing a pack or the huntsman can do on those dead days, when nothing sticks. It’s the in-between times like today that are the test, and Jefferson Hounds were all business.

No one even grumbled.

Parker lifted his head once to see what everyone else was doing, then quickly put his nose to ground. The line, so light and teasing, would break. They’d have to widen their cast, pick up the faint reward, and push on.

The walk turned into a trot, but still no music. The woods opened up onto a rough pasture, broom straw sticking up through the cut hay stubble. It would take a good long time for Kasmir to focus his renovation labors back here—best to concentrate on the really good pastures near the roads. Also, the soil varied at Tattenhall Station. As Kasmir rode on his gorgeous Thoroughbred over the field being dusted with snow, he made a note to take soil samples back here.

Large fallen trees bore witness to high winds. Their split-open trunks showed they were old, and had weakened.

Hounds leapt over a sycamore down by a narrow stream. They crossed the stream, as did Shaker, then Sister. They met another woods, mostly hardwoods and a few pines. Hounds kept on, but still not speaking. The snow fell steadily.

The low pressure should help scent, but an old line is an old line. Shaker and the hounds hoped it would warm up. They emerged on a large eastern field, a giant walnut in the middle, so thick three men could maybe get their hands around the trunk. Its bare winter branches were black with vultures. They looked down at the horses, then toward the humans and horses moving toward them. None of them moved.

Sister had seen vultures in a denuded tree many times, although not in the snow. Sooner or later, they’d lift off, returning to better protection. She hoped they didn’t lift off as the horses rode by, for surely it would spook a few.

The birds stayed eerily still, continuing to watch.

The hounds lost the scent in the middle of the field. They cast like spokes in a wheel from the center, which was Shaker. But to no end.

Shaker figured they might as well hunt back. They’d been out an hour and a half. With a little luck there was still hope for another run. Shaker returned to the woods at a distance from the vultures, and drew the dogs along the edge of the woods. He patiently walked along, Betty and Tootie now in the middle of that field, battling winter winds.

Sybil was in the woods. She let out a holler. “Tallyho!”

Hounds moved toward her voice, as did Shaker, finding a path in. He caught a glimpse of his whipper-in, hat off, snow already on her hair, for it was coming down fast now. Sybil’s hat and the horse’s nose were pointing due north.

Quickly, Shaker got on the deer path, moving in that direction. Sister found the wider path, tractor-wide.

Within minutes, good old Asa opened, and off they ran, due north, straight into the snow and now light wind. Sister couldn’t see and really, Matador couldn’t see all that well either.

The hounds burst out of the woods and into another large pasture, but the fox was nowhere in sight. They blew through that, cleared a coop, as did Shaker, then Sister. Betty and Tootie jumped an old tiger trap farther up the fence line, but all still ran true north. Fifteen minutes later, the hounds crossed the east–west road and flew into Orchard Hill.

An unexpected siren jolted Sister, who held up the field at the roadside jump, which was three stout logs lashed together.

At first she thought it was the fire department, but then a squad car—sheriff’s department, sirens blasting, lights flashing, which Matador did not appreciate—screamed right by her. An ambulance raced behind.

She waited. Waited a bit more, for the snow seemed to soak up sound. Then she jumped the logs, crossed the road carefully, and jumped into Orchard Hill over a break in the three-board fence. Orchard Hill needed some help, but in these hard times so did a lot of other farms. As she moved along, she gave thanks that when she talked to the owners, they’d said they would not give way to Crawford.

Straining to hear the hounds, she finally picked up the sound. Ride to cry, which she did. Galloping through the orchard and the wide roads around the different types of apples, she made up the ground. This is when you want to be on a Thoroughbred. She scarcely felt the ground beneath his hooves, nor could she hear anyone behind her.

The hounds cut north. She caught a glimpse of Sybil, low on her horse, galloping straightaway.

Three tiers of square hay bales lashed together, now snow-covered, filled in for a jump. It was a nice jump, really. Matador had a split second of hesitation as he looked at all that white. He didn’t remember white, and horses remember everything. One good smack on his hindquarters with her crop and he sailed over, grateful that none of his stablemates had seen that split second. Matador was only a year into foxhunting so he still had a bit of learning to do. Still, his talent was above reproach, and he showed it as he flattened out.

Sister couldn’t remember the last time she rode so fast. Snow hit her more on the right side now, but she had to squint to see. She could still make out Sybil’s back as they blasted over an open field, then had to draw up and shift down into a trot. She’d run up right on Chapel Cross itself.

Hounds surrounded the foundation of the stone structure, the cross somewhat visible in the driving snow. A religious fox had dug a cozy den at the foundation. However, he wasn’t there.

Wise in the ways of hounds, the fox being chased had jumped into the unoccupied den, which had a tunnel opening farther down along that same foundation. The sly fox then hurried out and over to the graveyard surrounded by trees. If you positioned your den just right vis-à-vis the headstones, graveyard dens were cool in the summers and often warm in the winters. The hounds had no idea their quarry was only fifty yards behind them.

One by one, the field gathered behind Sister. Most had made it over the jumps. Those with faster horses kept up. Others trickled in until finally Bobby and Second Flight arrived.

Shaker dismounted, blew “Gone to Ground.” Praising his hounds, he turned his face away from the snow. The church’s sexton chose not to come out and celebrate with them, but Mr. Vega did like hunting.

“Shaker, let’s go in,” said Sister. “This thing is turning into a real blaster.”

“Righto, Boss.”

“Why don’t we walk back and through the gates?” she said. “No point in jumping if we don’t have to and that was a hard run. We’ve been out—”

He looked at his watch as she looked at her grandfather’s pocket watch, saying first, “Three hours and twenty-one minutes.”

She giggled. “I was going to say the exact same thing.”

How she loved a snowy hunt. Hounds, tails up, pranced, some even twirling around, as they made their way back to Tattenhall Station.

People in both fields laughed, talked excitedly, and shared their flasks. Nothing like a sip of spirits to warm the body and loosen the tongue.

Moving at a brisk walk, they arrived at Tattenhall Station twenty minutes later, and everyone hurried to take care of their horses.

That done, they couldn’t get into Tattenhall Station fast enough. Helped by Vajay until everyone was inside, Mandy held up Kasmir with one thing after another. Then they led him in. As he walked through the station doors, a cheer went up.

Out of her coat and into a tweed, proper for a breakfast, Sister held up a glass to toast. “To Kasmir Barbhaiya on his saint day, with thanks from Jefferson Hunt. What would we do without him?”

At that, three cheers lifted the rafters and all the women rushed to kiss him. Kasmir blushed.

He simply said, “It is an honor and a joy to be part of Jefferson Hunt and hunting over lands that Mr. Jefferson himself once knew.” He paused. “And, of course, the kisses from the beautiful Jefferson Hunt women make it all worthwhile, but I have not yet been kissed by our master.”

Grinning, Sister came over, kissed him, and gave him a big hug. She knew how lucky she was to have someone like this in the club and in her life. He was one of those men who made life deeper, more colorful. She’d long ago learned if there’s someone who robs your life of color, get rid of them. Here she was, surrounded by those who were giving instead of taking.

“I do mean it, Kasmir,” she said. “My guardian angel smiled on me the day you first rode with us.”

He whispered in her ear, “I came back to life on that day, Sister. I thank you.”

What he didn’t say was that, later that day of his first hunt with Sister, he had distinctly heard his late wife’s voice saying, as though she were in the passenger seat of his car, “Husband, I’m dead, you live and love and laugh.”

If there were ghosts at Hangman’s Tree, there were also ghosts at Tattenhall Station. Spirits who remembered stepping off a train to greet a husband, wife, children, parents, or dear best friends. But love lingered, too, and this breakfast glowed with that, and the strong friendships in the group.

At the rear of First Flight, Ben had heard the sirens, but didn’t know one was from his department. Realizing that, Sister made her way over to him. “Ben, one squad car roared by.”

“Thank you.” He moved away, fished out his phone to call headquarters.

“Lillian, I’m at Tattenhall Station. I was told that a squad car came out here. Why?” He guessed Art got caught with his still as he waited for Lillian to read the exact call-in.

He heard the report, thanked her, and hurried through the crowd.

He found Sister. “Apologize to Sybil for me. I won’t be back at the barn to help with Nonni.”

“Of course. Is there anything I can do?”

He looked into her eyes. “Crawford Howard was shot at Old Paradise.”