Homeward Hound

CHAPTER 11

The much vaunted January thaw warmed Saturday the sixth. Warm being relative, it was 46ºF, which felt marvelous the last few weeks of ferocious winter. Roads plowed meant you could actually drive from point A to point B. However, back roads and farm roads remained spotty, which forced Sister to shift New Year’s Hunt, the last of the High Holy Days, to this Saturday since more people can hunt as opposed to a weekday. As the search was still continuing for Gregory Luckham, she chose not to schedule New Year’s Hunt near the Chapel Cross area.

Parking big rigs was possible there for the owners of Welsh Harp, well off, had snowplows, big John Deere tractors, any kind of implement a farmer or gentleman farmer could want. The new fixture also housed foxes, both reds and grays.

The pack, deep into the Pippin apple orchard for which the property was famous in the late nineteenth and mid-twentieth centuries, had lost a good line.

Giorgio, a newer bloodline Sister was developing, raised his head. “He didn’t head into the wind. He’s not stupid.”

Dragon agreed. “None of them are. The older they get, the smarter they get.”

Taz, another male, moved off toward the middle of the orchard.

“Taz, what are you doing?” Giorgio asked.

“What if he has a disguised den in the middle of the orchard? It’s so barren, the humans wouldn’t think to look.”

The apple trees, limbs gnarled, ice having melted, looked black, appeared fairy tale–like and, Taz was right, barren. One could imagine fairies or worse watching from the branches.

Nose down, Taz returned to where they lost the scent and cast in a wide circle. Shaker, on Hojo, ready to blow the hounds together to move on, observed. He had faith in Taz, now in his prime. Taz, steady, patient, could save the day while the other hounds could get fussy. Zane, a younger hound, followed Taz. Then his littermate, Zorro, tagged along.

“This has to be him.” Zorro inhaled. “Faint though.”

Rivulets of melted snow ran between the apple rows as the land tilted just slightly. The fox had run into the water, to weaken his scent.

“It is him!” Taz was now obsessed.

Shaker, silent, walked slowly toward and behind the three hounds. The other hounds followed, soon helping Taz, Zorro, and Zane. This scent line taunted them but hounds solve problems. The whole pack became determined.

Diana and Dreamboat pushed. Finally they stopped at a large puddle in front of an ancient walnut tree in the middle of the orchard. This majestic tree commanded the area. The owners gave it plenty of room respecting the giant’s years.

“He’s here,” Taz declared with authority.

“Where?” Little Pookah, not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, wondered.

“Get your feet wet, Kiddo.” Dreamboat teased the youngster as the larger, bold hound splashed through the puddle, deeper than anticipated.

“Puddle, hell,” Giorgio complained.

A visible hole at the base of the tree emitted heavy gray fox scent. Their quarry built his den in the tree and he was so clever that he could climb up inside if need be and emerge out on mighty branches as thick as other tree trunks. Some had become so heavy they bent, dipping to the ground. The interior of the walnut allowed him to create different levels, for the hollowing out wasn’t complete. Various natural levels existed inside. The gray fox, secure in his lodgings, considered going out on a branch to torment the peons below but figured they’d stay longer if he did that. Better they go away.

Weevil had ridden up beside Shaker in case he chose to dismount. Betty and Tootie remained on their sides in case Shaker cast from the tree or the fox bolted, doubtful, but you never know with a fox. Foxes never read hunting books so they do exactly as they please, every moment being ad hoc. Drives humans crazy for humans like patterns and predictability.

Reposing on his third floor, the gray, coat luxurious, listened to the confusion and talk outside. “Idiots.”

“Good hounds. Good hounds.” Shaker beamed.

Sister brought the field up closer to view the tree. What a sight they made in their formal attire contrasting against the black fruit trees, the packed-down, melting snow on the earth.

“Just makes me want to read Aesop’s Fables tonight.” Sister grinned for she was bursting with pride at the detective work of Taz, Zane, and Zorro. She loved a stayer, human, horse, or hound. Any creature that wouldn’t give up, that pressed on despite the odds, touched her heart, and these three showed off the work ethic of those bloodlines she prized. Not that she’d brag. Sister was a lady. However, if anyone praised her hounds, he or she would receive a warm thank-you and the Master would remember someone who paid attention to hound work.

“What do you think?” Shaker leaned toward her as he’d remounted after blowing “Gone to Ground.”

“Everyone still looks fresh. How about you cast toward the caves?”

“As you wish.” He teased her, using the command from a fairy tale.

As Weevil, this being his first year whipping-in to the pack, didn’t know this territory, Sister simply pointed her crop to the west. “The caves run along the base of the mountains at this point. There’s an underground stream in there runs maybe a quarter mile, then comes out not far from the house.”

“Thank you.” He followed Shaker as she dropped back. Then he did, too. The huntsman picked up a trot to hustle out of the orchard. A large pasture abutted the orchard and then a narrow strip of woods, mostly pines.

Sam, riding with his brother, watched a well-fed sharp-shinned hawk. Game was plentiful here for small to medium-sized predators.

Gray, on Cardinal Wolsey, relaxed a bit. Sam, though grieving, showed no signs of self-destructive behavior. He couldn’t bring himself to clean out Rory’s meager possessions, though, so Gray and Skiff, along with Marty, Crawford’s wife, sorted through belongings, thoroughly cleaning everything for the next occupant, no one in mind at the present.

Bobby Franklin, bringing up Second Flight, stopped, pulled off his cap, counted twenty, then bellowed “Tallyho.”

A fox coming out of the woods, bursting through the still nasty thornbushes, shot alongside Second Flight, heading toward the orchard.

Shaker turned the pack, galloped to where he could see the Second Flight leader, dropped the pack along the parallel of Bobby’s arm. Within less than a minute the pack screamed for the scent, fresh, only got fresher.

As the terrain sloped down, hilly in spots, Sister unconsciously slipped her leg a bit forward. Not show ring position but it sure could keep you in the saddle if you ran over sloping ground or took a drop jump, which loomed straight ahead. First the hounds cleared it, picture perfect, then Shaker, then Weevil, such a beautiful rider that Sister forced herself to take her eyes off him as the stout coop drew ever closer. Rickyroo, smooth, rather enjoyed drop jumps. He came up, rated by Sister, found the perfect spot, and sailed over. The landing, good, still proved a little slippery. His front legs skidded along, his hindquarters sank low, and so did Sister. Leaning back, she laughed. Rickyroo, a fabulously balanced horse, truly was worth his weight in gold, one of the reasons she rarely interfered with him. Sister usually let her mount pick the takeoff spot. Not only because he knew his job but he could feel the earth better than she. All she ever had to do was rate him if he wanted to pick up speed before she did. In her mind, why ride a horse if you don’t trust him? In his mind, why take care of a human if you didn’t love her?

The fox, a brilliant red, put on the afterburners. He hadn’t been hunted all season. He’d become a trifle lazy. The speed of the pack pressed him so evasive maneuvers were in order. Knowing where the gray lived, he blew through the orchard, right by the walnut, hoping the heavy scent would split the pack, especially the young entry. Wrong. Hounds stuck together. As the old saying goes, “You could have thrown a blanket over them.”

Past the tree, he flew on until he came out of the orchard and then, devil in his eye, he shot straight for the trailers. Not only did he go through the parking, he even dashed in and out of one trailer. So did the hounds. This bought him just enough time to charge by a slew of outbuildings, all painted and prim, until he popped into his den under the children’s playhouse, a replica of the main house.

Hounds reached this charming structure about four minutes later. Shaker, long a huntsman, knew he had to get his hounds away from the little house. They were so keyed up, they’d jump through windows, smashing them, or they’d plow through gardens, which, covered in snow, still contained bulbs ready to show themselves come March or April. It was a sure bet those bulbs had been planted by the children, too.

He blew three blasts, then motioned for his whippers-in to close in. Betty knew exactly what ran through his mind. Neither Tootie nor Weevil did but you do as the huntsman commands, so they surrounded the hounds, pushing them back from the house, while Shaker turned to ride away. Usually hounds follow the huntsman. Sister pulled up about forty yards back. The ground had been torn up enough. No point in dragging the field through it. As it was she would offer any restoration that might be needed.

“Why is he leaving? The fox is here!” Pansy, Pookah’s sister, was aghast.

“Yeah!” Angle, young entry, wondered.

“Just do it,” Dreamboat ordered the youngsters.

Doing as told, the young ones bitched and moaned as they walked, plodded really, every step a torture, toward their huntsman. Once far enough away, Shaker stopped, praised his hounds for their good work. He couldn’t help but notice the baleful looks from the P’s and Angle.

Sister, Shaker, Betty, Tootie, and Weevil walked them throughout the off-season, groomed them, wormed them, fed them, played with them. Their attitude was easy to read.

“Shaker, let’s call it a day.” Sister smiled at him, both knowing it had been a decent day. Stop while you’re ahead.

The breakfast, in the house, found everyone in a good mood, although the subject of the still missing man and the discovery of Rory somewhat muted the vigor of a decent day. Welsh Harp’s owners were thrilled to see everyone in their best kit.

Sister apologized to the hosts concerning the grounds by the playhouse. They told her not to worry, but she whispered to Walter later that they needed to buy bulbs, lots of bulbs, and even help the kids plant them.

Her Joint Master agreed. Walter possessed a sure touch with people. As a cardiologist, he needed it.

Aunt Daniella and Yvonne enlivened the group along with other “muffin hounds.”

Yvonne walked over to Sam. “A good day to start the second half of the season?”

“It was. You’ll be out here next year.”

“I will. Your aunt, per usual, gave me a running commentary on the history of the place. She said during the war, German P.O.W.s were held here and picked apples.”

“Before my time but you know fifty years after the war, a lot of them came back to visit here, to see the Americans who imprisoned them but took care of them. It was quite an emotional event and they all wanted to see the orchards. A lot of tears.”

Yvonne put her hand on Sam’s forearm, voice low. “Sometimes I forget what we mean to other people. We, as Americans. You just reminded me.”

He nodded. “Bad news sells. If there isn’t any, make it up or drag down anyone who ever accomplished anything. You don’t read about the good we’ve done and do.”

People interrupted them, some to express their condolences, for most of the foxhunters knew what Sam and Rory had lived through. Most of those who lived in the territory had done so, but those who traveled on weekends had not.

Once together again, Yvonne reminded him, “Aunt Dan says she’s making spoon bread. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t. You all have been good to me. Everyone has been good to me.” He sighed. “Finding out that Rory had no alcohol in his system has helped a little.”

Freddie Thomas, another accountant, was deep in discussion with Gray and Ronnie. Sister didn’t intrude but she did signal to Weevil and Tootie, also deep in conversation, to join her.

“Clever.” Tootie smiled. “I have never seen a den in a tree like that.”

Sister, glad to talk about foxes, related. “Sometimes a fox will create a den under a large fallen log. The exits and entrances are around it, some at a distance, and there’s usually one in the middle of the log’s bottom. You can’t see it from outside. Just looks like a big log.”

“That drop jump brought people to the Lord.” Weevil laughed.

“I got to go over the coop at the far end of the pasture but I could see everyone else. The shock was, no one came off.”

“Surprised me, too. Tomorrow let’s do the kennel chores, give the kids a good rest, take three horses and go to Tattenhall Station. I know Ben Sidell has been over it and I know he’ll go back until he’s satisfied they haven’t missed something. Maybe we can be of some help. We’ll be looking at it with new eyes. Preys on my mind, Rory and Gregory, too, short though our acquaintance was. It’s like finding scent, you know. Surely we’ll get a whiff of something.”