Homeward Hound

CHAPTER 16

Sun on frost turned the silver to pink, then gold. Jefferson Hunt at ten A.M. gathered at Close Shave, north of Chapel Cross by six miles. One turned right at the chapel and continued until seeing a hanging sign, CLOSE SHAVE. A man’s lathered face adorned the sign.

Terrain, rough toward the west, rolled nicely by the road. Trailers parked in a neat row alongside the farm road. The solid brick house, in the distance, seemed impervious to harsh weather. Just a big old brick block but it had stood not quite as long as Old Paradise, started in 1812, Beveridge Hundred following in 1820. By 1825 money fluttered on pastures, streets, everywhere. Close Shave started during those good times then endured some tight ones, hence the name Close Shave. The Elliotts dug the first chunk of earth up for the brick house and it stayed in the family until after World War I when the line petered out. Owned now by the Winsetts, the fixture was secure or as secure as any land holding could be.

Sister nodded to Shaker, who cast hounds straight up toward the north. The sun rose higher, the frost began to melt on high ground, good conditions.

Trident, the pack kleptomaniac, stopped to pick up a deer antler.

“Leave it,” Shaker sternly commanded.

“Bone is good for my teeth,” Trident sassed.

“Don’t piss him off. We’ve just started. Drop the antler,” Diana ordered, fangs bared.

Trident, as though in excruciating pain, dropped the antler.

Audrey, young, moved quickly, nose down. Her littermate, Angle, joined her.

The older hounds observed the youngsters but chose not to follow too closely. They were young. No one opened. Then Angle did.

Pickens hurried over to check. “Red. Don’t know who.”

In the blink of an eye, scent warmed, bursting into hound noses. They sang out at once and the walk turned into a flat-out gallop.

Charging north, a three-board fence line ahead, ground still more frozen than not, Sister and Matador jumped the simple coop, the easiest jump to build.

The field, small this Thursday, January eleventh, followed.

The fox running straight turned left, or at least his scent did. No one viewed. Another jump appeared, another coop. Up and over. Betty, on the right, kept her eye on a line of woods. Were she a fox she would have ducked in there. Tootie, on the left, all open, kept up as speed increased. Weevil, in the rear, didn’t want to crowd hounds, but he didn’t want to slacken the pace either.

The red male fox, well ahead, ignored the woods, cut sharply left, and ran for all he was worth toward Chapel Cross. Hounds, now stretched to their fullest, presented a beautiful sight over the golden ground, frost sparkling on the west side of small hills, swales. The cold air prickling in lungs human, horse, and hound.

Running, running, running, they reached the crossroads within twenty minutes. Were it not for the fences, the jumps, the occasional obstacle, this flat-out run would have taken fifteen minutes.

Then poof. Nothing. Hounds whined searching for the scent, the cross glittering on the top of the chapel to their left across the road.

Sister and the field halted, glad to catch their breath.

For all the decades Sister had hunted, she still muttered to herself, “How does he do it?”

Shaker, quietly sitting, giving his hounds time to work it out, pushed his cap back up on his head as he was sweating. Wiping his brow, he then patted on the neck Kilowatt, another of his horses, a gift to the hunt from Kasmir. Kilowatt, a talented Thoroughbred, was barely winded, but then that’s why one rides a Thoroughbred, provided they’re in condition.

Finally the huntsman rode over to his Master. “Damned if I know.”

“Let me ask Kasmir if he minds if we go behind Tattenhall Station. There’s no point in doubling back. We would know.” She was right because the hounds would have told her.

Acknowledging, smiling to Alida, Freddie, Walter, Margaret DuCharme, out today, another doctor, Bobby, and Sam, she stopped before Kasmir.

“Madam.” He touched his cap with his crop, always correct.

“Would you mind if we cast behind Tattenhall? No point doubling back.”

“Of course.”

Turning, she remarked to Sam as she passed, “Crawford must be serious about this horse. You’ve been out on him every hunt since New Year’s.”

Sam inclined his head. “He’s an appendix that I think will suit Crawford better than some speedster.”

“He keeps up well enough.” Sister complimented the Thoroughbred/Quarter Horse cross, hence the name Appendix.

“Poco Bueno blood back there along with Icecapade.” Sam cited a strong Quarter Horse line with a fabulous Thoroughbred line.

Sister’s eyebrows immediately raised up. “If he doesn’t work out, let me know.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Back at the hounds impatiently waiting, she nodded to her huntsman. “Good to go.”

They crossed the road, passed the distinctive Victorian train station, nudged just up the slight rise behind the station, Kasmir’s simple house in sight.

“Lieu in.”

They fanned out, eager, noses down. Reaching the top of the rise, a delicious odor curled into their nostrils. Bam. Off again. This was turning into a terrific day.

The footing, slippery, kept everyone alert. Hounds flew to the woods’ edge, the heavy woods wherein many a fox had dumped them figuratively and literally.

Branches smacked them as the field took the narrow path since that’s where the fox had gone. A perfect broad path bisected the middle of these woods but no, this fellow had to take the tough one. A stand of old conifers blocked the light for a moment, a small, ice-covered pond down below. Hounds ran to the pond. The fox had circled it, wisely leaving heavy scent; then he tiptoed through running cedar just south of it, making scent difficult. Foxes knew everything and were not above rolling in cow dung if that’s what it took.

“Dammit!” Zandy cursed.

“Stick to it.” Cora, an experienced female, encouraged him.

Hounds picked their way through the natural, lovely, snow-sprinkled running cedar ground cover notorious for fouling scent. Finally on the other side of this big patch they cast themselves all around it, just eating up time, which, of course, was the point.

Sister patiently watched, proud of their work ethic. She bred them, trained them with her staff, and loved good hound work. Naturally she loved her hounds best, but she loved anybody’s good hound work, including the night hunters’.

A whine here and there testified to frustration.

“Good hounds. Good hounds,” Shaker sang out to them.

Sister gave a small prayer of thanks that she had changed the fixture for today. It was to be at After All but the Bancrofts changed it due to a loose board in the covered bridge that was being fixed today. They’d hunt from After All Saturday. The fixture, tended over decades, always drew a large crowd. It teamed with foxes who knew every inch of After All, the Old Lorillard and Roughneck Farm as well as Hangman’s Ridge, as all were connected.

Large fixtures usually provide large sport and that’s what was happening today. Finally, Tinsel’s stern wagged, then Trident’s, antler long forgotten, then Pansy. Soon the pack steadily pushed a faded scent but one warming a bit. It occurred to Cora that this was not the hunted fox, but why spoil it? The hunted fox made fools of them. So hunt what you can.

Pickens broke into a trot. The others followed. Soon enough they ran through the woods again, bursting out at the edge of Beveridge Hundred where old Misty, sitting in the window of the main house, awakened and gave out a perfunctory bark.

Skirting the house and the dependency wherein Yvonne was watching, they kept straight ahead. A number of old estates fanned out along the southern road, but this fox wasn’t going there. He was a visiting fox. He turned away, going straight back toward Tattenhall Station using the heavy woods wherein he headed west. Now they really had to fight their way because the paths in the woods ran north and south with only one going east and west. Of course, you had to find it.

Shaker, right behind his hounds, hit away branches with his crop, as did Weevil. Betty, on the edge of the woods, quite far out, was spared. Knowing the territory, she had the sense not to tie herself up. It’s easier to come in than to run out. Tootie, however, found herself blocked by a gum tree that had fallen across the little deer path she traveled. The tree hadn’t come down all the way so she plunged through the vines, the damn things never die, to get around. By that time hounds were almost on the road.

Kasmir had built stiff jumps all along his fence line on that part of his considerable estate. On the other side of the road reposed Old Paradise, and as they had run there on the day the storm came up, Sister hoped they would not be doing so again. Crawford had been sensible about it, but two times on Old Paradise without asking permission was one time too many.

Hounds stopped cold at the fence line, then followed it toward Chapel Cross a few miles away. They passed the front drive into Beveridge Hundred, moved into Kasmir’s land. Working but not speaking, they couldn’t do much. What scent there was didn’t hold and where that fox went, who knew? But someone was here about dawn perhaps. They pushed.

Once Kasmir’s house was in sight they pushed harder but to no avail. They reached the station, crossed the road, stopping at the spot where Rory was found. Little bits of snow lay in the ditch.

Shaker called them away. Hounds and the field headed toward Close Shave. A tiny burst as they neared the farm offered hope of another run, but that was it.

Back at the trailers, the air brisk but not bitter, the small group gathered around Betty Franklin’s yellow Bronco, old but tough. She’d lifted up the back so people put in sandwiches, deviled eggs, brownies for the impromptu hunt breakfast. The drinks rested in the bed of Walter’s truck, hot thermoses of coffee and tea, water and soda, plus a bottle or two of spirits in case someone needed an early dose for medicinal purposes only.

“Thank you, Kasmir. I’d like to know just who that fox is.”

He smiled, his teeth brilliant white. “A Romeo.”

“We see them at dusk, sometimes in the morning, walking about, fearless.” Alida held up a cup of coffee. She had moved up from North Carolina, settled in recently. Things were working out and Kasmir was in a state of bliss. Then again, so was Alida. They were meant for each other.

“Have you all seen the route, one route, of the proposed pipeline?” Sister asked Kasmir. “Just cuts up Old Paradise, cuts a diagonal across your southernmost land. Doesn’t make sense, especially if you know this land.”

This immediately aroused the attention of the small group.

Freddie Thomas, Alida’s good friend, remarked, “I’ve seen it. Some is in floodplain down by the creek. Whoever did this has no idea of soils here or how the water flows.”

“Crawford and I lobbied our lawmakers as well as Soliden.” Kasmir paused. “I found Gregory easy to talk with, opaque, which is what one would expect. Crawford, which you would also expect, was anything but opaque.”

“Threats?” Walter asked.

“Veiled but he alluded to upcoming elections and, given his finances, he could bankroll any opposing candidate as well as hire a good PR firm.”

“Didn’t do Eric Cantor any good,” Sam, sharp although usually circumspect, observed.

Eric Cantor, a Republican congressman from Virginia’s Seventh Congressional District, had a big war chest, lots of coverage, and lost to a college professor, Dave Brat.

“Happens.” Freddie leaned against the side of the Bronco. “You forget your constituency and you’ll be sent packing.”

“Therein lies the problem with the pipeline.” Walter had thought about this. “In theory we are all in favor of disengaging from the Saudis. We’re all in favor of jobs, although how long those construction jobs last is a murky issue and never addressed by Soliden. However, when the pipeline goes through your land, it is an entirely different issue. Your land value will never recover. The twenty years or thirty years, whatever they say it will be today, will be a scar on your property. If a pipeline blows it’s your fields that will be ruined. And you won’t be able to clean them up.”

“I suspect the powers that be at Soliden, including the missing president, looked at a map of our county, saw huge tracts of undeveloped land, by their standards, and figured, ‘Aha!’ Easy peasy.” Betty hated this whole thing. “They don’t care about potential damage.”

“They underestimated us.” Kasmir grinned.

“They underestimated you and Crawford.” Sister laughed.

“Yes but”—Freddie raised her voice slightly—“what if they still come down over the mountains here and instead of going straight through the land they follow the road. There is a right-of-way. It’s better than nothing but still not great. A pipeline can rupture just as easy using a right-of-way as on private land.”

“I think they’ll swing through Nelson County.” Bobby Franklin crossed his arms over his chest. “Small population, not a lot of wealth, lower educational level. They’ll steamroll ’em.”

Margaret DuCharme, specialty sports medicine, shook her head. “I hope not. It’s such beautiful country. So many of those old apple orchards still exist, still giving us apples.”

Sister, knowing Margaret since she was a child, said, “You know Old Paradise better than anyone. Given the mysteries that still surround that land, even the old curse, I suspect the pipeline would be full of holes before it got into the ground.”

“People have threatened not to shoot the workers but to destroy equipment, expose the pipeline once it’s running, shoot into it. Can you imagine the explosion?” Margaret said. “I look at Old Paradise and wonder if this is the curse.”

Bobby spoke clearly. “You don’t mess around with country people. Or people with a great passion, which the environmental groups have. I respect them even if I think sometimes they go over the top. And you can’t dig up graves.”

“You might be surprised to hear this from me—after all I am a doctor—but I don’t think you disturb the dead,” Walter said.

“You know that’s a taboo almost every culture observes, no matter the country or the century. It’s thousands of years old,” Kasmir announced.

“You have dual citizenship, right?” Sam smiled, and when Kasmir nodded he suggested, “You could shoot the pipeline, anyone, go back to India. You wouldn’t be extradited.”

Kasmir, surprised, rejoined, “No, but I wouldn’t be hunting with Jefferson. I’d never risk that.”

“What is worth that risk? What could provoke you to kill?” Bobby wondered.

“Well, we’d all agree danger to our families, perhaps even to our way of life.” Betty put her two cents in.

“Was Rory killed over danger to someone’s family?” Sam couldn’t help saying that. “Or someone’s way of life?”

“If profit counts as a way of life, it is possible.” Margaret picked up a deviled egg. “Think of the crimes, thefts, drama that have happened here. We can start with Sophie Marquet, my illustrious ancestor. Her husband became a liability. After all manner of disagreement he disappeared. And then what happened to all the silver and much of the family jewelry after 1865? The Yankees never found it. Who knows?”

Walter smiled. “There isn’t one old place in this county that doesn’t have some story about murder or buried treasure.”

“Don’t forget the illegal stills.” Bobby laughed.

“Best country water in the South,” Margaret said with pride, using the term for moonshine.

If you said “moonshine,” it meant you were a little suspicious. If you used “illegal liquor” or any such flabby term, you were especially suspicious.

“We’re all standing here. Some of you were at Christmas Hunt. Does any of this make sense?” Sister wondered. “A wonderful man, a man who pulled himself through hell and high water is killed, and another powerful man disappears at the same location, or so we believe.”

“Gregory Luckham has to be dead.” Betty noticed the sun dipping behind a large cumulus cloud.

“We don’t know that,” Walter offered. “We’re standing here assuming this is about the pipeline. Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. But until Gregory Luckham is found, I wouldn’t bet on anything.”