Homeward Hound

CHAPTER 34

Water sprayed off the huge waterwheel at Mill Ruins. The millrace rarely froze at the mill itself, although it did freeze away from it.

February 6, cold, clear, a few clouds in the sky did not look promising, but foxes get hungry and Mill Ruins now hosted more than in the past. James, the oldest, lived behind the mill. Ewald, young, last season made a den in an outbuilding not far from the barn. Both these foxes were reds. Hortensia, a gray, lived in the big hay shed, which she quite liked. Her den, underground, provided protection when needed but she also liked to burrow into the big round hay bales. Sometimes she could hear mice chatter in those bales. The mice could smell her so no little marauder stumbled on Hortensia. Way at the back of this remarkable place Grenville, another gray, had a den in the storage shed.

Inside the large mill the gears still worked, the millstone still viable. Unfortunately, no one knew how to use it. Walter, who had a ninety-nine-year lease on the place, thought about finding a miller to rent it out, but then he considered the traffic on the farm with people bringing their grain. He told himself if he ever retired from medicine, he’d learn to be a miller. At one time this was the farthest-west mill in the county. After the Revolutionary War more people moved west. Numbers forged over the Blue Ridge into the Shenandoah Valley. During the Articles of Confederation people cleared the land, plowed, planted. Once we created the Constitution, more stability, brave souls kept going into the Ohio Valley, land beckoning them. Citizens of the new republic had been promised the vast expanse of that valley would be made safe for them. However, Spain and England fostered other ideas, hoping to pin the newborn nation between the Appalachian Chain, the Alleghenies, and the sea while they took over the fertile valley, hoping someday to defeat us by arms. Monarchies feared this new political entity so they stirred up the tribes, made deals, and blood flowed. Then again, never underestimate one nation’s greed for the land of another.

Sister, on Midshipman, hunting him for the first time thanks to Weevil’s work, looked west and wondered did Americans truly know their own history anymore? She listened to the lap, lap of the waterwheel, knowing that cornmeal, grains kept those early settlers alive. That and being a good shot, bringing down deer. And sometimes bringing down each other.

Being Tuesday, the field was small. Walter always hunted his place and since doctors put in their schedules early, he could do it.

Weevil walked down the farm road, casting hounds behind the mill. James heard the commotion, stayed put. So hounds regrouped heading down the farm road, two large pastures on either side of the solid fencing. Interest here and there but nothing special. On they walked until finally just at woods’ edge, Pansy opened. A short run, a couple of bracing jumps, but this was a pick them up, put them down kind of day. Scent just wouldn’t carry.

Weevil worried that he wasn’t doing enough, didn’t know enough, but he was wise enough not to push or scold.

Finally, into the woods, steep decline toward Shootrough, the back of the farm, hounds screamed. Betty kicked it into high gear as did Tootie, who saw a large black shape in front of her. Iota snorted but kept going, closing the gap. A black bear, easily four hundred pounds, rumbled, the whole pack at his heels.

Being no fool, the bear climbed a pin oak, the branches thick so he half positioned himself on one of the big ones, looking down at the hounds.

“I got ’em. I got ’em,” Dragon bragged on his hind legs.

His sister, no fan of her brother, sat looking upward. “You idiot. If he backs down he’ll use your head for a step.”

Tootie, close to the hounds, waited for Weevil.

Weevil, swinging his leg over Hojo as the horse skidded to a stop, ran to the base of the tree. “Come away. Come away, hounds.”

The field, now thirty yards from the action, held their breath. Sister wasn’t worried. Yes, a big bear could break a hound or human’s neck with one swipe, but usually black bears want to be left in peace. The only time she ever worried was if hounds picked up a momma and baby.

“Come away.”

“I don’t want to come away,” Dragon sassed.

The pack left Dragon, who, disgusted, dropped to all fours and joined them.

Tootie, now holding Hojo’s reins, smiled as Weevil mounted. Tootie, quiet, as soon as Weevil was secure, moved off to her position, which she thought of as ten o’clock on the clock dial whereas Betty was at two o’clock and Weevil was the button on the clock face.

Weevil calmly walked away toward Shootrough. The bear watched, climbing backward once the field disappeared.

Shootrough, once a hunting part of the farm for grouse, had been planted in switchgrass, which grows high, offering good cover for birds, bunnies, foxes. Where the open land met the woods, Walter had planted South American maize in a few rows, which also offered cover but something different to eat.

The switchgrass swayed. He urged hounds to go in. They did, but nothing. The sway was a slight wind. Often Grenville would give them a good run, finally diving into his den at the storage shed. But today Grenville stayed in, feeling lazy.

After two hours of searching, Weevil lifted the hounds, walking back to the mill.

Sister thanked him, Betty, and Tootie for their efforts, which she did after every hunt. Dismounting, she patted Midshipman, removed his bridle and martingale, tossed a blanket over him, finishing with cookies. “What a good boy you are.”

“Thank you.” Midshipman ate his cookies.

Betty, performing the same things for Outlaw standing next to Midshipman, said, “That was some bear.”

“Don’t they give off a distinctive odor?” Sister asked.

“Strong.” Betty agreed.

Once inside Walter’s house, Sister sat down, a cup of tea in her hand. People pulled chairs up as sitting seemed like a good idea. Sometimes a slow day makes you more tired than a fast one. Then again, cold wears you out.

“Everyone have their Valentine’s gifts in order?” Betty reminded everyone just as Yvonne and Aunt Daniella came through the door. “It’s a week and a day away.”

“Did you miss us?” Aunt Daniella asked.

“I’m getting used to you all following by car.” Walter offered to fetch a drink for the ladies.

“Well, I overslept,” Yvonne confessed.

They all caught up with one another, spoke of the bear, the hanging tree at the February third hunt, the unsolved murders, the stress of it all.

The door opened again. Ben Sidell arrived. He could have sent the membership an email and he would, but first he wanted to ask about the ring to the hard core, which is how he thought of the weekday hunters. He trusted his powers of observation. Maybe someone would falter for a split second.

After asking about the hunt, he tapped a spoon on a glass. “Folks, a minute. Liz Luckham, Gregory’s widow, has asked for his ring. We didn’t find one with the evidence we have, but by any chance might one of you have or have seen a Saint Hubert’s ring?”

As Yvonne had shown the ring to a few people at After All’s breakfast, a few eyes fell on her.

“Saint Hubert?” Yvonne asked.

“Yes. The stag with the cross between his antlers,” Ben answered.

She slipped the ring off her third finger, walked up to him, and dropped it into his palm. “Tootie and I found it in the dog box at Beveridge Hundred.”

Sam, having seen the ring and heard the story, said to Ben, “She feeds a fox there. He was playing with it.”

People couldn’t help themselves. They wanted to view the ring so Ben kept his hand open.

Alida picked it up. “How beautiful.”

Dewey, his hand open, studied it as Alida dropped it into his. “How did this ring get to Beveridge Hundred?”

“I don’t know. But the fox was playing with it in the doghouse. I put toys in there for him.”

Ben, hand under Yvonne’s arm, took her to the other room to ask questions, ring once again in his possession.

“I don’t suppose there could be more than one Saint Hubert ring?” Dewey asked.

“Not likely.” Sam kept his eye on the room in case Yvonne might become upset.

“At least, no body today.” Dewey exhaled.

“For which I am very grateful,” Sister responded. “We might recall that all that has been found up until that gruesome Saturday’s hunt has been in the Chapel Cross area. Including the ring.”

Weevil spoke up. “Tootie and I have been going over the maps. There are miles between where the hands were found, but that’s not inconsistent with animals carrying prizes, edible prizes. What we can’t understand is”—he stopped—“well, sorry, it’s gross.”

“No, go on.” Dewey encouraged him.

“Why cut off hands?” Weevil finished.

“In ancient times and even up to the twentieth century in the Mideast, a thief had his right hand cut off or both hands,” Tootie added.

Kasmir considered this. “Maybe Gregory Luckham was a thief of some sort. No matter how you look at it, it’s bizarre and, well, primitive.”

“I say this is the work of a nut,” Dewey pronounced.

“I just want it to stop,” Betty forcefully said. “How do we know someone else isn’t marked? We don’t know what this is about. Two people have been killed, one with hands cut off, boots missing, and one killed by a blow to the head. We have no idea why.”

“No.” Weevil surprised some of the members by his thoughts. “Tootie and I researched the eighteen men who were executed at the hanging tree. Ten had committed murder, two of those killed were stabbed, the others shot. Six stole horses or money. And two had committed rape.”

“Serious offenses in any century.” Ben, who had rejoined them along with Yvonne, sat down himself.

“Now you hire a big-time lawyer and, well, money talks”—Sam shrugged—“although occasionally justice is done.”

“Oh, all you have to do is say the killer was mistreated by his mother. It’s always the mother’s fault.” Betty grabbed a sandwich. “It is,” she added for emphasis.

“Do you think all murder is circumstantial?” Sister asked.

“I can answer that.” Ben’s voice rose. “No. There literally are criminal minds. Granted, I have to be careful what I say, but you all know there are people born without a conscience. That doesn’t mean they will kill, but if they do, no remorse. None. Most people feel something, especially if the act was done in the heat of the moment.”

“Isn’t revenge an exception to that?” Yvonne asked.

“Yes.” Ben nodded. “That person feels justice was miscarried or justice will never be carried out. They must redress the balance. Not only is there no remorse—often there is jubilation. But apart from these examples, I believe there is a criminal mind. Obviously, Al Capone had one. Such individuals are usually highly intelligent.”

“But are they killers?” Sam asked.

“Some are. Some aren’t. But killing usually enhances power or profit. There’s no thrill killing. It’s business.”

“I think that applies to Gregory Luckham. It was business,” Sister said.

“Well, what I’ve been thinking”—Weevil backed up his Master—“is the same thing but in a slightly different way. Hangman’s Ridge served as a warning. You can see the tree from Soldier Road if you’re looking for it. The hanged were left there, were they not? As a warning?”

Sam, who read lots of history, piped up. “In the earliest part of the eighteenth century they were left as a warning. As time went on, the family was allowed to claim the corpse for a proper burial, except for the two cases of rape. They were left to be picked clean.”

“Wonder if it stopped anyone?” Alida mused.

“We’ll never know. Why would anyone tell?” Sister smiled at Alida, whom she very much liked.

Sam looked at Weevil and Tootie. “You two did good research. Did you Google it?”

Betty half-laughed. “Of course they did, Sam. They were born with a computer in their cribs.”

This lightened the mood.