CHAPTER 38

Powdery snow rested on the ground. Two and a half inches would allow all creatures to easily move. The sky promised more flurries.

Staff eagerly awaited everyone at the trailers to mount up since conditions favored long runs once scent was found. Given those conditions, the fact that the season would be over in five weeks plus morbid curiosity, anyone who was upright hunted today at Tattenhall Station.

“They take too long,” Aztec complained.

Outlaw, next to him, snorted. “Want to take bets on who comes off today?”

“No.” Aztec felt the reins loose on his neck. “It’s amazing some of them stay on. Look at how a few of them have put on weight. If they go off they’ll never get back up.”

“Christmas. They stuff themselves like pigs. Not all of them but a few. Then spring draws near and they start these awful diets.”

“Luckily, Sister stays the same.” Aztec looked around. “What are they doing back there?”

“Putting on spurs,” Outlaw replied. “Makes them think they have control. Hey, if I want to go, I’ll go. If not, you can’t make me. Of course, I love Betty. She never asks me to do anything foolish.”

“Same here but sometimes things happen. Like Showboat locking up. He’s a good horse. He likes Shaker. The smell just locked him up.”

Outlaw pawed the snow. “Dead stuff. I’m not saying I like that smell but dead human stuff smells different.”

Aztec considered this. “Maybe so, but here’s the thing. If it’s dead, it isn’t going to hurt you. I’d be a lot more frightened of a mountain lion.”

Outlaw stopped pawing, started to agree with his friend, then sighed with relief. “Thank God. They’re all mounted.”

“Good day. Just feels right.” Aztec moved forward as Sister pressed lightly with her leg.

“Hope so.” Outlaw obeyed Betty’s instructions. “We can compare notes back at the trailers.”

Weevil headed for Old Paradise as Crawford, riding up front with Sister, had agreed to a joint meet. He needed to get his hounds out. They hunted well with Jefferson Hounds.

Skiff rode next to Weevil, who carried the horn for both packs. He offered this honor to her but she thought hunting with this large a field would be useful for him.

Shaker, in the car with Yvonne and Aunt Daniella, kept up a running commentary that the ladies vowed never to repeat.

Sam agreed to whip-in, which he usually did for Skiff. He took Weevil’s former position as tail whip. He could have stood on ceremony, rode with Tootie or Betty—he was entitled—but he wanted to make sure the pack would hold together.

The first jump in Crawford’s fence line, all new stone fencing, was easily cleared. The jump was the same height as the exorbitantly expensive stone fence, except the stone top was six inches lower. On this depression was laid a log. If a horse rubbed the jump, their hooves wouldn’t touch stone but wood, which was just a bit more forgiving.

“I’ll stay away from the buildings if I can,” Weevil told Skiff.

“Good idea. We’ve got a fox in the old stable. There are others under some of the outbuildings. If we hit a line it’s possible we’ll wind up at the outbuildings, but no reason to start there.”

He nodded, put his horn to his lips, and blew “Lieu in” as well as saying it.

Hounds eagerly rushed to a small thicket in a tight roll of the land near the road. Weevil’s idea was to head south, then, after covering all of Old Paradise, to move west to the woods’ edge.

No need, for hounds found the scent immediately. Snow like talcum powder flew off horses’ hooves. The ground underneath remained frozen although the mercury was to climb into the low forties, so the firmness probably wouldn’t last long.

Running hard, hounds hooked left, some jumped over a roll jump while others leapt over the stone fence. Once the work of the building restoration was complete, Crawford intended to return to stone fencing, creating stone fences everywhere. Now the stone was at the road’s edge where everyone could see it. He wanted everything in stone, whether a border fence or a small paddock. It would be impressive, beautiful, and cost a fortune. This jump, three feet high, was deceptive, because it was wide, a bracing two feet wide. The horse had to have a bit of scope and boldness to go over this jump. Few had encountered anything like it. Crawford enjoyed creating various jumps.

Aztec saw the wideness, took off just a hair early and big. Sister rode it out. She could have forced him to take off at the spot she thought best, but she truly trusted him so if he took off big, okay.

As luck would have it, the hunted fox had doubled back, so no sooner was Sister over than the two packs turned, heading straight for her. She held up on one side of the fence, as did the field on the other side. Weevil jumped over, then Sam. Sister turned, following him. Aztec picked the right spot. No need to leave early for he now knew this somewhat unusual, new jump.

Once over, Sister effortlessly breezed past the standing field. They turned, falling in behind her, with Tedi and Edward in her pocket, Kasmir and Alida behind them, Ronnie and Dewey and on down the line of First Flight. People placed themselves according to status, not that that was said, their ability and the ability of their horse. Riding tail, Walter again assumed those duties.

Sam, just ahead of Sister, asked for more speed. Sister did likewise for the pack was pulling away. The fox was heading for the outbuilding, visible in the distance.

Crawford, a decent rider but not the strongest, began to fade back a bit. Gray moved up alongside him.

All of a sudden, hounds stopped. They cast themselves, skidding down into a small ravine that opened up on flatter meadows.

In the crevice, the deeper snow slowed them down. Thor, a big Dumfriesshire hound, called out. “Stay in the crevice. I know this fox. He’ll climb out toward the north.”

Sister, on the edge, followed. No point in trapping yourself and others in this fold of the land.

Sure enough, the fox had exited heading north toward the chapel crossroads that lay three and a half miles down the road from this spot. The field was running on the snow-covered pastures. Sister kept her eyes on the pack. This pattern, different, announced a new fox, perhaps a visiting fox. Anything goes.

A light breeze swept down the side of the mountains, enough to make the tree branches sway. Hounds stood out against the snow. Crawford’s were black and tan whereas most of hers were tricolor. Weevil and Skiff hung right behind them. Betty, far on the right, was already heading for a jump in the fence line that would put her on Chapel Road. Tootie on the left made for the driveway into the main buildings. She’d need to turn down the road, but she would be in a good position if the fox turned toward the mountains.

A tidy coop beckoned. Hounds soared over it, some simply jumping the stone fence. Then Weevil, then Skiff, a slight gap, Sam on Trocadero smoothly took the fence. Sister, in her eagerness, had drawn a bit close to Sam. She rated Aztec, pissed him off, then when Sam was clear and ahead she urged him over. She could hear the field behind her.

Hounds, up ahead, ran right in the middle of the road, crossed into the churchyard. The entire pack was behind the church screaming while Adolfo Vega cleaned off the steps up to the church for service tomorrow. He leaned on his snow shovel to watch.

Sister paused for a moment. She couldn’t lead the field over the front of the church. The ground, still somewhat hard, was dicey enough. If there were any soft spots, she’d tear it up. So she slowed, trotted all the way around the main building, white, so simple, so beautiful. The gold cross gleamed from the blue steeple. Our forefathers exhibited a marvelous and restrained aesthetic sense. Much as she shared that sense, she wanted to get with her hounds, so she squeezed Aztec to trot faster and she looped around all the buildings, trying to keep where she thought the edge of the grass would be. Finally, she emerged at the graveyard, hound at every tombstone or so it seemed. Weevil and Skiff, off to the side, watched.

The two huntsmen couldn’t go into the graveyard, nor could Sister. There was enough snow to cover the flagstones. One step on that could be ugly thanks to slippery snow. Worse, the horse’s weight could crack the stones, many dating back to the 1820s. The standing tombstones outlined in snow looked either peaceful or mournful, depending on one’s temperament.

Shaker’s temperament was not peaceful. Sitting in the backseat, for no one would possibly displace Aunt Daniella, he was fulminating.

“That fox will circle. I’m telling you. Those two damn kids better head for the road.”

“You know this fox?” Aunt Daniella inquired.

“Yes and no. But the fox, no matter who he is, and it has to be a male as it’s breeding season, is smart enough to use these tombstones, so I’m thinking he’s local enough to baffle the hounds. He’s a red, running straight for the most part. A gray would have turned by now.”

Neither of the ladies would refute the color of the fox nor the animal’s intelligence.

“There’s one of our hounds heading out,” Yvonne excitedly said.

“Old Asa. He’s dipped in gold.” Shaker sat on the edge of the seat.

One by one, the Jefferson Hounds moved out of the cemetery as the Crawford pack began to mingle with them.

Sister and Crawford sat still. No one knew what would happen next, but as if hearing Shaker, Weevil and Skiff had ridden out to the road. Hounds milled about, then a deep roar by Balzac, Crawford’s hound, sent them all back to the crossroads.

Crawford, with pride, looked at Sister. “Balzac. A hunting man, you know.”

“Yes, I do.” Sister smiled for the hound was good. “You’ve named this hound well.”

The two of them turned, fell in behind Sam, and reached the crossroads. Hounds ran right down the middle of the road. Fortunately, there was little traffic out here, but no one wanted to fly on a macadam road covered with snow. Ben Sidell, back with Bobby Franklin, thanked the angels for his horse, Nonni, sure-footed and smart. She stopped for a split second, turned her nose toward the mountain, and Ben, out of the corner of his eye, saw the streak of red shifting through a narrow covert.

Counting to twenty, he then called out loudly, “Tallyho.” His hat, in his hand, arm pointed in the direction he had seen the fox, told the huntsman the direction in which their quarry was running.

Second Flight often sees the fox, so Weevil and Skiff, hearing the cry, immediately ramped up the speed heading in the direction of Ben’s outstretched arm.

Hounds screamed. Horses were full throttle. So was the fox, realizing he had to get out of there.

Across the snow-covered pastures they all flew, a scene that could have been from prior centuries. Dots of scarlet here and there, tails flying on the weazlebellys, a few hats already swaying on the hat cord behind the ladies wearing derbies. Most people wore hunt caps securely shoved down or even secured with a chin strap. But the die-hards wore their gorgeous shining top hats or reinforced derbies, which usually were quite secure. Derbies banged behind backs. They were all moving far too fast to pull up a derby. Who cared? The pace was too good.

The screaming raised the hair on the back of people’s necks. You could tell people about the feeling, but until they experienced it themselves they never quite believed it. Your blood was up, as was your horse’s.

For over three and a half miles, those familiar miles, the pack charged hard. The fox made straight for the restored stable, ducked into a hole, as there was a fox who lived there. He stuck right there, deep down as Earl, the proprietor, bitched and moaned.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Breathing hard, the medium-sized red, Mr. Nash, replied, “Saving my ass.”

The stable fox heard the entire pack, he’d heard them anyway, moved into the deep part of his den, confronted the intruder. “You can’t underestimate those hounds. They know the territory and they have good noses. What did you think you were doing?”

Mr. Nash followed Earl as he led him through his extensive underground network to come out in a corner of the tack room behind a tack trunk. “This is something.”

“Better yet, the place is full of workmen and they leave food. Good food. No one thinks to look in the tack room. They know I have a den back in one of the stalls. Every now and then someone fills it up with sawdust and dirt. I just clean it out but I have a lot of ways in and out. But you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for a girlfriend. I live up at Close Shave. It’s nice enough but nothing like this.”

Earl sat on a plush lamb’s fleece saddle pad. “It is impressive. But girls, most of the girls are taken but there’s a young one over at Mud Fence. Still close to her parents’ den but you could see if she’s interested. My experience is the young girls wait a year. They often stick close to home and help with the next litter but you never know.”

“You’re not interested?” Mr. Nash was curious.

“Not this year.” Earl listened to the two huntsmen speak to their hounds. “Heading off. Good. Girls, yes, well, I find vixens wonderful, of course, but then they have the babies and you exhaust yourself feeding the little buggers. Taking a year off.”

As Mr. Nash had yet to become a father, he remained silent about that. He cocked his head, hearing the field move off now.

Earl advised. “Don’t pop out yet. Diana, one of the Jefferson Hounds, is really smart. She could double back very quickly and check again. The huntsman trusts her, so she won’t be pushed back into the pack. Of course, now there’s a new huntsman. Young.”

“Gris told me the regular fellow hit his head over a human hand.”

“Ah yes, Gris, the town crier,” remarked Earl, who could gossip with the best of them. “So you have traveled as far as Chapel Cross before today?”

“Just.”

“You know what amuses me? Heard there was so much fuss over that human hand, another one was found in the Carriage barn. So what’s a human part? We can be splayed out on the roadway. Doesn’t seem to bother them a bit.”

Mr. Nash agreed. “They are strange creatures.”

As these two became better acquainted, Weevil and Skiff decided to move across the road to Beveridge Hundred, drawing along the way.

A short burst pulled them through the edge of Old Paradise as light snow began to fall. Given their workout no one felt the cold right then, plus most people watched the weather report so they wore their thermal underwear, some layers of silk for others and Sister’s favorite trick, wearing an old white cashmere turtleneck over which she tied her stock tie. A thermal shirt, then the ancient cashmere, toasty warm. Her feet and hands, though, tingled with the cold. As Aztec, enlivened, surged forward, she felt that telltale ache in her toes. No matter, the day was too good.

The barn owl at Beveridge Hundred, ears very keen, heard the distant singing of the hounds. At a foot and a half she could take care of herself, not that she worried about hounds hunting her. She liked the hayloft in the tidy small barn, never bothering to build a nest. She was happy on the wood. Given her feathers she stayed warm. One of the reasons she liked Beveridge Hundred was its quiet. The older people rarely walked out to the barn anymore and certainly not in winter. Enough mice kept her full but she especially liked hunting the cemetery at the chapel, full of mice. She thought if they were Christian mice she was sending them to the great mouse in the sky. Why mice liked cemeteries she didn’t know, but she took advantage of it. She also liked the stable because she could visit with Sarge, the young fox. He seemed a little naive but he was young. She enjoyed sharing her wisdom of which she thought she had quite a lot.

She flew up to walk along a crossbeam where she could peer out the small louvered slats at the peak of the roof. She didn’t see the fox or any fox, but she could see the entire two packs hunting as one heading right for Beveridge Hundred. She looked to the side, she looked down, nothing to entice those miserable hounds. And the doors were closed. Good.

Hounds rushed up to the stable, circled it once, twice. The fox must have done that to throw them off for no den existed in the stable. Then they took off, turning back north in the direction of Tattenhall Station. The people on horseback waited for a moment at the stable. Then they, too, took off.

The owl observed First Flight go, followed by Second Flight. One man from First Flight hung back.

“Dewey, problem?” Bobby Franklin asked.

“Thought I’d answer Nature’s call behind the stable.” Dewey smiled as he dismounted.

The others moved off, picking up speed as hounds opened.

Dewey, however, did not answer Nature’s call. He carefully walked around the stable, peering at the ground. The ground protected by the overhang was not covered in snow. The falling snow was light.

He then tied Bosco to the railing by an old water trough, hurrying over to Yvonne’s cottage dependency. He bent over, peering into the bottom of the doghouse, rose, brushed off his knees, hurried back to Bosco, mounted up, and rode off.

Crawling down the state road, Shaker noticed Dewey trying to catch up, as did Yvonne and Daniella.

“Dewey’s always been helpful. When Mercer was alive they’d talk about Thoroughbred syndicates and Dewey said he’d try it with real estate. Certainly worked,” Aunt Daniella remarked.

“Syndicates can be tricky,” Yvonne added. “Victor bought the first television stations with syndicates. We managed with difficulty to eventually buy out the other partners, but what a bitch, I can tell you. I worked the charm offensive overtime.”

“Ah, took you two minutes.” Shaker teased her.

“He still calling? Your ex?” Yvonne’s eyebrows lifted up.

“Not me. He calls Tootie. My prediction is Victor’s lost a lot of money. This will take time. Give it another six months or a year. Then he’ll call me pretending the divorce was a mistake. I haven’t lost money.”

“That’s good news.” The old lady smiled.

“Now what are they doing?” Shaker half stood up.

“Sit down,” Yvonne commanded. “If I have to hit the brakes hard, I’ll hurt your neck.”

“Damn my neck. I am so sick of this.” Shaker cursed. “But look at the pack. A tight circle. I want to get out and look for tracks.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Aunt Daniella put her foot down. “Sister would have our hides if we let you do that.”

“There have to be tracks but we haven’t seen anything. To hear a roar like that, I expect this scent is fresh.” He looked out the window. “Then again, conditions are really, really good. It might be twenty minutes old but no more than that. I’ve told Skiff to always look for tracks.”

“She is.” Yvonne stuck up for Skiff, who was looking down.

“Dewey better stop. If that fox shot back straight, Dewey will be in the middle of it. I’d cuss him like a dog. I don’t think Weevil will.”

“Dewey knows hunting, doesn’t he?” Yvonne asked.

“Oh he does, but not as much as he thinks he does. Most people in the field, even if they’ve hunted for years, don’t know but so much.” Shaker sniffed. “Never look at hound bloodlines either.”

“Well now, Shaker, that’s unfair. For most of them that would be like reading Greek.” Yvonne stuck up for the field. “What you do takes study, time, and I can’t imagine how many packs of hounds you have studied or hunted behind. Most people don’t have that kind of time or the eye. Then again, Shaker, this is your profession.”

That shut him up for a bit.

Aunt Daniella smiled. “Oh, he has pulled up.”

Dewey indeed stood stock-still and Bosco wasn’t happy about it.

“Dewey’s done well, hasn’t he?” Yvonne knew a bit of people’s histories but only so much.

“He has. There are quite a few people in the hunt and I’ve known many of them since they were children who really didn’t come from much, but I tell you what, they all went to college and made something of themselves. That’s why I was so upset, upset hell, devastated when Sam blew Harvard.”

A silence followed this as both Shaker and Yvonne knew the story and both felt and said that Sam had turned his life around. Was he going back to Harvard in his sixties? No, but he lived a useful life. Maybe even a better life than if he had graduated. Who is to say?

Aunt Daniella broke her own silence. “I know. I can’t let it go. I should. If my sister were here we could talk it through. Oh, if you could have only known him as a little boy. I’d call him my milkshake boy because he was the color of a milkshake.” She took a breath. “Odd but both my sister and myself had sons who were a tad darker than we were.”

“Mattered then.” Yvonne stopped as the field was circling and she didn’t know what they would do next.

“Matters now,” Aunt Daniella replied.

“Do you really think it does?” Shaker asked in all innocence.

“Maybe not as much, but it still helps to be light. Momma used to say the whiter we looked, the easier life would be.”

“Aunt Daniella, you could have been as black as a true Ethiopian and you would have conquered. Those fabulous cheekbones, your sexual allure. I mean here you are in your nineties and men still turn their heads.” Yvonne praised her.

“Well”—then Daniella laughed—“it’s not see what you get, it’s make what you get worth seeing.”

Shaker laughed as did Yvonne. “Seeing what you get. They’ve turned again. Back to Chapel Cross.”

First Flight trotted but slowly, for scent had become spotty. Second Flight, behind, had grown larger as some people from First Flight dropped back, for the hunt had been tiring. Dewey wended his way through Second Flight until immediately behind Bobby Franklin.

“May I go forward to First Flight?”

“Of course.”

Dewey picked up a trot, Bosco sure-footed on the falling snow, which was becoming slippery.

Hounds slowly worked in the direction of the old train station. Balzac, next to Tatoo, stopped.

“What?” Tatoo asked.

“He’s turned but it’s faint.” Balzac lifted his head. “Trudy, check this out.” Then he informed Tatoo, “She has a bit of a cold nose.”

“Ah.” Tatoo understood, for a cold nose could pick up faint scent, which was only a good thing if other hounds could just catch it.

Otherwise the cold-nosed hound would open and not be honored, a frustrating outcome for all.

Trudy put her nose down. “It’s him but he’s fading. Curious.”

If this hunt had gone by the textbooks, the line should have been heating up. This fox either possessed mojo or had walked across something to foul his scent.

“He’s turned,” Trudy called out as her houndmates ran to her.

Crawford’s hounds talked among themselves so Jefferson Hunt Hounds joined them as Weevil and Skiff watched.

Walking, the pack continued moving westward across the large pasture, trees dotting the land. They reached the road, Crawford’s land across it, in time to see a herd of deer gracefully lope toward the Carriage House in the far distance. Hounds paid no attention.

Sister pulled up as hounds stopped.

“Come on, good hounds. You can do it.” Weevil encouraged them.

Banjo, another of Crawford’s B litter, turned south alongside the road. He poked around as did his friends for twenty yards, then they opened at once.

Flying. It was 0 to 60 faster than a 911 Turbo.

Ronnie, taking a swig from his flask, nearly dropped his flask, then nearly dropped himself. Dewey on Bosco moved alongside him, grabbed the flask from his hand.

“You’ll thank me for this.” Dewey secreted the flask in his coat between the first and the second button.

“Took you long enough to get back.”

“I lingered.”

“Well, we aren’t lingering now.”

Those left in First Flight hugged the fence line on Kasmir’s side for the fox seemed to have run alongside of it.

Five minutes, ten minutes, more people began to falter. Sister and Aztec stayed behind the hounds. Kasmir and Alida, Sam, Gray, Freddie, the tough riders on hunting-fit horses hung in there, but others, due to exhaustion or age, slowed a bit. The fox did not.

They wound up in woods again, the tree branches brushed, dumping snow on them, especially the firs.

Yvonne turned around in the middle of the road. No traffic so that was easy. Shaker, nose pressed against the windowpane, watched for a flash of red.

Then hounds lost again. Everyone stood, grateful for the break. The snow fell a bit heavier, the sound of the flakes on the pine trees distinct. Snow found its way down coat collars, too.

Sister, alert, trusted her instincts, which told her the fox would return to Beveridge Hundred where he had more choices than being in the middle of a pasture or even crossing over to Old Paradise. Buildings and outbuildings offered escapes as well as scent spoilers, plus this was closer than Old Paradise.

The soft rattle of light wind in the tree branches, the faint patter of the snow filled Sister’s senses. Hounds worked to find scent. Standing there, waiting, one was reminded of how ravishing Nature is in her changing wardrobe.

Dreamboat’s stern moved. He’d come back out on the narrow path as the other hounds wound around tree trunks, poked noses into anything resembling a bolt hole. An angry click notified Pookah that one of those small holes in the tree trunk was occupied.

“Crabby.” The hound stepped back.

Pickens, next to his littermate, smiled, kept his nose down, then heard Dreamboat.

“Here,” the reliable hound called out as the others moved to him.

Weevil, trusting Dreamboat, on Shaker’s Kilowatt today, watched with rising anticipation. Tootie, ahead but waiting, also listened, as did Betty on the other side. Although easier to see in the woods during winter, the large number of conifers meant there were places where you couldn’t see. There was even a stand of large blue spruces, untouched for nearly a century, the snow intensifying their color.

Hounds milled about, a large circle both on and off the path.

“Let’s go.” Zorro found where the line was still good.

Hounds took off. Humans, full of breath thanks to the respite, followed them.

Scent held; although it faded in and out, it still held. Hounds moved along, trotting. No point running or one would overrun the line. The older hounds knew this and the younger ones had learned it through cubbing in the fall.

The wind picked up. Not strong but about ten miles an hour. Enough to make keeping one’s nose on the line an act of concentration. Wind can blow scent. Hounds make up for this by alertness. A stiff wind, though, creates problems. That’s when the huntsman has to figure out where the line might be, assuming it’s still operable.

Both Weevil and Skiff moved closer, anticipating stronger wind. One never knew this close to the mountains and one never knew about wind devils either.

Hounds steadily pushed. Cry grew louder. The pace picked up. They worked beautifully. Staff was thrilled. The field was happy to be moving on for the wind was starting to cut. A few realized what outstanding hound work this was. So many in the flights couldn’t see what hounds were doing. And even then many didn’t understand the conditions under which hounds tried for them.

A slow gallop brought them closer and closer to Beveridge Hundred. A few outbuildings promised refuge, or so the huntsmen hoped, but no, fox kept going. But where?

Hounds barreled past the outbuildings. Millie, sitting at the window, saw them. She managed a bark.

Hounds looked up as they passed the old dog sitting in her window seat. She emitted another bark. Hounds filed past the house in a schoolyard line, noses down. Weevil and Skiff behind them stepped carefully. Shrubs close to the house sat amidst buried bulbs. One could just see the edging on those gardens.

The field, forty yards back at this point, also walked carefully.

Hounds trotted slowly. The line was holding but weaving in and out. Hounds stopped every now and then to check. The fox circled the small barn but did not go into the small dug entrance at the end. Hounds then crossed over the farm road, walked behind the tidy garage for the dependency. Then they headed straight for Yvonne’s house and the doghouse. He’d been here, too. Yvonne, waiting at the end of the driveway, didn’t want to get in the way. No one knew where this fellow was heading and she thought best to sit on the road.

“You got a fox there?” Shaker asked.

“A visiting fox. I don’t think one lives by the houses,” she answered.

“But foxes are there?”

“I see them. A gray and then a small red who visits me almost every day.”

“H-m-m.” Shaker rubbed his chin, wishing he could shave.

Hounds walked back to the small stable, stopped again.

“Fan out. He came back. He has to have moved off from here. He’s far enough ahead of us he has time to,” Diana paused. “Found it.”

She opened, whipped around, going straight out the driveway. Hounds crossed in front of Yvonne, Aunt Daniella, and Shaker. Then Weevil, Skiff, and Sam followed. After that it was the two flights and just when Yvonne was ready to take her foot off the brake they all turned, ran in front of her again, turned and headed west again.

“I’m dizzy.” Yvonne laughed.

“Clever boy, this fox.” Shaker would have nodded if he could. “Yvonne, sit tight for a little bit. I’ll give you even odds that he’ll turn and if he does, this time we might view.”

Ronnie, back at the small stable, had dismounted when the field took off. It was his turn to answer Nature’s call. Dewey volunteered to hold his horse. If hounds hit big, Pokerface would have left Ronnie flat. To hell with the human, hounds are in full chorus.

“Thank God for bushes.” Ronnie sighed as he relieved himself. “You know, Dewey, I’m surprised more foxhunters don’t get bladder infections.”

“Bet we do and we don’t tell. Come on, hurry up.”

“Wait a minute.” Ronnie bent down to check a gleam under a tight boxwood.

The Van Dorns, decades ago, planted English boxwoods everywhere thinking the waxy green would show to good effect.

“Ronnie, hounds are opening.”

“I found something. Hold your horses.”

“I’m holding your horse, dammit,” Dewey fired back.

Ronnie, quiet, slipped the cigarette case he had found in the boxwoods into his coat pocket. He mounted up.

“Let’s go.” Dewey squeezed Bosco and blew out of there.

Ronnie followed, both men pulling up as they saw Yvonne’s car. She waved them on.

A jump, not far, allowed them to get over into the southernmost part of Old Paradise. Hounds bellowed now, deep tones, light baritones, basso profundos, a tenor here and there, and a squeal or two from a youngster. Even the female hounds sang out with full, deep voices. For the foxhunters this was as beautiful as Bach’s Mass in B Minor.

They galloped, snow stinging a little as it hit faces. Old Paradise, enormous with many open pastures as well as the now-discovered graves hidden in woods, was a foxhunter’s dream. On and on they ran, people falling back. Staff thanking the Lord for fit Thoroughbreds underneath them.

This same prayer was uttered by field members. A few crossbreds hung in there, perfectly conditioned. But on long, hard runs and over time, the Thoroughbred usually had the advantage. The animal was bred to run. A Thoroughbred gave you everything they had. Other horses, smarter perhaps, did not.

Hounds, flat out, covered those miles from the jump to the Carriage House in under twenty minutes. Twenty minutes over uneven ground, patchy footing, a steady wind blowing just enough snow in their eyes to make them squint. Same with the horses and humans.

Those miles on the flat would have been covered faster. In this territory, staff put on the afterburners, snow and mud flying underfoot, rating one’s horse to motor down a tricky swale here and there, blowing across small streams for the land was well watered.

Finally, hounds stopped right at the Carriage House. A den entrance by the southeast corner showed where he had ducked in. This fellow, new, had claimed the Carriage House. Hounds dug at the den.

Skiff jumped off, throwing her reins over her horse’s neck. As she knew this place better than Weevil, she took over.

She blew “Gone to Ground,” praised and petted each hound as Weevil stood by her horse. No need to reach for the reins, the animal was well trained, enjoying the horn notes as much as everyone else including the fox. No more running today.

Dewey, next to Ronnie, at the rear of First Flight, reached into his coat, handing Ronnie back his flask filled with Kentucky bourbon. Before completely handing it over, Dewey took a sip.

“Not Maker’s Mark. Umm, you do this. You put in a different bourbon each hunt and if we take a sip we have to identify it. I’ll take another. Ah. Woodford Reserve.”

Ronnie relieved Dewey of the flask, slipping it in its leather holder on the right front of his saddle. “Is this what you were looking for?” He reached into his coat, pulled out a gold cigarette case, handing it to Dewey with the bold roman initials on the front: G.E.L.

Dewey allowed Ronnie to drop the expensive, masculine cold case in his hand.

Ronnie continued. “You didn’t really need to go to the bathroom when you stopped. Why did you do it, Dewey? I can’t understand. What was the danger to you? How could you kill someone?”

Dewey stared at Ronnie, put the case in his pocket, then turned Bosco toward the buildings, toward the mountains behind.

“Stop him,” Ronnie yelled.

Sister, seeing that Dewey was going to pass her, forbidden on the hunt field anyway, moved out to block him. He pushed by her and tried to backhand her as he picked up a gallop.

Tootie, in the clear on the left, saw this. She saw Dewey try to hit Sister and went straight for him. The hounds were fine. She wasn’t thinking about them.

Dewey, now pursued, looked back. He reached farther into his coat where he was wearing a gun and holster well hidden. He pulled out the pistol and fired at Tootie. Missed.

Ben Sidell, in Second Flight, hearing a shot, immediately moved out of the pack to see if he could see what happened. He did. He called HQ for backup.

Weevil, hearing the shot, saw Tootie pursue Dewey. That fast he was flying on Kilowatt. Dewey, chased by two young, superb riders, asked for a bit more from good old Bosco, who was doing his best but the staff closed in. He fired again. Missed again, thanks to the bobbing of Bosco.

Weevil pulled up next to Tootie, yelled. “Go back. I’ll take care of him.”

“No.” She rode right with him.

Realizing he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn in these conditions, Dewey reached the back side of Old Paradise’s living places. The old sequestered cemetery was there, the tombstones large and showy. He dismounted from Bosco. He knew the land. If he could stop Tootie and Weevil, he figured he could elude the field long enough to disappear into the thick woods at the bottom of the mountains. He’d take his chances in there.

Ducking behind Sophie’s obelisk, he fired again. This time he was close. Weevil, no fear, urged Kilowatt to untapped reserves of speed while Tootie moved up also. As they neared the obelisk they parted, she to the left and he to the right.

Dewey figured he had them. He calmly rested the Smith & Wesson on his left forearm, staying behind the tomb. He heard hoofbeats but figured he had time to wheel and nail them both. Tootie roared up behind him, snapped her whip’s thong around his chest, and pulled. It was enough to throw him off balance. Weevil, now upon him, leaned over Kilowatt’s side, grabbing Dewey by the shoulders. Now both men were on the ground. Dewey, enraged, was large and powerful but not quick.

Weevil, strong although not in Dewey’s class, grabbed his right wrist, trying to get the gun from his hand. Tootie, now off Iota, joined in. She kicked Dewey hard in the face. The pain made him loosen his grip. Weevil had the gun but not Dewey, who rose, trying to run off.

Not even thinking about it, Weevil fired, hitting him in the back of the leg. He dragged himself forward. Weevil readied to fire again when he heard Ben’s voice.

“Hold it, Weevil. I’ll take over.” Ben reached Dewey, who stopped hobbling.

Sister held the field back at the Carriage House.

Skiff and Betty brought the hounds around and waited, knowing Weevil and Tootie would never leave hounds unless it was critical.

Yvonne drove up and would have known nothing if Ronnie, shaken, hadn’t seen fit to tell her. Yvonne drove over the grounds, swung around the back of the house and then the graveyard. She cut the motor, jumped out of the car.

“Tootie. Tootie.” She ran to her daughter, being held by Weevil.

The two staff members clung to each other, tears in both their eyes.

Yvonne stopped.

Tootie, a smile now on her face, said, “We brought him down together, Mom.”

“She got him first.” Weevil released her, shaking a bit, hoping no one noticed.

In the distance two sirens were heard.

“We’d better get back to the hounds.” Tootie pulled herself together.

Aunt Daniella and Shaker out of the car now noted, “Skiff and Betty have them.”

Shaker, not terribly interested in Dewey, no matter what he’d done or why he’d run, bragged. “Some hound work.”

This made Tootie and Weevil laugh. Weevil reached for her hand. She didn’t withdraw it.

“I can’t believe you jumped him when he had his gun leveled at you.”

“But he didn’t. You got him with your whip.” Weevil, relieved, laughed.

“What were you doing chasing him?” Tootie asked.

“I saw him fire at you.”

“You’re both crazy,” Yvonne blurted out.

Aunt Daniella, genuine emotion coming through, looked at the young people, looked at Yvonne. “It’s the Lord’s hands, Yvonne. It always is.”

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