Hotspur

CHAPTER 27

Aztec’s ears swept forward and back. Although possessed of 360-degree vision, give or take a degree, Aztec couldn’t see more than three feet in front of his well-shaped nostrils thanks to persistent fog. Relying on his hearing, he could tell hounds, on a light line in front of him, were working hard to stay with scent. He knew scent should have been glorious, but it wasn’t. Foxhunting is a humbling sport, and Nature makes a volatile partner.

Sister listened for hounds, Shaker’s voice, the horn, and for the horses behind her. She couldn’t move out too quickly because the field, twenty-four strong this early morning, would be scattered like ninepins in the blanket of fog. Mostly they walked and trotted. If hounds hit a hot line, she’d need to use her knowledge of the territory to try to keep up without losing people or running into a barn.

The fog hung over them, refusing to lift. Foxes, knowing the night would bring a full moon, stayed in their dens resting up for what they hoped would be a party night. Lunacy didn’t just apply to people.

Fortunately for the hunters, the trails of scent from the night before still lingered. Those late coming home, around sunup, left even fresher scent, but as yet the pack hadn’t hit it.

Betty Franklin, on the left side, crept along Snake Creek’s bank. The ground was soggy, but she knew where she was. If hounds really moved off she thought she could stay with them until they entered either the hayfield about four hundred yards to her right, or ran straight through the woods and came out into the cornfield bottom. Once in an open field, Betty knew she’d become disoriented. All she could do was ride to cry, but ultimately that’s all any whipper-in can do under harsh conditions.

Sybil, feeling jittery, hoped she wouldn’t get in the hounds’ way. Hounds met at her parents’ big house at After All. Under normal circumstances, Shaker and Sister together with Betty and Sybil would have met at the kennels and roaded them over. This would give hounds time to settle, horses and humans time to limber up, but the fog prevented that. Instead, they loaded everyone on the hound trailer and drove to After All, parking down at the barns.

Even though Sybil was born and raised on this land, the fog transformed the most ordinary things into the extraordinary.

She jumped, startled, as the covered bridge appeared before her like the gaping mouth of the mask of tragedy. Her fear made Marquise, her horse, leap sideways.

“Sorry, Sweetie.”

They clip-clopped over the bridge. She thought Betty was up ahead. In a situation like this, Betty would go forward on the left side and Sybil would come behind on the right side. Sybil could hear hounds ahead of her moving along the creek bed. She had no idea where the field was but reminded herself that Sister knew the land even better than she did. Sister had had twenty-five more years to study it.

She climbed the low ridge, sending small stones rolling down the slick mud behind her. She pulled up by her sister’s and Peppermint’s graves.

“Nola, you’d enjoy today.”

Never having spoken to a grave or a dead person before, she felt slightly foolish, but there persisted deep within her the idea that Nola was near. Not just her remains, but her spirit. And that spirit loved her. Yes, when small they fought like banty roosters. As they became teenagers, Sybil swallowed her resentment of her sister’s beauty, her extroverted personality. Alone upstairs at night, one or the other would slide down the polished hall floor, socks barely making a squeak. Then they’d sit together on the bed, compare their days, make fun of everyone else, study the models in Seventeen or Vogue magazine, and talk endlessly about horses.

When Ken Fawkes courted Sybil, Nola fought with Tedi and Edward right alongside her. She even told her father he was a snob. Ken might be poor, but he wasn’t stupid and he made Sybil happy. She loved Nola for that. Somehow she hadn’t even minded that at her wedding the maid of honor unintentionally outshone the bride.

A ripple of anguish washed over her as she wondered, yet again, what Nola’s last moments were like. Was she terrified? Perhaps. Defiant? Most likely. Did she know she was about to die? Sybil prayed that she did not. Perhaps her murderer was merciful in that he didn’t torture her. Maybe he killed swiftly and Nola never knew what was happening.

Ken told her not to dwell on it. They couldn’t change the past. Focus on the present, on their life together and their sons.

He was right, but she couldn’t keep her mind from playing Nola’s last day over and over again. Nothing unusual ever stuck out like a red flag. The day’s cubbing had put everyone in high spirits. The party that evening at the Burusses’ filled them up with food and spirits of a different, more liquid sort. Nola didn’t lean over and confess any “sins” to her. Actually, Nola confided in Sybil less once Sybil was married. She’d tease her by saying she didn’t want to upset a proper matron.

She shook herself. Concentrate on today. Listen for the hounds.

She wondered where the field was. Ken was with them.

At that moment they were moving, creeping, really, up the right side of the creek, heading upstream. Even Athena and Bitsy, who often enjoyed shadowing them, stayed in the rafters of the stable. Why fly around in the fog when mice scampered right under your talons?

Ralph Assumptio and Ronnie Haslip rode side by side. Everyone out that day wanted to ride next to a buddy and in view of the riders in front, if possible. No one spoke.

Sari and Jennifer rode together; Walter and Ken, Crawford and Marty hung right behind Sister, which irritated Ken, who thought Crawford had no business being up front. Bobby and Xavier brought up the rear, doing their best to keep the twenty-four riders from fading into the fog. That’s all they’d need today, someone out there riding around, turning foxes, getting in the way of hounds and finally hollering their damned head off because they were lost and scared.

Tedi and Edward, also furious at Crawford for his pushiness, stuck with Ken and Walter until the path narrowed as the creek forked sharply left, northwest. They scooted in front of the two men, who graciously nodded, “Go ahead.”

“Whoop. Whoop.” Shaker’s cry faded away up front.

Sister knew they’d be in the cornfield soon enough. The corn was planted north to south because of the lay of the land. If she hugged the end row, which she’d have done even if she could see, she’d come out on the farm road leading up to Hangman’s Ridge.

Cora and Dragon, brimming with drive, wanted to find a better line than the tattered trail they currently followed.

“If we could bolt Charlie, we’d have a run,” Dragon said. Charlie was Target’s son from last year’s litter who had a den close by.

“You might be able to bait him,” Cora said. She was glad that Asa, Diana, Dasher, and the others were close behind. The fog didn’t bother her as much as the humans and the horses, because she relied on her nose even in the brightest of weather. Still, it’s always reassuring to see one’s surroundings.

Charlie’s den had fresh earth scattered outside as he’d been housecleaning. It emitted the sweetish, skunky odor of fox. Charlie, an ego as big as his luxurious brush, wanted every male animal in the universe to respect his territory. He even intruded on Uncle Yancy’s territory and marked that. A loud lecture followed this insult.

Not only did he hear Dragon coming, he smelled the sleek hound.

Dragon crawled halfway into the entranceway before his shoulders proved too broad for further movement. “I know you’re in there.”

“So does everyone else in this kingdom.” Charlie thought of his territory as a kingdom. His mentality was truly feudal.

“Give us a run. I’ll give you a head start. How about if I let you get to the other side of the cornfield?”

“I wouldn’t trust you any farther than I could throw a dead mouse.”

Charlie, who was full of himself and eager to make Dragon eat his words, slipped out his back exit. Dragon, butt still in the air, continued hollering down the front entrance. It took Dragon about five minutes before he realized he’d been had. Then he put his nose to the ground. “Hot! Hot! I’m right.” His rich baritone reverberated throughout the woods, echoing deeper as the hound was engulfed in the thickening fog.

The rest of the hounds sped over to Charlie’s den. Dasher could see Dragon’s pawprints. He followed the prints as well as his nose to the exit hole.

His sister was right behind him. He spoke low, then she spoke louder. “It’s good!”

Cora called to the others moving through the fog. “Burning scent! Burning scent!”

“Hurry hounds, hurry,” Asa encouraged them. “All on. We want to be all on.” Then under his breath he whispered to Diana, “Especially in this pea soup.”

Within seconds the hounds converged on Charlie’s den, picked up the escape route line, and flew on it. All could hear Dragon up ahead by perhaps a quarter of a mile, too far ahead.

Charlie, flying fast and low, wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and Dragon.

Shaker couldn’t see anything, but he blew “Gone Away” as he recognized Dragon’s voice, then Cora’s, Diana’s, Asa’s, and the young entry who yelped as much as sang. Sounded like the whole pack, to him. He heard no stragglers.

The first problem was to get through the woods, over the coop in the fence line, through the corn to get up with his hounds. Like most huntsmen, bravery came naturally to him, but he was old enough not to be stupid. This was a day to let Gunpowder pick his way. He trusted his horse more than he trusted himself.

Betty, already in the cornfield, as she’d had the presence of mind to move forward while hounds were picking at the old line, cantered through a line of corn, the long green leaves swishing. She knew she couldn’t get into too much trouble if she stayed in a row. Once out of the field, the old zigzag fence between the corn and the farm road was easy enough to jump even in the fog.

That couldn’t be said of the coop between the woods and the cornfield. Shaker and Gunpowder found it and got over because Gunpowder, long-strided and with the élan of a thoroughbred, trotted two steps and arched over effortlessly.

Sister heard her hounds, then the horn. She’d fallen farther behind than she realized.

Sybil, too, was jolted out of her reverie. She pushed along the low ridge, leaving Nola’s grave behind her, but she knew she’d gotten thrown out. Right now she was utterly useless to the huntsman. She cursed herself, then the fog as she tried to make up the ground without breaking her neck.

Sister hugged the creek bed and crossed where the smooth rocks led down into the creek and where Snake Creek fed into Broad Creek. The footing, still slick and deep, was better here. Aztec, his light bay coat oddly translucent in the strange muted light, reached the other side of this part of Broad Creek with no problem. When Sister looked back to see if the person behind her, now Tedi Bancroft, had made it across, she couldn’t see anyone. And she could only hear her when Tedi appeared by her side.

“We’ve got to kick on, Tedi.”

Edward charged out of the fog, then held hard, pulling sharply back on the reins. “Sorry, Master.”

“Can’t see the hand in front of your face. I was telling Tedi, we’ve got to kick on and hope for the best.” She cupped her hands. Normally she wouldn’t speak much during a run, but the hounds were well ahead. She wasn’t going to cause any hound heads to come up and she wasn’t going to turn a fox, either. “If you can hear me, listen for hoofbeats. We’ve got to move out. If you can’t hear the hoofbeats, ride to cry.”

“All right,” Walter called back.

Bobby, bringing up the rear, had visions of picking up people like scattered croquet balls. But he was a foxhunter, and foxhunters stay with hounds.

Sister trotted along, spied a rock outcropping, its red streak glistening like blood in the moisture-laden air. Curious. A narrow path forked off from the left of this rock, which would bring her near the coop much more quickly than if she stayed on the wider path. She decided to chance it.

She squeezed her legs, Aztec extending his trot; he had a lovely floating trot, easy on an old back. The club hadn’t brushed back this trail, one of those jobs waiting to be knocked out before Opening Hunt. She crouched low, her face alongside Aztec’s muscled neck.

“Take care of me, honey.”

“Piece of cake,” he snorted.

Ralph, Xavier, Walter, and Ronnie cut left by the rock, hoofbeats fading away in front of them. Wordlessly they moved out. Behind them came Ken, Jennifer, and Sari, excited at hounds in full cry and the wildness of the morning.

Bobby kept pushing up stragglers.

Enough people had slid by Crawford when they had the chance that he and Marty rode in the middle of the group, which he didn’t like. He so wanted to be in the master’s pocket on this day, but he couldn’t hang in there. He wasn’t quite enough of a rider. Czapaka, a big warmblood and not as nimble as some of the other smaller horses, bulled through the narrow path; a low-hanging pine bough smacked Crawford in the face, disturbing a squirrel up above.

“Watch it,” the squirrel chattered.

“You’re nothing but a rat with more fur,” Czapaka called over his shoulder, which caused the squirrel to throw pinecones on following riders and scream at the top of his lungs. Squirrels aren’t known for their emotional self-control.

Sister emerged from the overgrown path knowing the three-board fence should be twenty yards in front of her; Jimmy kept all the fence lines clear. This fence line was the dividing line between After All Farm and Roughneck Farm, with Broad Creek cutting through both properties as it flowed in a southerly direction. The old boundary had been set with squared-off stones back in 1791, when the original land grant was subdivided. The stones stood to this day.

Sister slowed. She didn’t want to run into the fence, plus she knew Aztec, bursting with talent, would just lift off and clear the fence. She thought it unwise to ask some of the riders behind her to follow suit. The coop, once she found it, would be more prudent.

Off in the distance she heard Diana’s voice, and Cora’s bel canto. “Fly! Fly! Fly!” The other hounds in chorus, “Yes.”

“Where is that damned coop?” she whispered, eager to be with her hounds.

A blackened shape interrupted the fence line.

“That’s it.” Aztec curved to the right, then swung to the left with long, fluid strides to hit the spot perfectly in front of the coop, the rain-soaked earth squishing underneath his hooves. He gave an extra surge of power because of the footing, clearing the coop with a foot to spare, which made Sister laugh as she hadn’t expected Aztec to jump so big. He was still young, inclined to overjump.

“Good boy.” She patted his neck.

Behind her she heard Tedi land, then Edward, both superbly mounted, as always. She headed left again, following the face of the corn.

Shaker was in the cornfield, behind his hounds. Betty sat now on the farm road, waiting for the hounds to emerge like small ghosts from between the straight-planted rows.

She heard Shaker’s high-pitched “Whoop.” If he was going to turn or call them back, she’d hear the horn, the three or four long, piercing notes of equal length.

Betty hoped Sybil was on the far side of the cornfield. She couldn’t see a thing, contenting herself with the knowledge that no one else could, either.

The bulk of the pack now ran thirty paces behind Dragon. Delia, bringing up the rear, was fifty paces behind.

Charlie scampered over the zigzag fence, ran between Outlaw’s legs for effect.

“Gotcha!” he shouted over his shoulder.

Both Betty and Outlaw, hearts in their mouths, had to settle themselves for a second, then Betty laughed. The gall of that fox.

“Outlaw,” she whispered. “Steady yourself. The whole pack is going to run right through us.”

He twitched his ears forward and back. “Okay.” Within two minutes they did just that, then Betty jumped over the fence on the opposite side of the farm road and was swallowed by the fog. She was heading for the orchard. Had she been able to see she would have spurred on Outlaw the minute Charlie ran between her legs, but she couldn’t. She thought the wiser course was to let the hounds blow through her; she wouldn’t hurt anyone that way and she could ride hard through the orchard, a kind of shortcut.

Sister, face wet from corn leaves, heard the flap, flap, flap behind her as other riders were getting it full in the face. There was no ducking the corn, the silken red tassels loaded with the moisture.

She felt clammy. The dew point was soggy to the max. Then Sister felt the first drops of a drizzle. She blasted out of the corn row, lifted over the zigzag fence, hooves sunk into the farm road, the red clay now viscous. She hooked left.

Shaker, ahead, blew them on.

Before she knew it, she’d jumped over the zigzag fence on the opposite side of the road and headed straight into the apple orchard. The scent of the apples, almost ready to be picked, filled the air.

The voices of the hounds suddenly stopped.

Trident whispered, “What happened?”

Diana said, “We’ve lost the scent.”

Dragon, furious, growled, “I was right behind him! He’s got to be here!”

Shaker rode up to his hounds. “Try on. Eee-lou.”

Dutifully, all hounds put their noses to the ground, but nothing. A youngster wanted to run heel, but Cora put her right.

“But it’s good here,” Rassle whined.

“I know, but you’re heading backwards. Must stay forward.” Diana confirmed Cora’s correction.

The field finally caught up. Betty stayed on the other side of the apple orchard since Shaker didn’t blow her in.

Sybil was at the foot of Hangman’s Ridge; having gotten herself turned around, she finally found her way out by following first the creek bed, then emerging into the north side of the cornfield. She followed a row in the fog and drizzle to the farm road at the base of the ridge.

Sister rode up to Shaker. “You know, we’d better call it a day.”

“Damn, how could he give us the slip like that!”

“I don’t know. He’s got some kind of mojo, but the fog isn’t lifting. If anything, Shaker, it’s thickening and my built-in weather station”—she tapped her collarbone broken in the seventies—“tells me this drizzle will be a downpour soon enough.”

“Okay.” He put his horn to his lips, blowing in his whippers-in.

“Thank God,” Betty thought to herself as she picked her way through the fog back down into the apple orchard.

Betty couldn’t understand how Charlie could turn his scent off. If he’d ducked into a den, they’d know. But he’d vanished. Not a trace.

Sister turned to face the field, huddled together, exhilarated that they’d survived the fog hunt, as it would come to be known. “Folks, well done. This wasn’t an easy task, but it was an exciting one.” She turned to Edward. “Do you mind leading people home? Since I’m here I thought Aztec and I would road hounds back to the kennels. We’ll come back to pick up the hound wagon.”

“I’d be happy to take everyone back.” Edward touched the brim of his cap with his crop.

“Shaker, ready?”

“You read my mind.”

“Sybil,” Sister addressed a bedraggled Sybil, who had just joined them, “Shaker, Betty, and I will put hounds up. You ride back with the others.”

“Thank you.”

After each field member said, “Good night, Master,” and rode off, Sister turned to her hounds.

Edward took the riders back over the zigzag fences and followed the edge of the corn row. Tedi rode up front with him. Folks tried to stay within sight of one another.

The fog, pewter gray now, swirled droplets of moisture. People waited to jump the last coop into After All Farm, although you could barely see it until one stride in front of it.

Ralph Assumptio, boot to boot with Xavier, passed his old friend his flask.

“You know what? Let’s walk the fence line and find the gate. This is stupid. We have the whole rest of the hunt season in front of us, and I, for one, don’t want to buy real estate during cubbing.”

Xavier savored the marvelous port in Ralph’s flask. “You got that right, buddy.”

“I agree,” Ken called from in front of them, although they couldn’t see him.

“Me too,” Sybil chimed in.

The sound played tricks on them in the fog.

“Ron, you still with us?” Xavier asked.

“To your right.” Ron gently squeezed his horse, who walked forward, the two of them appearing spectral in the swirling mists.

Xavier handed Ron his flask.

“What do you have in yours?” Ralph asked Xavier.

“Schnapps.”

Ralph wrinkled his nose. “You carry that stuff so the rest of us won’t drink it.”

“I like it.”

Ken’s voice floated toward them. “Xavier, admit it.”

“Admit what? I like schnapps. I like sweet stuff. My waistline ought to prove that. Sybil, where the hell are you? Not with your husband, I hope. The entire point of foxhunting is to depart from one’s spouse.” He knocked back some of his schnapps. “Within limits, of course.”

“I’m on your left,” she called out.

Ken laughed. “Xavier, don’t give my wife ideas.”

They heard a rub up ahead at the jump. Someone’s horse’s hind hooves literally rubbed on the jump.

“If I recall, the hand gate is maybe two hundred yards down the line, wrong direction from the house, but we can follow the fence line back once we’re through the gate.”

Rolling his shoulders, Ralph replied, “Well, let’s do it. It’s too damned raw out here.”

Ken’s voice again reached them. “I’ll go first. Why don’t we fall in line and try to keep the horse in front of you in view.”

Ron moved toward the fence, or what he thought was the fence. “I don’t hear anyone up ahead.”

“Must all be over.” Xavier picked up his reins.

“Or unconscious from missing that jump.” Ron laughed.

“We’d have heard the screams,” Ken called out, his voice moving farther and farther away.

“Sybil, where are you?” Ron asked.

“I’m the rear guard.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Ralph raised his voice so she could hear, but the fog carried sounds strangely; little sounds were magnified.

“I’m here,” she called back reassuringly.

They walked along, silent for a few moments. The squish, squish of their horses’ hooves accentuated the increasingly dismal day.

A soft whisper in his ear made Ralph sit up straight in his saddle. It sounded like “I’m going to kill you.”

“What’d you say?” Xavier, too, heard the whisper.

“Nothing,” Sybil replied, soaked and cold.

Ralph, the fence line to his right, now heard, “I know it was you.” He couldn’t quite recognize the voice. A knife edge of fear ripped at his stomach.

Ron turned in his saddle. “Where the hell is the gate?”

Xavier grumbled, “I don’t know.”

Ken called, “Keep up.”

“We’re behind you,” Ron called back. “Just moving slower.”

“Gate, please.” Ken uttered the traditional foxhunting command that directed the last person to close the gate.

Ralph thought he was between Ron and Xavier, but he could no longer see them.

Ron reached the opened gate, passing through. “Sybil, gate please,” he bellowed.

“Okay,” she responded, her voice fading away.

The voice whispered in Ralph’s ear again. “Time to join Hotspur.”

Ralph pressed with his right leg, and his horse swerved left. He didn’t pass through the gate, but instead he tore off through the cornfield.

Ron heard him take off. “What the shit is going on?”

Xavier clucked to his horse and caught up to Ron. “What’s going on?”

“That’s just what I said.” Ron frowned. “Ralph!” No response. “Sybil.”

“Here I am.” She appeared out of the silver.

“What’s going on?” Ron again asked.

“I don’t know.” Sybil shrugged.

“Well, Ralph’s not here.” Ron yelled, “Ken!”

“Yo,” Ken called back, from an indeterminate distance.

Xavier leaned forward. “Look, we’re going to get lost out here. Let’s trot. The sooner we get back the better.”

“Yeah, but where’s Ralph?” Ron, truly worried now, pointed his crop at Xavier.

“I don’t know.” Xavier knocked his crop away with his own crop. “What are you so worried about? For all we know, he’s ahead of us. Maybe he’s ahead of Ken.”

“We can’t leave him.”

“You two go back. I know this country. I’ll look for him,” Sybil calmly replied.

“Sybil, we can’t leave a lady out here. I’m telling you, there’s a storm coming up,” Ron said sternly.

“Don’t think of me as a lady. Think of me as a whipper-in and there’s a lost hound. I’d be out then. Just tell Ken when you see him that I’ll be late getting in and not to worry. If the weather turns nasty I’ll put my horse up at Sister’s.” She disappeared into the fog.

“Sybil! Sybil!” Ron shouted.

Then they both heard a light rap on the coop.

“She’s going the wrong way,” Xavier exhaled, thoroughly tired of the whole thing. “Come on, Ron.”

“Something is really wrong. I don’t think we should leave them.”

“Leave Ralph? We don’t know where he is, and Sybil’s right, she does know the territory even if she is heading in the wrong direction,” Xavier said.

Ron’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know it was Sybil who just took that jump?”

“Look, old buddy, I’ll grant you that things have been really crazy. But maybe Ralph got sick of crawling through the mist. Maybe he spurred on and he’s halfway back to the trailers by now.”

“He turned in the opposite direction. I heard him hit the corn.”

“What do you mean?”

Ron shook his helmet as a raindrop hit the velvet top. “I heard the stalks, the leaves, you know, the long leaves. I heard them hitting him.”

Xavier sat silent, then spoke. “Hear anything else?”

“Just that rub on the fence when Sybil jumped in. She should have headed back toward Sister’s.”

“We have to go in. We do. We can’t do anything to help. It’s going to rain. It’s already raining.” Xavier peered up into the deepening gray as the drizzle slicked his face. “If they aren’t there, then we can worry. Come on.”

With reluctance, Ron passed through the gate, waited for Xavier to walk through, then he leaned over from atop his kind, patient horse and closed the gate, dropping the metal kiwi latch, shaped like a comma, through the steel circle.

Ralph galloped through the corn. His face wet, broad flat corn leaves were hitting him. He thought he heard hoofbeats behind him. He reached the farm road as the first raindrop splattered. If he had been in better command of himself he would have prudently turned left, jumped into the orchard, and ridden to Sister’s barn, perhaps a fifteen-minute trot. But panic had overtaken him, and he turned his horse right, pushing toward Hangman’s Ridge.

Inky heard him pass as she snuggled in her den. Five minutes later she heard a second set of hoofbeats, only this horse wasn’t running. This horse moved at a deliberate trot. As the weather was filthy, her curiosity was dimmed. She wasn’t going out to see what was going on.

Ralph, breathing heavily, eyes wide, transmitted his terror to his horse as he urged the animal up to the right. They reached the flat plateau of Hangman’s Ridge.

“Oh shit.” Ralph shook his head. He hadn’t wanted to come up here, but his mind was fuzzy. Hands shaking, he reached down for his flask, flipped open the leather case, now slippery, and pulled out the heavy, handblown flask. He unscrewed the top and emptied the entire contents. The fire wiggled down his throat, into his belly. He took a deep breath.

Clutching the flask, he moved toward the giant oak, ignoring the warning snorts of his horse, a far better judge of danger than Ralph.

“Trooper, get a grip,” commanded Ralph, whose spirits were now stronger thanks to those he had imbibed.

The enormous glistening tree loomed out of the fog. A shrieking sound so unnerved Trooper that he shied, all four feet off the ground. Ralph hit with a thud, his flask rolling across the wet grass.

Trooper turned and fled back toward the farm road. The horse smelled another horse moving up through the narrow deer paths on the side of the ridge. He didn’t bother to whinny. He lowered his head and ran as if his life depended on it, the stirrup irons banging at his sides.

Ralph, cursing, picked himself up. Only then did he see, or think he saw, the hanging corpse of Lawrence Pollard, the fine lace of his sleeves drooping in the wet.

“And being found in fashion as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross,” Lawrence quoted Philippians, chapter two, verse eight. Then he moaned, “Obedient unto death, even death on a hanging tree.” The wind that always blew on the ridge carried his voice away.

Ralph, sweat running down his face, his hands wet with sweat, backed away from the tree. He turned to follow his horse in flight. Running, slipping, sliding, falling, picking himself up—only to run smack into another horror.

“Oh God,” Ralph sobbed.

“You’ll see Him before I do.”

Down in the kennels, Sister and Shaker were removing collars from hounds who had hunted. The boys were then released to go to their side of the kennel, the girls to the other side. This allowed the master and huntsman to inspect each hound, making sure no one’s pads had been cut, no ears sliced by deadly Virginia thorns.

A crack brought hound and human heads up.

“What was that?”

“No one’s sighting a rifle today,” Shaker said, hands fallen to his sides. He looked toward the north.

“Sound plays tricks in this weather. Could have been a backfire on Soldier Road,” Sister said halfheartedly.

“Small caliber,” Asa told them.

“Handgun,” Diana added, her ears lifted, her nose in the air. Although there was nothing to smell inside the draw pen, she still trusted her nose above all other senses.

“All right, boys.” Shaker led the boys to their door.

“Come on, girls.” Sister did the same for the gyps.

Once the hounds were in their proper kennels, both humans, without speaking to each other, walked out the front door of the main kennel to listen.

Far away they heard hoofbeats, trotting. As the sound came closer, they walked through the intensifying rain to the stable.

The girls inside had finished cleaning the tack.

“Can’t see a bloody thing.” Shaker felt uneasy.

“We came in in the nick of time.” As Sister reached for a towel hanging on a tack hook, Sybil materialized out of the fog, leading Trooper.

“Sybil?”

“Sister, I found him wandering through the orchard. Guess he jumped the fence by himself.”

A shaking Trooper stared wild-eyed at the people. The other horses, munching hay in their stalls, stopped.

“Girls, gently, gently, put him in the end stall, take his tack off, and wipe him down.”

As Trooper passed the others, he rolled his eyes. “I saw the ghost. Ralph wouldn’t listen,” he kept babbling.

Keepsake, hoping to calm him, said, “There are a couple up there.”

Sybil dismounted as Jennifer took her reins. “Somehow Ralph became separated from the group, so I went out to look for him. Can’t find anything in this.”

Sister, worried, said, “He could be walking back here or to your farm. No telling.”

“Or he could be hurt.” Shaker said what she was thinking.

“Girls, take care of Sybil’s horse, too, please.”

“Yes, ma’am. Then can we help you look?” Sari asked.

She waited a moment, her mind racing. “Yes. Take care of Trooper and Marquise first.” Then, voice lower, as if speaking to herself, she murmured, “Trooper is a sensible horse.”

Shaker, his shirt soggy against his skin, touched Sybil’s elbow. “When did you last see Ralph?”

“At the gate between the cornfield and our line. The hand gate. Of course, couldn’t see anything, but that’s where I heard him last. Ken, Xavier, Ron, Ralph, and I decided to go through the gate to get back home. You couldn’t even see the coop anymore until you were right up on it. No sense getting hurt. But we got strung out.”

“The first thing to do is call your mother. It could be that everyone is back safe and sound.”

Sister hurried into the tack room, knowing in her bones that all was most emphatically not safe and sound.