Hotspur

CHAPTER 34

Tuesday and Thursday’s hunts, sparsely attended, did little to lift Sister’s spirits. Although hounds worked well together, two young ones rioted on deer. Betty pushed the two back, but the miniriot upset Sister even though she knew the youngsters might stray on a deer during cubbing. Diana was settling in as anchor hound with Asa’s help, and that made up for the miniriot.

Saturday’s hunt, on September twenty-eighth, started at seven-thirty in the morning from Mill Ruins, Peter Wheeler’s old place. Walter lived there under a long lease arrangement of the sort usually seen in England. In essence, he owned the property even though Peter had willed it to the hunt club.

During the year he’d lived there, Walter had already made significant improvements. He’d fertilized all the pastures and replaced the collapsed fences with white three-board fencing. White paint, now lead-free, lasted two years if you were lucky. Walter said he didn’t care, he’d paint the damn boards every two years. He loved white fences. Most folks switched to black, since that paint lasted five to seven years depending on the brand. Board fencing itself lasted fifteen years, give or take.

The horrendous expense of stone fencing was actually practical if you considered its life span. A stone fence might need a tap or two of repair over sixty or seventy years, but if properly built by a master stonesmason, stone fences ought to last for centuries.

One of Walter’s secret dreams was, some fine day, to have the drive to the house lined with two-and-a-half-foot stone fences.

Today, Walter was living another of his dreams. This was the first hunt from Mill Ruins since Peter had lived there. It turned into a crackerjack.

Shaker cast down by the old mill, which was redolent of scent. So many generations of foxes had lived near or under the mill, great blocks of natural stone, wheel still intact, that the address among foxes had a certain cachet, say like Dumbarton Oaks in Washington, D.C., or East Sixty-eighth Street in New York.

Considered too tony for grays, the place was inhabited by reds.

Naturally, the hounds found scent at the mill, but they didn’t get far with it since that particular fox had no desire for aerobic exercise.

The day, crystal clear, temperature in the middle fifties and climbing, wasn’t the best day for scent. No frost had been on the ground, and the rains of last week were soaking in, although a deep puddle glistened here or there. The high-pressure system that produced those electric blue skies also sucked away moisture, hence scent.

Had Shaker been a lesser huntsman he might have returned to the mill to find another line. Shaker and Sister thought once you drew a cover, move on, don’t dawdle. Occasionally they could blow over a fox clever enough to lie low as hounds moved through perhaps a trifle too quickly. But more often than not, moving along, especially if your pack had good noses, flushed more foxes than inching through every twig, holly bush, and scrap of moss.

He sat on Gunpowder and thought for a moment as hounds moved along the millrace and back to the strong running stream that fed it.

Gunpowder, wise in the ways of the sport, snorted, “Draw an S. Move up higher and snake down. If you catch him high, he’ll probably come back low. If you catch him low, unless he belongs on the other side of this fixture, I bet you he stays low.”

An English huntsman from the Shires will often draw a triangle just like Tom Firr, the great huntsman who perfected this maneuver back in the nineteenth century. And such a cast or draw worked beautifully if your country was neatly divided into squares and rectangles.

America, having been cultivated according to European methods only since the early seventeenth century, wasn’t that neat, that geometric. Plus, the sheer boastful size of the country forced American foxhunters to devise their own methods for seducing foxes out to play.

Whole European nations could fit into one midsized state like Missouri. American foxes took full advantage of their land’s scale as well as the rich woodlands blanketing the East Coast.

Virginia, enriched by the alluvial deposits of the Potomac, the Rappahannock, and the James, as well as their many feeders and tributaries, offered wondrous means of escape. A fox could dash over Davis loam, a kind of rich, sandy soil, scramble up on hard rock, a real scent killer, plunge into a forest carpeted with pine needles and pinecones, more scent killer, and then clop down a baked red clay farm road.

Huntsmen and hounds needed to be quick, to be problem solvers, and to respect those venerable English texts while finding their own way. The American way, like Americans themselves, was a little wilder.

Shaker was going to need that wildness.

Sister patiently waited forty yards behind him. Keepsake, very proud to be used instead of Lafayette, Sister’s usual choice for Saturday, pranced. He desperately wanted to show how perfectly he jumped.

Sister liked a horse that knew how to use his or her body. Good conformation, good early training usually gave a horse confidence. A horse in this way is no different from a professional golfer. The golfer perfects the various strokes; the horse perfects the various gaits and also learns to jump with a human on his back. Any horse can jump without a human up there, but the two-legged riders shift their weight, fall up on one’s ears, flop back behind the saddle, slip to the side, jerk the reins, and, worst of all, they yelp and blame the horse.

The horse needs more patience than the human.

Horses liked Sister. She rode lightly. She might make mistakes, but she always apologized. Mostly she stayed out of the horse’s way, for which it was grateful.

And proud as Keepsake was of his form over fences, Sister mostly liked that he didn’t hang a jump. He gathered himself back on his haunches and sailed over, forelegs tucked up under his chin, neat as a pin.

As they hadn’t yet jumped even a cigarette pack, Keepsake fretted.

The field behind her kept quiet. The Hilltoppers also remained silent. Bobby Franklin, that most genial man, ran a tight group. His Hilltoppers didn’t jump fences, but they kept right up behind first flight, led by Sister. It would never do to let these two fields become strung out. No coffeehousing. No skylarking. No using the horse in front of you as a bumper. Bobby moved out, kept it fun, and the Hilltoppers often ran harder than the field because they needed to find ways around the jumps.

Immediately behind Sister rode Ken, Xavier, Tedi, Ron, Edward, and Walter. Thirty-two others filled out the first flight, with Jennifer and Sari riding tail. Being juniors, they pulled hard tasks, and riding tail was one of them. It was also a fabulous way to learn what to do and what not to do in the hunt field. Whoever rode tail usually picked up the pieces—loose horses, dismounted humans. In most hunts those in the rear were grooms, juniors, and riders on green horses. Often the riders on green horses were the first ones picked up.

Sister, unlike many masters, liked juniors up front, but they had to earn their stripes first. You earned them in the back.

Bobby used his juniors to go forward and open the gates. He figured he’d lose between three and five minutes on every gate, and this time had to be made up, otherwise he’d lose sight of Sister and the hounds. Not good.

There they all sat quiet as mice.

The noise came from St. Just, cawing overhead. “I know where there’s a fox with an infected paw. You could kill him.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Dasher warned the young entry. “He’ll lead you to a fox, but he’ll lead you to Hell, too.”

The hounds heard a long, rising blast followed by two short toots.

Trident, still trying to memorize the calls, whispered to his sister, Trudy, “What’s that one?”

“Uh, he’s not calling us back, he’s kind of telling us to go right.” Trudy watched as Asa walked toward the right and crossed the stream.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever remember all the notes,” Trident worried.

“You will,” Delia reassured him. “Watch Asa and Diana. Don’t worry about the strike hounds just yet. You keep your eye on the steady hounds.”

“Why is he moving us out of the streambed? Isn’t scent better down here?” Trinity asked, the white Y on his head distinctive.

“Because the wind has shifted. He’s pushing us into the wind,” Delia answered.

“Why don’t we just go right down here by the water?” Tinsel asked, a good question.

“The trees, the underbrush are cutting the wind. But up there”—Delia cocked her head toward higher ground— “it’s a little stiffer. And if we pick it up there, we’ll follow it wherever it goes, and if we can’t get anything heading into the wind we can always come back here where it will be cooler longer. Trust Shaker.”

“Do the other humans know this stuff?” Trident asked.

Delia laughed. “No, dear, they’re just trying to stay on their horses.”

“Do the whippers-in know?” Trudy crossed the stream, the clear water chilly.

“Some understand. Others just ride hard,” Delia said.

Asa, now with them, spoke, his voice deep. “It’s an article of faith that every whipper-in believes he or she can hunt hounds—until they have the horn to their lips.”

“Why?” Trinity gracefully leapt an old log.

“Kind of like the difference between a strike hound and an anchor hound. The anchor hound has to know where everyone is and what the fox and humans might do. Remember, they’re always behind us. The strike hound pushes out to get the line. That’s all that hound has to do, have a great nose and great drive. Doesn’t have to have a brain in its head, which I am here to tell you Dragon does not. So don’t imitate that ass.”

The young ones giggled.

Delia added, “But Cora is smart. She’s got brains and athletic ability. What a nose that girl has.”

Just then Cora found. “Got one!”

Dragon skidded up to her. “Yo yo yo. It’s good.”

“God, I just hate him,” Asa grumbled as the youngsters flew up ahead, all excited.

Delia laughed as she ran with Asa.

Diana, nose down, figured the scent was about an hour old but holding. They’d better make the most of it. She didn’t know who it was. Often she did.

They clambered up the banks, leaving the stream behind, and came into a huge hayfield, sixty acres of cut hay rolled up in huge round bales. This was galloping country.

Sister popped over the tiger trap jump that Walter had built in the fence line. The logs, upright, created a coop, but it looked formidable. In this case it was because Walter was overzealous when he built it. The trap was three feet six inches but looked like four feet. A few people decided to join the Hilltoppers then and there. The rest squeezed hard, grabbed mane, and over they soared.

St. Just swooped overhead one more time, screaming about the fox with the sore paw, but no one was listening. Furious, he pooped on a brand-new velvet cap, then flew away.

Keepsake stretched out, head low, covering ground effortlessly. How he loved open fields, as did Sister. They moved so fast, she had tears in her eyes.

One of Ronnie Haslip’s contact lenses blew out. He cursed but kept right up. He’d jump with that eye closed.

Betty, wisely using the territory, cleared a jump, three large logs lashed together with heavy rope, at the end of the big field. She listened intently. Shaker had blown “Gone Away” when the hounds all broke out of the covert on the line.

Now and then Shaker shouted encouragement. Why ruin the beautiful music of the hounds by blowing all the time?

The riders thundered across the field, took the three-log jump into another pasture, smaller, maybe twentyfive acres.

Hounds ran right out of it, crawling under the fence on the far side or just taking the triple-wide coop in the fence line. The jump, about three feet tall, was a glorious twenty-four feet long.

Shaker and Gunpowder glided over, as did Sister and Keepsake. Behind her, Sister could hear the sound of hooves hitting the earth, the slight jingle of curb chains on bits, the occasional sharp exhalation of breath. She never looked back. Her job was to stay behind the huntsman.

Ron and Xavier took the wide jump in tandem. Neither could resist a little warble of victory. A few people cheered behind them.

The fox, Prescott, one of Target and Charlene’s new litter, hit top speed and hooked sharply left in the woods on the other side of the triple-wide jump.

He dashed over moss, rocks, then ducked into a den carefully placed under the roots of a massive walnut. Earth thrown out everywhere announced his abode.

Hounds marked him.

The T youngsters pushed right up front and Trident even dug in the den.

Shaker dismounted, blowing the triumphant notes of victory as the field rode up.

Within five minutes, after much praise, he was back up on Gunpowder.

“Thought I’d go back to the big meadow, hit the south side where Walter planted corn.”

“Good enough,” Sister answered, smiling.

They jumped back over the three logs, trotted over the smaller pasture, jumped the triple-wide coop. Others thought this a good opportunity to try jumping in tandem or even in threes, like a hunt team.

Since hounds weren’t casting, Sister had pulled up to the side to watch the fun. As masters go, she was strict but not a killjoy. The attempts of the makeshift teams to hit the jump stride for stride was fun to watch. Ron and Xavier got their timing just right.

Ken, Tedi, and Edward almost managed it, and they received big smiles for their efforts.

Sister could hear the light chatter behind her. She knew they’d stop once hounds were cast.

“Remember when Nola and Guy took that jump holding hands?” Ron recalled, laughing.

“I think that was one of the few times I was really jealous,” Ken said. “Sybil and I tried but couldn’t do it.”

Xavier handed his flask around. “Funny. You know what made me jealous? That Guy’s nickname was Hotspur. Ralph and I hated that name. Ever notice how people have to live up or down to their names? Hotspur, impetuous valor. Went right to his head.”

“Who first called him that?” Ken tried to remember.

“I think Nola started it.” Ron licked his lips. Xavier put good stuff in his flask.

“She always had nicknames for everyone,” Xavier said.

“Mustache. That was mine. Shaved it off once we knew she wasn’t coming home.”

A beat followed this.

“Mine was Zorro,” Ron said with a slightly embarrassed grin.

“The Gay Blade?” Ken couldn’t resist.

“I could die laughing.” Ron, sarcastic, handed Xavier back his flask. “No. Because I got into a fistfight at the Phi Delt house and got two black eyes. She said it looked like I wore a mask. Zorro was okay by me.”

“She called Sister ‘Artemis,’ ” Ken remembered.

“And she called you Di Maggio,” Xavier reminded him.

“Oh, she did not.” Ken’s face reddened.

“Big stick.” Ron laughed.

“Like she would know.” Ken really was embarrassed.

“Oh, those tight breeches.” Ron rolled his eyes. “And I’ve only got one contact in, but Ken, the bulge is noticeable.”

“See, I was right, Zorro, the Gay Blade.” Ken laughed.

“Let’s see, she called Sybil ‘Puffin’ when they were little, but I don’t remember any nickname when they were older,” Xavier recalled.

“Big Sis,” Ken replied. “Not original, but it fit. You know, I’ve only glimpsed her once today. Hope she remembers the territory.”

“Sybil? You kidding?” Ron adored Sybil.

“What do you know, Cyclops?” Ken teased him.

“Hey, I can jump better with one eye closed than you can with two open.” Ron winked as he said it.

“Well, you’d better start squinting, buddy, because Sister just took off.” Ken clapped his leg on his horse and shot off after her.

“Damn, that’s what we get for talking!” Ron knew he should have paid more attention to what was going on.

Hounds, now in the cornfield, pushed another fox. This run was brief but invigorating. Hounds, master, and huntsman were well pleased.

They gathered themselves up, riding back to the mill ruins and their trailers.

Sister chatted with Bobby as they walked back. He rode up to her and the Hilltoppers mingled in with the field, always a treat.

“Bobby, as I recall, your childhood nickname was Bruiser. Did it scar you for life?”

He laughed. “No. What made you think of that?”

“Nicknames. I overheard the Three Musketeers back there talking about nicknames. Ron said he thought Guy had to live up to the name Hotspur after Nola gave it to him. Do you really think it was inspired by Shakespeare?”

“I don’t know.”

“He was impulsive.”

“Quick with his fists.”

“Wonder if we’re missing something?”

“Like premature ejaculation?”

“Bobby, that thought never crossed my mind!”

What did cross her mind was Shakespeare’s Hotspur saying, “Why, what a candy deal of courtesy this fawning greyhound then did proffer me!” She felt the killer was handing her and everyone else a candy deal of courtesy.