Hotspur

CHAPTER 37

For the remainder of the day, Sister felt as though she had a red-hot marble rolling around in her brain. The mental discomfort was excruciating.

When troubled, the stable provided solace.

She brushed down Rickyroo, Lafayette, Keepsake, and Aztec and then turned them out. The horses calmed her, helped her organize her thoughts.

She cleaned out the brushes, hung up the wipe-down towels, inhaled the bracing mix of liniment, hay, and eau de cheval.

Golliwog nestled on a cooler, gray and gold, folded on the huge tack trunk that originally belonged to Raymond’s grandfather, John “Hap” Arnold. Raleigh and Rooster flopped on their sides in a stall and snored, each exhale sending tiny motes of hay dust upward. The large wall clock above the tack room door read three-thirty.

Sister firmly believed the more horses were allowed to be horses the better they behaved. The animal is meant to graze and walk, graze and walk. Being cooped up in a stall, fed all manner of hopped-up grains, makes for a lunatic. She brought them in each morning, and fed them sweet feed in their individual stalls, because each of her boys needed time alone. She also added crimped oats and as much high-quality hay as they would eat. Then she’d go to the kennels to help Shaker feed and clean. By the time she returned, usually after about two hours, each horse had cleaned his plate. Then she turned them back out.

People complimented her on the condition of her horses, their glistening coats, their good hooves. Their eyes were bright, their attitudes cheery.

She replied that her methods were common sense. Avoid fads. Listen to the feed salesmen respectfully, but remember they’re there to sell you a lot of stuff you don’t need. Take excellent care of your pastures and your pastures will take excellent care of your horses. Keep your horses on a routine. Animals, including humans, like a routine, and this includes regular exercise. Be sure you work with the best equine dentist, vet, and blacksmith in the area. While you’re at it, take yourself to the best dentist and doctor, too. You may skip the blacksmith.

Newcomers often asked questions, and Sister was glad when they did. Better to ask than to be taken to the cleaners by the guy who wants to put automatic waterers in your barn or the dealer who wants to sell you a fortune in vitamin supplements. Not that automatic waterers might not be useful for some people and vitamins useful for others, but if you didn’t know horses, thousands of dollars would fly out the window.

One thing never changed. Over the forty years of her mastership she had watched new person after new person buy exactly the wrong horse. The only way to become a foxhunter is to buy a made horse, a seasoned veteran who can teach the human. He’s better than an insurance policy. He is your insurance policy. But in all her years, she had only known a handful of people to exhibit such sense. Walter was one. His gelding, Clemson, lacked in the looks department, was a little clunky, even big-headed. He had age on him, but that horse knew his job. He was giving Walter tremendous confidence. Walter could hunt and listen for hounds instead of riding in terror.

The Clemsons of the world should be gold-plated. In their own way they are as much treasures as a Secretariat.

She watched Aztec, Lafayette, Rickyroo, and Keepsake play with one another in their pasture and thought of the people she had come to know through foxhunting. Any hunt club reflects the history of its region. She thought of the older people, her idols from her childhood, her own peers, and now the young ones coming up behind her. She had learned a lot from all those people; she was still learning.

Leaning over the fence, she sniffed the first tang of the odor of turning leaves. The fiery marble in her brain had stopped rolling. She had a plan.

She found Shaker walking puppies, a task requiring strong shoulders since they pulled and leapt about. He smiled as she fell in with him and took a leash from his hands.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“Shaker, I have an idea. It’s unorthodox, but I think I can bolt our killer from his den, flush him right out. We’ve been running over him, you know.”

“Darby, boy, steady.” Shaker’s low voice quieted a yapping young fellow. “Well, he’s been in the covert, that we know.”

“It’s going to take some work on our part and a little luck.” She was nearly pulled off her feet by Doughboy.

“The luck part”—Shaker’s bushy eyebrows rose— “that’s interesting.”

Before she could spin out her idea, Ben Sidell drove onto the farm. He cut the motor, stepped outside the squad car, and walked over to them. “Afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Ben. What can we do for you?” Sister set her feet wide so Doughboy couldn’t yank her off balance again.

“Wanted you to know the gun that killed Ralph was a .38. Can’t trace it, so it has to be an old gun sold before registrations or one sold on the black market.”

“What about the used market?” Shaker knew you could buy a used side arm without going through the computer checks.

“Possible. Do you have people in your field who carry guns?”

“Yes. Both whippers-in carry a .22 filled with ratshot which, I am happy to say, they have not had occasion to use for years, and Bobby Franklin carries a .38 hidden in his jacket.”

“Why?”

“We don’t want to upset people,” Sister forthrightly replied.

“No, I don’t mean that.” Ben stifled a smile as he folded his arms across his chest. “I mean, why would he carry that caliber? Why not a .22?”

“Should a horse break its neck, or a hound, we want to end its suffering as soon as possible. And again I’m happy to say the last time we had to do so was in 1984.”

Shaker added, “And sometimes the deer hunters don’t finish the job. They don’t track their deer, or it gets away. We have to kill them.”

“Very upsetting.” Sister reached down to pat Doughboy, who sat quietly observing the sheriff. As he was only five months old, she was very proud of him.

“I see. Well, I would imagine that many of your members have old weapons.”

“Probably.” Sister’s voice rose upward.

“You have members, older members, many of whom might have guns that they bought back in the fifties or sixties.”

“I suppose. What would you like me to do?”

“Get them. I want to test them. I can go to each house and demand them, but I think the most efficient method is to have you ask for them.”

“I’d be glad to do that. Did you drive the whole way out here to ask me that?”

“Uh, yes.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “And”—he paused a moment—“it’s such a beautiful place here. I like visiting your farm. And I was wondering if you might advise me, which I will keep to myself because I realize the position you’re in, I was kind of wondering if you could suggest someone I could ride with—take lessons, that is.”

“Ah.” She smiled, as did Shaker. “Lynne Beegle. Actually, I should ask what kind of riding.”

“Foxhunting. The more I find out about this sport, the more it intrigues me. It’s complicated.”

“Oh, just keep the horse between your legs.” Shaker laughed.

“There is that.” Ben smiled.

“As I recall, Ben, you’re from Ohio, and there are some good hunt clubs there. Rocky Fork Headley, Chagrin Valley, Miami Valley, Camargo, Grand River, and Gully Ridge. And they’ve been there for a long time. I think Chagrin Valley was founded in 1908.”

“Camargo and Rocky Ford Headley were founded in 1925,” Shaker added.

“How do you remember all that?”

“You tend to remember what you like. I just thought you might have seen hunting in Ohio.”

“No. Not until I got here.”

“Well, it’s a way of life in Virginia.”

“A way of death, too,” Ben commented, a wry tone to his voice. “You don’t need to hunt the fox, you’re so busy hunting one another.”

Sister exhaled, which brought Doughboy’s ears up. He looked at her quizzically. “These truly are extraordinary circumstances.”

Shaker murmured his agreement with that statement.

After Ben drove away, the two walked the puppies back to the puppy palace, as they called it.

“Want to hear my plan?”

“Can’t wait.”