Hotspur

CHAPTER 40

Hounds’ voices pleased hounds and humans, but Golly thought them cacophonous. Her oh-so-sensitive ears could listen to Bach or to the sound of a can of cat food being opened but not to hounds. She avoided the kennels on hunt mornings. The hounds in the draw pen exuded a state of rare excitement. The ones left behind howled piteously.

Only after everyone settled down would she venture forth, pushing open her cat door, next to the much larger doggie door. She’d sit just outside looking left, right, up, and down with an air of studied superiority. Then, every move considered, she would daintily walk to her destination.

This morning, Saturday, October fifth, she sat outside despite the noise at the kennels. This was the day the Jefferson Hunt would hunt Foxglove Farm.

Walter, Melissa Lords, and Brandon Sullivan had arrived at the barn at six-thirty A.M. Each person so resembled the deceased that the effect was startling even without a mist. And Robert Van Winkle’s forecast had been on the money. A cold front nudged through, and thin fog hugged the creeks and swales. Walter, knowing the territory, led Melissa and Brandon to their places.

Raleigh and Rooster sat with Golly, watching the activity.

“Why don’t you jump in the back of the pickup?” Rooster suggested to Raleigh, who could jump much higher than he could.

“She’d see me and make me get out.” Raleigh sneezed as a whiff of goldenrod tickled his nose.

“Dirty pool. We get stuck here and hounds get to go— and on such an important morning,” Rooster grumbled.

Golly knew her human. “She’ll put you in the tack room if you don’t behave and you won’t go anywhere. You sit tight. Once they move off you’ll have to circle in the woods, but you can do it if you want to follow.”

Rooster looked at Raleigh, who lay down, putting his elegant head on his paws. “I don’t like one thing about this.”

Rooster grumbled, “I bet those good-for-nothing red foxes won’t run. On top of everything else, a blank day.” He closed his eyes on “blank.”

Golly replied, “You never know what a fox will do. But Sister needs you.”

“Thought you could take or leave humans,” Raleigh wryly said.

Golly puffed out her chest, showing off her long, silky fur. She was vain about her coat, but then she was vain about everything. “This is hardly the time to mock me, Raleigh. You know perfectly well that I love Sister. I just don’t see the reason to fawn and slobber over her as you do.” Her ears twitched forward. “There they go. Hurry!”

The meet was at eight. It was now seven. As the light changed and the temperature dropped, the first cast time would be pushed from seven-thirty to eight and then finally to nine in the morning, except for the High Holy Days. People needed more time on those days since everyone and their horses had to be perfectly turned out. Braiding manes and tails took a long time on a frosty morning. Fingers ached.

Not that the members of the Jefferson Hunt didn’t sparkle and shine even during cubbing, but braids were not called for, nor silk top hats. And even though it was probably a trick of the mind, brown boots always seemed to clean up faster than black ones.

As soon as the “party wagon” filled with hounds pulled out, followed by the horse trailer, Raleigh and Rooster took off for Foxglove Farm.

Sixty-three people gathered at Foxglove. As hounds were decanted from their trailer, the whippers-in, Betty and Jennifer, stood with them. Members and guests hurried to tighten girths, find hairnets, knock the dust off jackets.

By the time the hounds walked to Cindy Chandler’s graceful stable—with its whiskey barrels filled with mums and baskets of hanging flowers outside, her turquoise and black stable colors painted on each outside beam— everyone was mounted.

Some hunts insisted that staff wear scarlet even during cubbing. At other hunts, staff wore red shirts. And there were those hunts whose staff turned out in tweeds. The Jefferson Hunt staff wore informal kit. After Opening Hunt they would ride exclusively in scarlet even on informal, also called ratcatcher, days.

Although many people erroneously believe there is an absolute standard for hunt attire, in truth, the standard is set by each individual hunt. There was a hunt in Florida, before World War II, that rode in white. Considering the climate, a sensible choice.

As Sister trotted forward to greet the riders, the hounds looked up at her but dutifully stayed with Shaker.

Raleigh and Rooster, who had sped across the sunken meadows, lurked behind the hay barn. Both canines considered their early run just a romp. They were ready for more.

Sybil, curiously, wore an old jacket of Nola’s, a dark blue fabric with rust windowpane woven through it. When her mother commented on it, Sybil said she’d left her lightweight cubbing jacket at her house so she’d grabbed one of her sister’s. All extra coats, jackets, vests, and stock ties were kept in the stable closet at After All. Tedi wondered if Sybil had noticed a missing jacket and derby. Her darker question, of course, was just what did Sybil know?

Ken, too, commented on her attire. Both her mother’s and her husband’s questions irritated her. Half the field was too young to remember Nola’s clothing and the other half had seen her in her sister’s jackets before. She dismissed them and said everyone was too jittery. Ken soothed her by saying how happy he was to be riding in the field with his wife for a change.

“Good morning. Welcome, visitors. I see some friends from other hunts.” Sister smiled. “I’m thrilled to have the senior master of Deep Run with us today, Mary Robertson.”

Mary smiled. “Glad to be here.” She, too, had butterflies.

“I see some friends from Rockbridge Hunt and Glen-more Hunt, Keswick and Farmington. Welcome.” She turned to her hounds. “You children better find Mr. Fox and show everyone good sport.”

“No problem,” Dragon shot off his big mouth.

“God, I hate him!” Asa repeated his leitmotiv, voice low.

“I’d be remiss if I did not thank our hostess today. Cindy Chandler, thank you for allowing us to hunt Foxglove.”

Cindy, immaculately turned out, replied, “My pleasure. Don’t forget the breakfast afterward. There’s fried okra.”

Crawford involuntarily grimaced, which made Sister laugh. Most Northerners couldn’t abide this particular southern specialty.

Tendrils of mist curled through the lowlands. The long rays of the rising sun painted the buildings with scarlet and gold. The temperature was a cool forty-five degrees. It was beginning to feel like hunt season!

Traditionally, the master decides on the first cast. In many hunts, the master isn’t a true hound person and so agrees with whatever the huntsman suggests. Sister, loving her hounds beyond all measure, would sit down with Shaker the night before a hunt and plan the day’s hunt.

Plan your hunt; hunt your plan.

The advantage of this over the years was that each person developed an appreciation for the other’s mind. Sister might suggest going low on a windy day, and Shaker might remind her the muck on that particular bottom would be rough sledding. Try high first even with the wind. They’d bat ideas back and forth, they’d check the humidity, the wind, the temperature. They’d obsessively watch The Weather Channel, then sit down, grumbling that those people knew nothing about the weather hard by the mountains, which could change in the bat of an eye.

They’d devise their plan, rise early in the morning, open their window, or hurry out the front door to check the weather. Had there been a light frost? It would occur up here before it would in town. Did the wind change? What was the speed and direction? If Nature decided to change her clothes overnight, the two of them could alter their plan to suit. Both people were flexible and both were true hunters. They worked with Nature as their partner. People who slaved in air-conditioned offices, drove home in cars with air-conditioning or heated seats, had mostly forgotten that humans don’t control Nature. If she shifts, you shift with her.

Today’s plan was to cast eastward, over the rolling hayfields, past the huge old chestnut. If scent held on the pastures it ought to be a hell of a day. If not, they’d comb through the woods, good trails throughout, and surely hit a line.

They’d go east to the one-room schoolhouse at the edge of Cindy’s property. By then, people and horses would be relaxed. Walter would appear then disappear in the swale before the schoolhouse. Then they would turn northward, making a semicircle until reaching the waterwheel at the twin ponds, one above the other. Mist ought to be thickest there. Melissa and Brandon would be the wraiths of the ponds.

The cast they’d devised kept the wind glancing at them at about a ninety-degree angle up to the schoolhouse. Turning there, hounds would be heading full into the breeze.

“Think they’ll hit?” Raleigh deferred to Rooster, who as a harrier possessed more knowledge of hunting.

“Shouldn’t take long. This place is crawling with foxes.” Rooster lifted his head. “Crawling.”

Inky, sitting in the hayloft, the top door open to keep the hay fresh, looked down. “Didn’t crawl. I climbed.”

“Inky, what are you doing here?” Raleigh liked the small black vixen.

“Well, it’s not like I live that far away. Curiosity got the better of me.”

“Who will give them the first run?” Raleigh asked.

“Yancy. If he poops out, Grace is fishing down by the waterwheel ponds.”

The waterwheel ponds, built by Cindy for practicality and beauty, had a small waterwheel that kept the water moving between the two levels of the ponds. Grace, Charlie’s sister, would fish there for hours.

Cindy would watch through her binoculars. Grace’s Christmas present was a juicy salmon placed outside her den.

“Rooster, come on.” Raleigh loped toward the sound of the horn. “See you later, Inky.”

The two house dogs hurried past the stable, past the freshly painted outbuildings, down the fenced paddocks, and out into the larger pasture. They need not have hurried, for the hounds were drawing northward in a thin line of trees lining the creek, twenty yards at the widest point.

A heavy gray cloud cover began to creep over the Blue Ridge Mountains. This would help hold scent down— and the temperature.

Uncle Yancy heard them coming. He waited by the fence line at the chestnut tree pasture. He’d give them another five minutes, then he’d walk across the pasture, mark the chestnut tree, trot to the in and out jumps on the road, go over them, and then run all the way to the old schoolhouse. He’d dive into the den under the schoolhouse. That ought to get everyone’s blood up.

Back in the covert, Ruthie wrinkled her nose. “What’s this?” Tears filled her eyes.

Delia touched her nose to the spot. “Skunk. Don’t go there, dear. ”

Her brother took a whiff and his eyes watered, too.

“Mmm.” Cora inhaled the musky fox odor of Yancy.

Dasher ran past his brother, irritating him, put his nose down, then bellowed, “Dog fox! Yippee.”

“Just wants to show off for the Saturday crowd,” grumbled the king of show-offs, Dragon.

“You poor baby.” Asa bumped him as he ran by, which only irritated Dragon more.

Seeing the handsome young hound snarl, Betty, on the left bank of the narrow creek, said quietly, “Dragon.”

“I know. I know.” He put his nose down and hollered in his pleasing voice, “Good. Good. Good.”

Shaker blew three sharp “rat-ta-tats,” which brought together the other hounds that had been fanning away from that spot. They all ran in, put their noses to the ground, then opened, honoring Dasher and Cora.

Dasher, now in the front, was quite proud. He usually deferred to his brother, a bully, but today the glory was his, and Cora let him have it. Even if she picked the line first, it was okay that he opened, it would build his confidence.

Shaker now blew “Gone Away,” one of the happiest series of notes a human can blow on a horn. Each longish one-note blast is topped by doubled or tripled notes. Usually three such bars suffice, but in his excitement, a huntsman who is a true windbag can go on and on and on. You’d think they’d pass out from light-headedness.

The members of the field squared their shoulders. The Hilltoppers, right behind them, also put their heels down and lifted their chins.

Sister waited until the last hound, Tinsel, cleared the covert. Having somehow gotten turned around in the excitement, Tinsel finally went right and Sister then squeezed Lafayette. Off they flew.

Lafayette, her usual Saturday horse, earned that honor by virtue of his brains, his beauty, and his smooth gait. Aztec and Rickyroo were still young and learning their trade. Keepsake, at eight, was a wonderful horse who did whatever Sister asked of him. She took Keepsake to other hunts because he would ride in the field without fussing. Lafayette had to be first. He believed deep in his heart that everyone was there to see him.

Over the cut hay pasture, over the coop in the fence line, over the still uncut hayfield with the chestnut tree, over the in and out with the usual rubs and tumps and oomphs. Over the next field and over its jump and down into the thin, parked out woods, the underbrush cleared away, with another trickly creek. Splashing through the creek, cantering alongside the fence, then over the sliprail jump, a little airy, and down a steep incline to another jump at the bottom. This one usually scared the bejesus out of people since you approached at a slight drop and you landed on a bigger drop. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the only way. Down and over Sister and Lafayette went. Oh, how Lafayette loved drop jumps, because they let him stay airborne longer. And on to another hayfield cut so trim, it looked like a front lawn. The three-board fence around it had a freshly painted black coop.

Sister could see Jennifer way at the other side of this field on her right. There was a coop there, and the girl took it in good form as she moved along with hounds but far out of their way. Jennifer was having the time of her life.

Shaker, in his element, screamed encouragement to the hounds, his horn tucked between the first and second button of his brown tweed jacket, his forest green tie a little bunched up behind the horn.

After Sister and Lafayette cleared the coop, she turned to glance behind. Mary Robertson was right behind her. She thought to herself how good her field was. They put the visitors before themselves, and no one had to be told to do it.

As she approached the swale, frothing with mist, she slowed to trot along the edge before heading down into it.

As they had planned, Walter rode up out of the mist onto the far side of this low pasture.

She saw him out of the corner of her eye. On a horse like A. P. Hill, a stout handsome hunter, Walter looked so much like Raymond, she couldn’t hold back a tear.

She pressed on. A murmur behind her swelled and she heard a gasp.

Xavier’s voice came out of the mist. “Did you see that?”

Tedi simply replied, “I’m not sure. It’s too strange.”

By the time the field came up out of the swale, the schoolhouse now in view, a few riders were bug-eyed. Sybil came up alongside her mother; they were still cantering.

“Mother, did you—”

“Yes.”

As the pace again increased, conversation decreased.

Uncle Yancy paused at the door to the schoolhouse long enough for everyone to admire him, then he ducked under the stone steps into the den.

“Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum,” he sang in his reedy voice.

Dragon, there first, started digging. “Yancy, you push your luck.”

“Three blind hounds, three blind hounds, see how they run, see how they run—” Yancy threw in vibrato for effect.

“Come on out!” Diana called in as she dug next to her brother.

“When the deep purple falls over sleepy garden walls.” Yancy loved the sound of his own voice.

“Good hounds, Good hounds.” Shaker praised them, then blew “Gone to Ground.”

Jennifer held Hojo’s reins. Usually Shaker took Gunpowder on Saturdays, but he wanted to see how his younger horse would handle the crowd. Handled it just fine. Shaker scanned the field, saw a few of them whispering excitedly. A few wondering whether to speak to Sister about what they thought they’d seen.

“Dragon, come on, boy.”

“Yancy! Yancy, you’re a coward. Show your face.”

“When I’m calling you-oo-oo-oo,” Yancy imitated Nelson Eddy. It was not a success.

Dragon blinked as he heard the “oo-oo-oo.”

Shaker pulled his tail. “Dragon, come on, fella. You’re a good hound.”

“Some of us don’t agree,” Asa barked.

Out came Dragon, dirt all over his face, to the cheers of the humans. He looked around at the other hounds, then at the humans. “I am the greatest!”

Shaker patted each head, sure to let the young entry know they could not have accomplished this victory without them. Then he nimbly vaulted up into the saddle, winked at Sister, called his charges, and headed northwest into the breeze, exactly as planned. By now, the cloud cover was overhead, but the eastern sky was still clear. The effect was dramatic.

As they rode across the beautiful pasture, rambling roses clambering over some of the fence, Bobby Franklin spied Raleigh and Rooster. Hearing the excitement, they’d come out into the pasture instead of staying in the woods. Bobby hadn’t seen “Raymond,” but the buzz reached him. He figured it was some type of illusion, but he did note that Walter was absent. Being an instinctual creature, he shut up. He sensed something was afoot. He became very alert.

As hounds weren’t cast yet, Bobby gave the field over to Kitty English, a reliable person, and rode up to Sister.

“Sister, Raleigh and Rooster are here.” He turned in the saddle and pointed to where the two house dogs, in their excitement, had revealed themselves.

The two culprits hurried back toward the woods, but too late.

“Those devils!” Sister fumed. “Well, there’s nothing to do for it now. Thanks for telling me.”

“And Sister,” he whispered, “a few people think they saw, in the mists, Raymond on A. P. Hill.”

“Trust me, Bobby. It’s going to be a strange day.”

“Okay.” He touched his cap with his crop and rode back to the Hilltoppers.

Hounds moved on, a little scent here and there but picking.

Grace, down at the waterwheel ponds, heard them. She’d been fishing when Melissa and Brandon, led by Walter, took up their position on the far lip of the upper pond. The soft lap of the waterwheel had covered the sounds of their arrival, but Grace moved away before they reached the pond. She crept back because they didn’t speak. Her experience with humans was they just had to yak.

As she silently circled them, Melissa’s horse swept his ears forward and back. He snorted, stamping his foot. She made a little sound.

Brandon whispered, “Pat his neck.”

They sat there in the swirling silver mists while the air danced over the ponds. Grace was astonished.

She stayed behind them until she heard hounds coming. Then she trotted over by the waterwheel and dipped down into the meadow heading back toward the stables, which were one mile away. Fishing was good and she wanted to get back to it, so she thought she’d run to the first den between the ponds and the stable, which was a large entrance on the creek embankment.

Grace usually didn’t mind giving the foxhunters some fun, but today she preferred fishing. She tracked across the ponds pasture, swallowed in ground fog, rubbed against a fence post, and walked along the top of a fallen log. She put down so much scent that if one of the humans got down on all fours, he’d smell it, too.

Cora had reached the waterwheel, gently turning, each large cup of water spilling to the pond below. The sound alone was better than any tranquilizer. She smelled the two horses and riders, then saw them. They frightened her for a second. She let out a gruff little yelp.

Diana came right to her. “Why aren’t they riding?”

“Don’t know. But they rode past the kennels at seven. The lady is very nervous. Let’s take the pack up ahead. I’m pretty sure we can pick up scent there. It’s fresh.” Cora put her nose down.

Melissa’s horse had quieted, but she was so frightened, he began to worry and jig a little.

Brandon whispered, “Remember, smile. Pick up your reins a little. Our horses might want to join the others.”

A smile froze on Melissa’s gorgeous face, moist with mist.

Cora and Diana loped along the pond embankment, then tore down the side of it.

Shaker flanked the embankment. He said, as much for Melissa and Brandon as for his pack, “You’ll get ’em!” He dipped deep into the cauldron of mist rising over the twin ponds, then he, too, dropped into the pasture, rivers of mist snaking through it, silver stripes next to green.

Within thirty seconds, horn blowing, hounds baying, the field reached the waterwheel ponds.

Edward, even though he knew Melissa and Brandon stood in the mists, was shocked when he caught a glimpse of them. Melissa, the spitting image of Nola, stopped his heart. He sucked in his breath.

Tedi, all steely resolve, refused to cry.

Ron Haslip, overwhelmed, blurted out loud, “Guy! Guy and Nola!”

Xavier pitched forward on his horse.

Sybil screamed.

Ken stopped, so all the horses behind him had to stop, too.

Walter, hiding in the woods near the pond, imitated a mourning dove. That was the signal for Melissa and Brandon to evaporate into the shroud of silver.

Raleigh and Rooster stuck with Walter.

Just like remembering blocking on a stage, Melissa and Brandon turned their horses’ heads. They disappeared as St. Just cawed overhead.

Chills ran down people’s spines.

Although hounds were running, people couldn’t help it. They started talking.

Sister, pretending not to see or know, said quite firmly, “Hark!”

The field shut up and followed her, but she and they could feel a force building, a long hidden emotion.

Hounds flew to the creek, which meandered into the pasture closest to the stables, finally feeding into Broad Creek not far from where Broad Creek crossed Soldier Road. Grace ducked into the den.

Clytemnestra and Orestes in the back pasture heard hounds moving closer.

“I’ll crash this fence!” Clytemnestra loved any act of destruction.

With a moo of rapture, Clytemnestra lowered her head, crashing through the three-board fence as though it were matchsticks. Then she frolicked past the stables, hind end higher than her front end; she even turned a circle. Orestes followed suit.

As the hounds and Shaker appeared out of the mists streaking toward the creek, Clytemnestra put on a tremendous show, mooing, bucking, prancing, a mockery of ballet.

“Bloody cow,” Shaker said.

“Happy one.” Delia, at the rear, giggled.

The field, close behind Shaker and the hounds, didn’t laugh at Clytemnestra’s antics. They’d seen too many strange sights.

As the field began to emerge from the mists, a commotion occurred at the rear.

Ken bumped Sybil hard as he turned his horse.

“Ken, what are you doing?” Sybil sharply reprimanded him. “Where are you going?”

Tedi cupped her hands to her mouth. “Sister! Ken, turning back to the waterwheel.”

Sister whirled around in the saddle. “That son of a bitch!” She plunged back in the fog.

Mary Robertson, field master at Deep Run Hunt as well as MFH, calmly addressed the people riding up. “We’re going back to the trailers. Please follow me.”

Ken, hearing someone chasing him, clapped the spurs to his horse and flew south, toward the sunken meadows. He’d find Nola later.

Raleigh and Rooster, hearing Ken ride off, followed him.

“Mother! Mother, what’s going on?” Sybil cried.

Edward grabbed Sybil’s horse’s bridle. “Honey, we’ve got to go in. Your mother and I must talk to you.”

Tedi sandwiched her in by riding along her other side. “Just do as we say, honey. Please.”

Betty Franklin trotted in from the left and saw Sister charge into the mist, then come out behind her, heading south. She pulled up, then obeyed the call of the horn. Jennifer, coming in from the right, saw nothing but came to the horn.

The field, in shock, watched as first Ken flew out of the ground fog and then Sister.

Clytemnestra, oblivious, kept bucking along, throwing her massive head to the right and the left. Orestes imitated his mother.

Cindy Chandler sat there knowing there’d be more fence to repair, as well as wondering what the hell was going on.

Sister pushed Lafayette. The wonderful older thoroughbred had no bottom, he’d not wear out. He’d catch that horse in front of him. He’d show him who was the best of the best.

Ken, on a good horse, jumped out of the pasture, heading for the sunken acres. He knew the territory. Knew if he crossed Soldier Road, he could get into the brush at the bottom if Sister pushed too hard. If he could keep his lead he could ride straight to Roughneck Farm, get in her truck, and get away. Just where he’d go wasn’t in his mind at that moment.

A vision of twenty-one years ago was going through his mind. He wanted Nola.

Sister reached around and pulled out the .38 tucked in the small of her back. She fired a warning shot over her head.

Ken spurred on his horse.

Shaker, hearing the shot, knew it wasn’t ratshot. “Jesus,” he thought to himself. He told Betty and Jennifer to load up the hounds. He knew hounds would follow him, so he had to wait while they were hastily loaded. Then he was off.

Ken thought he could outride Sister, thought that because he was forty-eight and she was seventy-one he had the advantage. He should have known better. He’d ridden behind her for thirty years. She was tough as nails and always on fast horses.

He jumped into the sunken meadows and raced across, traces of rising mist all around him. He heard the two dogs behind him. Raleigh couldn’t have been more than twenty yards behind. Rooster was only a few paces behind the Doberman.

He crossed Soldier Road, got across the wildflower meadows just as Sister and Lafayette crossed Soldier Road.

Shaker and Hojo cleared the fence into the sunken meadows. He looked up ahead in the distance and saw Sister leveling her gun on Ken. She fired and missed.

“Christ,” he thought. “If she kills him she’ll go to jail even though he deserves it.” He laid his body low over Hojo, and the gelding knew just what to do. He put on the afterburners. They were over Soldier Road in no time.

Ken plunged into the wooded base of Hangman’s Ridge. There was enough cover that Sister couldn’t hit him. Raleigh and Rooster, however, were right behind him, giving tongue for all they were worth.

Ken cursed the fact that he didn’t have a gun. He’d shoot them and he’d shoot that goddamned old woman riding hard on his tail. The bitch. If she’d come to him quietly he would have paid her off generously. And killed her later, of course.

Sister and Lafayette pulled up at the base of Hangman’s Ridge for a moment, and she saw Shaker heading for her. She heard Raleigh and Rooster. She followed their voices. Like any good hunter she trusted her partners—in this case, one harrier, one Doberman, and one thoroughbred.

Warily she rode into the brush. She heard her dogs making a huge fuss and Ken cursing them. He was climbing. Well, it was faster than going around the ridge.

She pushed up the ridge. Shaker was now a third of a mile behind her.

While leading Melissa and Brandon home, Walter had heard Ken, then Sister, riding away. Now, hearing gunfire and a third set of hoofbeats, he urged the two actors to do their best and trot.

He nudged them toward Hangman’s Ridge.

Ken finally reached the top of the ridge, his horse blowing hard. He pushed on, heading to the hanging tree. The mists from below, rising, dissipating, wove in and out of the branches like silvery silk ribbons. He looked up. There sat Athena and Bitsy, an unnerving sight, especially since Athena held her wings fully outstretched, spooking his horse, who jumped sideways as Ken kicked him on.

Sister was over the ridge now, and Lafayette was gaining on Ken’s horse. Sister leveled her arm and fired. She hit Ken in the right shoulder. He didn’t make a sound but he bobbled in the saddle.

Lafayette drew even closer. She fired again, and this time hit him in the left shoulder. Blood seeped out of the back of his coat.

He had no grip left in his hands. Ken fell off the horse, his spurs digging up the earth as he hit hard.

His horse, grateful, stopped, sides heaving, covered in lather.

Athena kept her wings spread. She looked spectral.

Sister pulled up Lafayette to stand over Ken. “I have three bullets left. I will put one through your head.”

“I’ll tear his throat out.” Raleigh leapt on Ken.

“Off, Raleigh.”

The Doberman obeyed but sat by the bleeding man, ready to strike.

Shaker came up alongside. He dismounted, whipped off his belt, and tied Ken’s hands behind his back.

“Well done,” Shaker said. “Jesus, I thought you were going to kill him.”

“Day’s not over. I just might.” She stared down at Ken. “Why?”

He didn’t answer, so Shaker kicked him in the kidney. “Speak when a lady speaks to you.”

“I was going to lose everything.”

“But you already had lost everything.” Her face darkened.

He looked up at her through watery eyes.

“You lost your soul.” She slipped the gun back into her belt as Athena folded her wings.

Just then Walter, with an exhausted Melissa and Brandon, rode up by the wagon road.

Ken saw Melissa. His head fell to his chest as he sobbed.