Hounded To Death

CHAPTER 11

To be foxhunters, humans, hounds, and horses need to be physically tough, possess stamina, and exhibit a healthy sense of humor. The horses seem to have the best senses of humor, knowing exactly when to discomfit their rider to achieve maximum humiliation.

Gunpowder, old but still fit and strong, was healing rapidly. The swelling was down and he was bored shitless standing in a stall, so bored he kicked the walls, despite his injury, and was all the more furious when he couldn’t chew on the stall doors or windows; they had iron bars. He tried one chomp, which put an end to that.

Since no one rushed to baby him, he thought screaming might help. It did.

Dan Clement called Sister, informing her that Gunpowder was recovering enough to be ugly. He’d still need to finish his antibiotic cycle, but please could she carry him home?

Although tired from Sunday’s events at the hound show, Sister pulled the rig out but then thought better of taking off alone. She might need Shaker just in case Gunpowder decided not to be grateful for her efforts to save him.

Shaker cut off the power hose, changed from his wellies to his trusty old mulehide Justin boots, and hopped in next to the boss.

The big diesel engine of the dually rumbled as they pulled out of the circular drive at the stable.

“I still can’t believe a deluge worthy of Noah about washed us away up at Morven and here not a drop.” Sister shifted up.

“Central Virginia has its own weather system.”

“Well”—Sister was fascinated by weather—“Virginia truly is the buffer between north and south. Our swath here in the country is the true boundary between two different weather cycles, soil differences, crop possibilities. Lakes of air jam up next to the mountains, then slide off, hit Hangman’s Ridge, creep over, and slide down to us before heading east. I mean, we could have a weather report just for us.”

“It is strange,” said Shaker. “Twenty miles south of here they can grow Bermuda grass and it will winter through. We can’t. Twenty miles north and they can plant certain kinds of alfalfa and orchard grass that would burn to a crisp here in the summer.”

“We’ve been pretty lucky with the alfalfa and orchard grass. I study those seed catalogs.”

“I don’t have the patience for it. Hounds use up all my patience.” He settled back in the comfortable seat. “Nothing more about Grant Fuller?”

“Nope. Barry called this morning. The sheriff ’s department hasn’t found him; his car sits in the parking lot. No crime has been committed.” She breathed deeply. “They say.” She downshifted for the sharp curve ahead. “Very weird. Two bizarre occurrences at hound shows.”

“I’m glad we’re not going to Bryn Mawr’s show—just in case.” Shaker sighed.

“You know, I am, too.” Sister pulled around behind the stables and cut the motor. “Shaker, it’s going to be strange without Hope.”

Dan Clement walked out from the stables. Sister had called before leaving.

“Dan, how are you doing?” She hugged him.

“I feel like I’m sleepwalking.” He hugged her in return. “Lisa’s been great. Our clients have, too. Every equine vet in central Virginia has called to help with the workload, and Reynolds Cowles”—he named a prominent equine vet—“gave me the name of a young vet just out of Auburn who might be worth hiring.” His eyes moistened. “People have just been wonderful.” He grabbed Shaker’s extended hand, and the two men hugged briefly. “Well, come on. He’s ready to go and I’m ready to see the last of those hindquarters.”

The second Gunpowder heard Sister and Shaker’s voices, he started complaining. “You’re here. At last you’re here. I want to blow this joint!”

Dan had already put on the Thoroughbred’s halter. He walked in the stall with the cotton lead rope, easier on the hands, snapped the hook into the ring—and Gunpowder tried to pull him out of the stall.

Quick as a cat, Shaker grabbed the dangling end of the lead rope. “Where are your manners?”

“I want to go home.” Gunpowder dropped his head, pushed Shaker, and then reached over to nuzzle Sister.

As he walked toward the trailer, Sister bent her knees to look at the wound. “Amazing.”

Dan said,“He’s an amazing horse. Do you know his bloodlines?”

“I do. Ultimately they trace back to Domino, a stallion at the turn of the last century. It’s staying blood. Now I’m not saying that all you need is Domino in the pedigree, but if you do your homework you can find who carried it, over the last century plus. If you keep weaving together the traits that impart stamina, soundness, and—hopefully—brains, you’ll get a great horse.”

“A science”—Dan paused—“and an art. He’s being a lamb now.” Then he laughed. “Glad I don’t have to throw a leg over him.”

Inside the trailer, windows open, Shaker tied a slip knot by the hay bag. “He’s a great ride, Dan. Bold. Not a chicken bone in his body.”

“That’s the truth,” Gunpowder said, with a mouth full of his favorite hay.

That was another thing, he was going to complain about the food at the clinic when he got a chance.

“Shaker, I’ll be right back,” Sister said. “Let me pay the bill.”

“I’ll bill you,” Dan said.

“One less thing for you to do.”

She walked into the front office, and as Lisa printed out the bill she noticed two cartons, opened, behind Lisa. She could see bottles inside.

“Are those for Hope’s Japanese clients?”

Lisa nodded. “Had them all wrapped up, and Ben Sidell unwrapped everything. I’ll put it all back together. They went through her house, and—I have to give them credit—they didn’t make a mess. They put everything back. The only thing was, and I have no idea how they managed it, they spilled some ink from her big printer, the inkjet, you know. Well, it’s not really ink, it’s powder. But that was the only thing I had to clean up.”

“Ben is very meticulous, but he’s sensitive, too.”

“And good-looking.” Lisa, unmarried, was almost purring.

“That, too.” Sister examined the bill, sighed, and wrote a check for sixty-three hundred dollars.

“It’s a big bill, I know.”

“He’s worth it, and he had the best of care. Do I owe you anything for his damage to the stall?”

“He left hoof marks on the wall but those boards in there are thick.” She laughed. “He’s a pistol.”

“Hey, do you mind if I look at the bourbon?”

“No. Hope was making quite a study of it.”

“Yes, she gave us a little lesson out in Kentucky, and now I want to study it myself.” Sister flipped up the divider and peered into the baskets, pulling out the limited edition of Maker’s Mark. She noticed a smudge of red on the label but paid it no mind. “She certainly took good care of her patients, human and equine.”

“She did.”

“Lisa, I know all this has been hard on you. Let me know if you need anything.”

Lisa cast her large eyes upward. “Thank you. I will.” She paused, sucked in a deep breath. “I will never ever believe she took her own life.”

“I won’t either.”

Once back at the farm, Sister and Shaker turned out Gunpowder. He’d had limited turnout at the clinic. Dan said he’d be stiff perhaps for six weeks but better off outside. Confinement brought out the worst in him. Of course, Dan didn’t know that it wasn’t nervousness that kept Gunpowder from eating. He didn’t care for the hay mix.

The gray stood in the field with his friends and, like any man of a certain age, began to declaim about his condition. “The food was awful. They ran a tube up my leg after the first day. Then they finally took it out. The damned tube hurt more than the injury.”

HoJo, hanging over the fence—for he was in the adjoining pasture with another group of horses—commiserated. “Must have been horrible. You like to eat.”

“Are you mocking your elders?” Gunpowder cocked his head.

Matador, Aztec, and Lafayette walked up, too.

“No. You have a good appetite.” Aztec was glad to see Gunpowder home, even if the gray could be a pain sometimes.

“And I saw Hope’s killer.” He’d saved this tidbit. Everyone was gathered around.

“Who was it?” HoJo was bug-eyed with curiosity.

“I don’t know. I only saw his back, and I’m pretty sure it was a man. I was coming out of the anesthesia so I probably missed a lot.”

“But you could smell him. You’d recognize his scent,” Matador remarked, also excited.

“I could smell oilskin and a funny food smell. He wore an Australian rain hat and long Outback coat. That was it, pungent oilskin.”

“Did you tell the sheriff?” Keepsake asked.

Gunpowder snorted. “As if it would do any good. They’re all blistering idiots. Don’t understand one thing we tell them.”

“Shaker and Sister aren’t blistering idiots.” Lafayette took slight offense.

Gunpowder stretched out his hind legs; it was a little stiff back there. “No, they’re functionally illiterate.”

Much as the horses did love the two humans, they couldn’t help laughing.

Sister and Shaker, walking back to the kennels, heard the neighing.

“Glad to be home.” Shaker smiled.

Not until cubbing season would Sister realize when she saw the smudge on the label that she’d drawn over her fox and hadn’t even known he was there.