Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

CHAPTER 26

Clytemnestra, mean as snakeshit, big as a house, glowered as the trailers parked at Foxglove Farm. The heifer’s son, Orestes, now larger than his mother, evidenced a much sweeter personality. Nonetheless, if hounds traveled through their back pastures, the field certainly did not. No one wants to be chased by a giant bovine.

As this was Saturday, March 1, skies overcast, mercury hanging at 48°F, the field overflowed.

Cindy Chandler, owner of Foxglove, kept her foxes happy. She had a mating pair under the old schoolhouse, a mile and a half from the main barn. Another male fox lived at the eastern edge of her property and occasionally Comet would travel over from Roughneck Farm.

An accomplished gardener, one with a long knowledge of plants, Foxglove delighted all who hunted there unless they offended Clytemnestra. The clapboard barn, the old clapboard schoolhouse, the clapboard house, all sparkled in good condition, impressive given the hard winter. No paint peeled.

Painted fencecoat black, three-board fences marked off intelligently laid-out pastures and paddocks. However, what always excited comment from newcomers were the two ponds at different levels, a small water wheel between them.

Today, ice rimmed both ponds. The raised walkway between the ponds had some icy spots but the water wheel—quite simple as opposed to the enormous one at Mill Ruins—still flowed, the wheel lazily turning.

Hounds promptly moved off at 10:00 A.M. Shaker included all the young entry in today’s draw. They’d been working all season, a couple here, a couple there, then two couple—until now, when all the youngsters could go.

With Clytemnestra at his back, glaring while she chewed expensive hay, Shaker prudently cast in the opposite direction from the brooding beast.

Near the front of First Flight, Phil looked over his shoulder. “That has to be the biggest heifer I have ever seen. Each year she’s larger.”

“Why does Cindy waste good hay on her?” complained Mercer. “Cows have four stomachs. She doesn’t need the pricey stuff,” he quipped.

“Oh, yes, she does,” said Cindy, riding behind Mercer.

A flush over Mercer’s face indicated that once again he had opened his mouth before looking around or thinking. Fortunately, Cindy possessed both charm and a great sense of humor. She wasn’t the least offended by his criticism.

“Sorry, Cindy,” Mercer apologized instantly. “I didn’t realize you were back there.”

“If he’d known, he might have babbled even more,” Phil tormented Mercer.

“Well, gentlemen, if Clytemnestra eats four-star hay, she behaves herself. If not, she will smash right through a fence. Actually, I believe she could take out the barn if she’d a mind to.”

Up front, Sister heard them chattering, as well as others. She loathed a chatty field but hounds had not yet been cast, spirits were high, why squelch them? If the blab continued once hounds were working, well, that’s different.

“Lieu in.” Shaker put the pack into a thin line of woods below the ponds, using the old Norman term now about one thousand years old.

This woods expanded to the north, providing good hiding places for foxes, bobcats, deer, raccoons, and the occasional weasel.

This morning, red-tailed hawks, red-shouldered hawks, and broad-tailed hawks sat motionless in treetops. All of them hoped hounds would scare up voles, moles, mice, and other little rodents. Perhaps those raptors were the original foodies.

Riding with Sybil today, Tootie trotted at woods’ edge as they headed due east. If the pack had turned right, they would be heading south, finally running into Soldier Road. Foxglove Farm boundaries were more natural than man-made, with the exception of Soldier Road. Natural boundaries can be easier to hunt than man-made ones and Shaker was making the most of it.

Hounds worked the edge of the woods; a few, noses down, walked along the pasture by the woods while the bulk of the pack moved through the woods. For Sister, this was a complete cast. She wanted her hounds fanning out. Other Masters and huntsmen did not. Everyone had their own ways and their own reasons. Sister wanted her hounds to do what was called “Make good the ground.” She wanted as much ground studied by those superb hound noses as possible.

The ponds—now above the field, to the right—lowered the temperature a bit as they all moved alongside them.

Older Asa, out today for his once-a-week hunt, widened his search heading to the bottom of the ponds’ high banks.

Hounds, horses, and people really do become wiser with age and Asa, feeling the slight temperature drop, also could smell more moisture below those banks. He stopped, inhaled deeply, moved a few paces, inhaled again. His tail slowly waved to and fro, then that stern picked up speed.

“Hot. A hot line!” With that, he ran straight up until he was now level with the top pond.

No reason for any hound to check Asa, the pack immediately rushed to him. Shaker didn’t even have to say, “Hark.”

Within seconds the whole pack opened, the young entry beside themselves with excitement.

On the south side, Betty kept at two o’clock. She wanted to be on somewhat higher ground, which afforded her a wider view. The First Whipper-in, which Betty was, often sees the fox first. If a cast is like the face of a clock, Shaker is in the middle where the two hands meet. Hounds start at twelve o’clock. Betty was to their right at two o’clock. Sybil would ride at ten o’clock. Once a fox tore off, the staff did their best to maintain those positions but ground conditions could make it difficult.

If a hunt is fortunate enough to have a professional whipper-in, that individual is usually given the title of First Whipper-in. A few hunts in North America carried three to four paid whippers-in—wonderful for them and really wonderful for a young person starting out, say, being given the slot of Fourth Whipper-in. There’s only one way to learn foxhunting, and that’s by doing it.

Sister occasionally dreamed of a paid whipper-in or even two, say, young men or women in their middle twenties, but her two honorary whippers-in—loyal, reliable, shrewd in the ways of quarry—could have been professionals. Sister was proud of Betty and Sybil and knew that putting Tootie out with them would fast-forward the young woman’s knowledge.

On a good trail in the woods, Sybil held hard, as did Tootie. A medium-sized red fox shot right in front of them, plunging deep down into a narrow crevice in the land. The two women counted to twenty, then bellowed, “Tallyho!”

The count to twenty is plenty sufficient for a fox.

Hearing the call, Shaker waited. His hounds were turning in that direction. In his mind, to pick them up and throw them into the woods would be to undermine them. Both Shaker and Sister wanted hounds to work on their own, be confident and not dependent on constant human interference.

Asa was no longer in the lead, as he wasn’t fast enough. He worked in the middle of the pack. Irritating though it was to fall back to the middle, he knew he did his job. One of the youngsters, Zorro, shot over the line, then pulled up, confused. He wailed.

“Shut up, Zorro,” Asa called to the tricolor in his deep voice. “Come back to the middle.”

Zorro wanted to be first but he returned to the middle, for he had an inkling he’d messed up.

In their prime, Tattoo and Pickens now led the pack with Dreamboat, Diana, and Dasher close behind, the rest of the pack just behind them. They all headed into the woods, where their voices ricocheted off the trees. All slid down into the crevice, then clambered out as the humans circled round, losing time in the process.

Sister knew her fixtures. No need to kick on Matador. Keeping a steady pace, Shaker and hounds in sight, she put the field in a good position. They splashed across the narrow creek, running down the wide path on the other side. Then … silence.

Sister pulled up to see the pack gathered at the base of a tree. A fox, a beautiful gray in full winter coat, sat on a wide branch above. This was not the fox Sybil and Tootie had seen. Hounds had been on another fox’s line that ended up at the tree.

Shaker blew “Gone to Ground” because there are no special notes for “Climbed a Tree.”

Zorro, Zane, and Zandy couldn’t believe a fox lounged over their heads. The other hounds, however, had seen this many times.

“You come down, this isn’t fair,” Zandy bitterly moaned in her high-pitched voice.

“Cheater,” Zane added to the disgust of his sister. “You’re a cheater.”

Smiling, the gray called down, “Well, why don’t you get right under me, stand on your hind legs. Maybe you can grab my tail and pull me down.”

“Yeah. Right.” Zorro did just that, with his two littermates now on their hind feet.

The fox taunted them a little more, swinging his butt over the tree limb and urinating all over them, laughing loudly.

“Ow, ow, ow. It stings!” Zorro blinked his eyes as the older hounds couldn’t believe the youngsters would do what a fox told them to do.

Sitting on his haunches, Asa declared, “Young and dumb.”

Hounds laughed, horses laughed, and the people laughed, although they had no idea what Asa had said.

Shaker, thumbs-up to the fox, turned his horse Showboat around. “Come along, hounds. Come along. No telling what he’ll do next.”

Having a girl moment, Tootsie wrinkled her nose at the humiliated Zandy. “Don’t get near me!”

Poor thing. Zandy dropped her ears, falling back in the pack where Pookah walked beside her without saying a word.

Shaker left the woods and rode up on the hill. The ponds below sparkled as a shaft of light sliced through the clouds; then, like quicksilver, disappeared.

He cast hounds up toward the schoolhouse. Fox scent led to it, a short burst with singing ended at the foundation. A pair lived inside and had no incentive to open the front door.

Shaker sat by the schoolhouse. Sister waited, as did the field. Gray rode up with Phil and Mercer. The Bancrofts rode right behind Sister. Kasmir and Alida rode together behind Gray. As with any hunt, the longer one is out, the more the well-mounted, fit rider and horse move forward. Because of the recent weather, many people had not been able to keep their horses in as good a shape as they wished, but right now, all was well. No one was winded. Bobby Franklin kept an eye on his group, especially since new people usually started in Second Flight. He watched their horses for them. If a horse began to lag or tuck up a bit, Bobby would kindly send them back, with a guide always, at a walk.

Shaker motioned for his whippers-in to come up to him. The pack sat, waiting.

“Betty, go down to the wildflower meadow,” he said. “If the pack crosses the road, you’ll be with them. Sybil, parallel me on the other side of the fence and Tootie, you take the right. I’m casting west then south once we reach the meadow. Wind’s come up a bit. We’ll head into it.”

He waited as they moved off, giving Betty an extra five minutes. Tootie, first time alone as a whipper-in, actually wasn’t nervous. She loved it.

“All right, lieu in.” Shaker asked the hounds to draw on the south side of the farm road.

They wiggled under the fence. Five minutes passed, ten, then fifteen. Shaker and Showboat walked on the farm road, ice crystals in the ruts.

A peep, then a bark sent the huntsman into a trot. Showboat took three strides to easily clear the coop, painted black like the fence. Sister and the field followed while Bobby trotted down to a large farm gate.

Hounds worked the line, not enough for a roaring chorus but the scent was warming.

The pack moved into the wildflower meadow, nothing but brown stalks now. Betty crashed through winter’s debris, staying tight on their left shoulder while Sybil came out of the woods above her, behind Shaker. As the pack headed straight for the road, so did Sybil.

Betty crossed with them. Sybil—who always rode effortlessly, no fuss—brought up the rear, making certain no hound lagged on the macadam highway. Given that all the young entry hunted today, Sybil correctly flew up there with extra vigilance.

Also over the farm-road coop, Tootie stayed on the right, crossing the road minutes after Sybil. Tootie found herself in the mess below Hangman’s Ridge. There was no easy way up or down on either side of the broad flat plateau. Given that she lived at Sister’s, she knew where the deer trails were. Finally, on one she headed upward. Already halfway up the steep incline, Betty marveled at the pack. Hangman’s Ridge harbors all manner of game and the youngsters, while being exposed to some of the scents, had not yet smelled others. They never took their noses or eyes off the correct line.

As Betty stood in the stirrups, reins in her left hand, right hand entwined in Magellan’s mane, she was able to stay over her horse’s center of balance.

Sybil picked her way to the left of this, finally reaching the base of the ridge where she, too, picked up a narrow trail to circle the base. Given the distance, she had to move as fast as she could.

Betty finally reached the top of Hangman’s Ridge, the wind blowing as always. Minks scattered about as the hounds flew across the flat plain.

Shaker now reached the top, stopped for a moment, saw Betty go down the Roughneck side. He followed. Sound echoed around the ridge but it seemed that hounds moved forward and down.

Sister galloped across the top, the huge centuries-old hangman’s tree to her right.

Cursing the hounds, horses, and people all the while, minks ran across the top.

Not one bird sat in the hangman’s tree. They didn’t like it.

With great effort, Sybil had rounded the base, and now could see the old orchard on the other side of the Roughneck Farm road. To her delight, she also saw Comet. He skimmed the surface of the road as he ran hard, then turned left toward her. He knew who she was and, before he reached her, he zigged right, reached the stone ruins to pop into his den. Sybil remained motionless because she didn’t want to cross the line.

Within minutes the pack ran right in front of her, Dreamboat, Giorgio, and young Pickens up front closely followed by the entire pack, Betty immediately behind and Shaker perhaps a football field behind her. Normally Betty would have ridden off the road, parallel to it, but there was no way to do that coming down from the ridge. The minute she hit the farm road, she jumped over the old orchard fence to parallel the pack, then jumped out again and into the stone ruins field, holding up at a bit of distance from the den.

By the time Shaker reached it, hounds dug at the stones, carried on in high excitement.

“Go ahead. Bloody your paws,” Comet taunted.

Having been made a fool of once today, Zorro stopped digging at the stones.

Sister and the field came up as Shaker dismounted, blew “Gone to Ground,” and praised each hound. He caught his breath as did everyone else.

The distance back to Foxglove Farm was perhaps three miles straight as an arrow and involved climbing, sliding down, rough terrain.

Sister waited for Shaker to mount up. He stood on the stones and stepped onto Showboat who stood still, as a huntsman’s horse should. Horses get excited by the chase, too, so staff is always grateful when their mount does what he’s supposed to do.

Sister then rode up. “We’re near the kennels. Let’s put them up and we can drive over to Cindy’s to fetch the hound truck and Betty can drive the trailer back.”

“Right.”

She rode back to the field, telling them to return to Foxglove, she and staff would reach Cindy’s place a little later.

Once at Roughneck, Tootie and Betty took care of the horses. Sybil also dismounted, stripped her tack off, sponged her horse, dried him, then borrowed a blanket. She’d come back later with her trailer.

Sister and Shaker walked hounds to the kennels.

“This last month has been so good.” Sister beamed.

“Really has,” he agreed.

As extra rations and lots of fresh water were poured into the buckets and hound troughs, Sister wiped her eyes. The fox piss scent was overwhelming. “What are we going to do with the smell?”

“Don’t pick on me,” Zorro cried. “I didn’t know.”

Hearing the puppy cry as he stared directly at her, Sister praised him. “You hunted very well today. And foxes are tricky.”

Shaker and Sister praised each hound, calling every name and then when finished with the treats, calling each hound by name again to go to their special runs and petting everyone.

Shaker sniffed his hand. “Let’s put these three in the medical run.”

“Good idea. Zane, Zandy, Zorro, come along. Special motel tonight.” Sister and Shaker walked to one of the doors off the big draw room, opened it, and the three obediently followed.

Once they were given an extra cookie plus fresh straw for bedding in the warm enclosed recovery room, Shaker advised, “We can wash them tomorrow. I’ll get the straw out first thing.”

Both Shaker and Sister washed their hands in the deep stainless steel sink.

“All right. Tootie can help us.” Sister glanced at the wall clock in the special medical room, which even had an operating table. “We’d best get over there. I’ll borrow Gray’s Land Cruiser. We can all squeeze in there.”

“Sister, I’ll drive my truck. You know how he is about his Land Cruiser.”

She paused. “You’re right. The girls and I will bounce over in my truck.”

“I’ll take Tootie,” said Shaker, “then you only have to fit in three.”

“Thank you. Good thing we’re all slim, isn’t it?”

In full swing, the breakfast greeted the staff as they walked into the Foxglove dining room, more eighteenth century than twenty-first.

Alida thanked Sister. “Another wonderful day and Kasmir lent me Mumtaz for Saturdays, Kavita for Tuesdays. And I can use my horse on Thursdays. Such fabulous horses.”

Sister looked over the crowd to see Kasmir talking to Gray. “He is a generous soul and a good, good man. We’re all lucky to have him in our club.” She prayed to herself that perhaps lightning would strike Alida.

The beauty glowed. “Yes. Yes, I can see that. I have never met a kinder man.”

“Nor I.” Sister took a chance. “You know, Alida, as I have aged I have learned just how sexy kindness and ethics are.”

Alida looked into those bright hazel eyes with her own soft brown ones. “Yes. Yes, Master, how very true.”

Before more could be said, Mercer charged up. “I have an idea.”

“God help me,” Sister joked.

Phil hurried over with Cindy, along with Betty and Ben. “Actually, Sister, it’s a good one. We’ve all been discussing it.”

“I know you e-mailed your curriculum suggestions to Crawford. Right?” Mercer referred to their Custis Hall board duties.

“I did,” replied Sister. “Actually, I thought they were creative. At least I hope they are. I suggested we use hunting to teach the girls about the environment. And we don’t always need to ride. We can do walking tours.”

“Great idea,” Phil said supportively.

“Well, here’s what we’ve been thinking,” said Mercer. “Next week is our next to last week and Woodford will be here from Kentucky for our Thursday hunt and our Saturday hunt. So why not invite Crawford?” Mercer held his hands together as though suppressing a clap.

“Putting both packs together?” Sister wondered aloud.

Mercer immediately saw the problem. “Well—”

A born mediator, Cindy offered her idea. “Ask him for Thursday to make it a triple meet, even though he’s an outlaw pack. We can say he’s a farmer pack, which in essence he is if he’d just be halfway decent to the MFHA. They are far more reasonable than he is. Crawford brings his pack; his new huntsman and Sam can whip in if he wants. The fixture is Oakside. Not too far for him.”

Sister wasn’t entirely convinced. “Well, let me ask Walter. I’m not opposed, but we have to consider how the MFHA will respond to a triple meet with one club being an outlaw pack. My suggestion is just for us and Crawford to go out together the last hunt of the season. This also gives Shaker time to ride with Skiff. Sorry, but it really is politics.”

Cindy smiled, realizing Sister wanted to find a middle path, wanted to avoid open conflict with the national organization. “That’s why you’re the Master. You have to consider everything, but I think doubling up for our last meet is a great idea.”

Desperately needing a drink, Sister trod toward the bar once the discussion wrapped up. She heard Phil say to Mercer, “Do you live to make life difficult?”

Mercer replied, “No, but I want to know really what’s in my Dixie Do,” he said, naming his horse.

“You know he goes back to Dixieland Band. He’s a foxhunter, Mercer. It’s irrelevant.”

“I’m on a DNA kick,” Mercer replied defiantly.

Sister thought that Mercer really couldn’t let things go. She just hoped he wouldn’t blurt out that Ben Sidell had asked them to review pedigrees. “He wouldn’t,” she thought.

Prudently, she sought out Ben once she had a cup of tea in her hand, and reported what she’d overheard. “Hopefully he’ll stick to Dixie Do.”

Ben shrugged. “I think he will, but I’ll just give him a reminder.” With that, the sheriff made straight for Mercer, grabbed his elbow, saying to Phil, “Excuse me one minute, Phil.”

“Of course.” Phil went looking for Sybil, as he wanted to know what the whipper-in thought of the day.

“Mercer.” Ben fixed his gaze on the man. “Best not to discuss DNA or anything.”

“I’m not.” Mercer’s eyes opened wide. “But I’m curious about my horse. That’s all.”

“Well, keep it at that, will you?”

Sister sidled up to Gray, who inhaled deeply. “Ah, yes, fresh fox.”

“Honey, is it that bad? I walked the Z’s to the back room. We’ll wash them tomorrow.”

“I’ve smelled expensive perfumes that weren’t as potent,” he teased her. “Hey, you can never predict what will happen.”

She put her arm through his. “That’s the truth.”