Out Of Hounds

CHAPTER 13

February 18, 2020 Tuesday

Pattypan Forge, thick stone walls still intact, the windows long ago broken, had stood since the end of the eighteenth century and would stand for many more. The forge was in use until shortly after World War II, when roads improved dramatically as well as needs changing. Fewer and fewer Virginians, or Americans wherever they lived, needed a wheel well beaten out or a broken axle either replaced or made anew in the heat of the huge furnace. The hand skills, the ability to fix such large objects, faded.

The forge, part of After All Farm, remained untouched. The woods grew around it. The old farm road could be discerned mostly because those deep old wagon-wheel ruts also survived the centuries. The forge provided good living for owls, nesting birds, and one older vixen, Aunt Netty, who had transformed the huge interior to her liking. Exits and entrances both inside and from the outside to the inside dotted the floor, for portions of the slate floor had cracked up. Thick slate can withstand weight but harsh weather damaged the floors under those huge windows. Aunt Netty, fastidious, pulled old towels, some stolen dog toys, and even turkey feathers into her underground rooms. The wind might slide through the trees, rain blow through the broken windows, but that well-built roof and the thick walls made Pattypan desirable. Her towels and other finds kept her den warm.

Sister Jane thought Pattypan Forge a brooding presence. The story-high paned windows provided light critical before electricity. A few still had the heavy shutters to protect them.

Those shutters kept out rain, snow, and wind. This was the most desirable place to have a nest or a den. Most of the broken windows were on the west side, the glass bits long pulverized. The sound of wind slicing through the windows sounded like an eerie whisper or scream depending on the force.

The path to the forge, even though opened at the beginning of hunt season, right after Labor Day, closed up quickly enough thanks to creepers that grew while one slept, fallen branches, whatever was blowing in the wind, literally.

Sister never liked Pattypan Forge, it reminded her of how good work can be forgotten, and she didn’t like it much today as she sat on Matador, a former steeplechaser. He’s seen it all and done it all. They got along famously.

Diana, nose down in one of Aunt Netty’s entrances, chided her. “Come out, Aunt Netty. We can talk.”

“You can jump out that far window. I gave you a run. I’m not giving you another.”

The pack, surrounding the entrance, sniffed; Tinsel dug a bit.

Weevil, dismounted, stood over the hole and blew “Gone to Ground!”

“Stop that infernal noise!” the old red vixen complained.

“Good hounds. Good hounds.” Weevil tucked his horn between the top two buttons of his heavy coat, walked out, the pack following.

Dreamboat turned and yelled, “You’re a step slow, Aunt Netty. Better watch out.”

“I can outrun you, but you all are stupid. I will always win.”

“You are mean as snakeshit,” the dog hound cursed her.

Fast as a flash, Aunt Netty popped her head up and spit at Dreamboat.

It so surprised him, he turned and quickly rejoined the pack as Weevil called. He kept his humiliation to himself.

The small weasels…minks, really…observed all this from their dens.

Aunt Netty heard them giggling. “Why don’t you all go back to Hangman’s Ridge? It was so quiet when you moved out.”

Hangman’s Ridge, the high plateau behind Sister Jane’s farm, she owned it, was where the colonists hanged those convicted of serious crimes: murder, rape, or large theft. The minks thought of it as their summer home. The forge offered better quarters during the winter.

Weevil, mounted, pointed toward Broad Creek, which would take a bit of bushwhacking to reach. The trail, narrow, finally opened onto a wide, cleared trail above the creek, flowing vigorously thanks to the recent rains and snow. He turned the pack south, toward the big estate’s mansion and outbuilding. He’d hunt the hounds back to the trailers, all parked on the far side of the covered bridge. This fixture, full of game, proved a treasure, plus the Bancrofts, the owners, having hunted for most of their eight decades, appreciated hunting. After All was a fox-friendly fixture. Rabbits, skunks, bobcats liked it, too, along with the occasional traveling bear.

“Get your fox,” he called in his deep baritone, a sonorous voice.

Pansy moved with more determination, her tail flipping. Trident, next to her, mirrored her behavior. Within a minute all the hounds pressed but didn’t open. A huntsman’s hopes are raised with this behavior, so, too, for the riders who know hunting. Hounds have something, but what? Is it a fading line that grows stronger? Is it fox scent or something else? Foxhounds can and do hunt coyote, bobcat. Deer, rabbits, skunks, raccoons, and groundhogs should be ignored. A bear presents a judgment call. While legitimate game and game that can move faster than a city person, one would think that bear can climb a tree, fine but not so fine; bear can also stop, wait for hounds, and then swing. The creature is so powerful it can snap a neck with one blow, break a human’s rib cage with one blow. Best to respect bears.

When hounds do not speak but continue with determination, the huntsman must follow. No one truly knows what hounds are tracking until the hound opens. Then the line is heating up, the game is legitimate. Off you go.

Sister watched a few “J” youngsters out today doing great, working with the pack. She allowed time for mistakes in the first season. Same as first-graders missing a letter in the alphabet, you calmly wait. They’ll get it right.

“A visiting fox. Let’s go.” Cora pushed Pansy and Trident on, as they were still a bit hesitant.

Trotting forward, the hounds moved as one. Just where this was leading was anybody’s guess; but then, it’s always anybody’s guess.

Nothing enticing, as all rode along the creekbed. Reaching the covered bridge, hounds stopped then dropped down to Broad Creek.

“Maybe a half hour,” Diana stated as a first snowflake lazed down.

All, noses down, worked to decide in which direction the fox, Comet, who they knew, was traveling, for he had doubled back.

Finally, Trident called out, “Heading home.”

This meant the hounds’ home as well as Comet’s, who had a den under the dependency in which Tootie lived.

Hounds opened, now on the west side of Broad Creek. Weevil trotted through the covered bridge, dropping down to the right onto the pasture. He squeezed Midshipman, a young Thoroughbred he was training for Sister, a gorgeous fellow with a sensible mind and that great Thoroughbred heart, and they surged.

Sister followed through the bridge, waited a moment for Weevil to decide whether to follow closely behind his hounds or to follow the farm path through this pasture, which then turned into a cleared path in woods abutting Roughneck Farm, Sister’s property. At that point a stiff hog’s back jump allowed one to get over handily into her wildflower meadow, all dormant now but decent footing.

If he followed hounds closely he’d wind up in the woods, fighting his way through. Hounds knew they were on Comet but Weevil did not. As three foxes lived at Roughneck Farm in relative splendor, there were three destinations. The young huntsman felt certain it had to be a Roughneck fox but he wouldn’t know which one until hounds hit the wildflower meadow. One fox lived in the apple orchard behind the kennels, Inky. Comet luxuriated under Tootie’s small house. Georgia would go over Hangman’s Ridge to the schoolhouse at Foxglove Farm if she had time. Hangman’s Ridge creeped out everyone, even the foxes. But if weather impeded progress or high wind came out of nowhere, and it seemed to do that around Hangman’s Ridge, Georgia would race to the back porch at the main house, under which there was a den for just such purposes. The problem with that was it set off the hounds in the kennels, the two house dogs carried on, and the cat sat in the window discussing canine shortcomings at a high decibel level.

One time, a friend of Georgia’s during cubbing miscalculated the territory and hounds’ speed, having been asleep under one of the apple trees when hounds came out of the kennels. Knowing the den, he made straight for it, but not before running through the garden shed by that porch. Tools fell off the walls, a wheelbarrow was knocked over, and a few highly motivated hounds smashed right through the paned-glass windows.

Much as a huntsman tries to keep his or her mind on hounds, such memories or stories of same do intrude. No one wants hounds with cut pads, or worse, a wrecked building that belongs to your boss or any landowner.

Midshipman and Weevil flew as the tiny snowflakes grew fatter. As the cold bit his face he realized this storm was not predicted on The Weather Channel but it was here and growing stronger.

Such thoughts filtered through Sister’s mind as well. The open pasture lent itself to a hard gallop, which came to a severe slowdown once into the woods. She could make out Betty’s black coat as Betty was on a deer path winding due north. Tootie, on her left, raced in the open, heading for a jump at the far end of the wildflower meadow. If hounds and fox turned left she would be there. If they turned right she could make up the ground.

Comet, comfortably ahead, wasn’t taking chances. He picked up speed, forgoing evasive measures. Just get home.

Giorgio, the fastest hound along with Dragon, who was in the kennel, ran perhaps two hundred yards behind the sleek, healthy gray, full winter coat attesting to his well-being.

A few yards behind Giorgio ran Bachelor, a first-year entry. He had the engine, so no reason to hunt behind an older and wiser hound. At least that’s what he thought.

The hogs’ back loomed ahead. No problem for hounds, even though the footing was beginning to get slippery, not evil but slippery. The snow fell heavily but one could still see.

All the hounds leapt over the hogs’ back. Given the pace, no hound wanted to wriggle under the three-board fence. Jump and go. Weevil did just that as Betty, ahead of him on the right, negotiated a fallen tree, slowing her down, but she then made it over a simple thin three-rail fence. Outlaw, her hunter of many years, did not favor an airy fence, but she squeezed, clucked, and moved her hands up his neck. He figured this wasn’t the time to have a moment, anyway; hounds were in full cry and he was a true hunt horse.

Comet streaked across the wildflower field, easily viewed by hounds, staff, and the field, his tail straight out behind him. Reaching the other side of the big field, he easily scrunched under the lowest board on the fence, blasted to the back of the clapboard cottage, a small covered porch leading to the back door, and shot under the latticework under the porch floor first, ducking into the big den under there.

“What are you doing?” Target, the red who lived there as well as Comet, asked, then he heard the hounds really close. “You have no sense.”

“How was I to know they’d hunt on a snow day? The pickings were great at After All. And those garbage cans are a cinch to open.”

Target cocked his head. “Humans can’t tell the weather. They only know what’s happening when it’s on them. And as for the treats over there, you’ll lose your hunting skills. You can’t live off human largess without getting lazy.”

This conversation was interrupted by Giorgio, nose under the base of the porch, white-painted lattice hiding the open space under the outside porch.

“Almost! I almost had you.”

All the hounds, now there, hollered at once.

Target growled. “Shut up. I can’t hear myself think.”

The field, standing only ten yards away, heard the furious barking from the fox.

“Drama.” Sister laughed.

“Okay, let’s kennel up.” Weevil walked to the kennels, where Betty and Tootie quickly dismounted to open the big draw pen doors. They’d have to go back to pick up the hound trailer, but no use going all the way back when hounds had run to the kennels.

“Folks, that’s our day,” Sister announced. “If you want to put your horses in a pasture here or tie them to the hitching post, we’ll have breakfast in the house. You all know Edward has the flu, so there’s no breakfast at After All.” Looking up at the sky she added, “If you want to ride back then drive your trailer here, that’s fine, too. Won’t take you all that long and this stuff doesn’t look like it will let up. Maybe it’s best to go while you can still see. You can also leave your horse, borrow my truck, drive back, and drive your trailer here. You can pile in Betty’s Bronco, too. We’ll fit everyone in.”

Betty helped put hounds up then came outside to take her horse and Tootie’s into the barn. Tootie, still inside the kennels, looked out the window.

“What do you think?” Weevil asked.

“Better I put Midshipman in his stall now. I can drive you back to After All. I’ll call the Bancrofts to see if they mind if we leave the hound trailer there. Driving the hound trailer back then getting back yourself might not be so great, especially if the wind picks up.”

He agreed, so Tootie walked out, taking Midshipman to the barn.

Within forty minutes most of the club members had arrived for the breakfast, their trailers now parked around the barn. A few people not wishing to brave an increasing storm loaded up to drive straight home.

The house, full of people in tweed coats, as was proper for a hunt breakfast, talked, drank, ate, and did not observe Golly snagging a morsel from their plate if their backs were turned.

Raleigh pretended to be appalled. “One of these days you’ll get caught.”

“Never,” the calico bragged.

Gray acted as bartender, with Sam making sure all the ladies had seats. He drove Yvonne today, as he wasn’t riding a horse for Crawford. The two of them chattered the whole time. Sam, marvelous on a horse, answered all her questions and told her if she felt ready they would ride closing hunt together.

Yvonne enthused, happy with the day. “Don’t the grays have sweeter faces?”

Sam nodded in agreement, tonic water with lime in hand, and sat next to her as they recounted the hunt. Other men, including Walter, felt Sam was falling for Yvonne. Walter wondered if Yvonne felt an attraction to Sam. Then again, Yvonne was only a year out of a hideous divorce.

Buddy Cadwalder, tall, lean, moved among the group. He’d come down from Philadelphia to meet with Carter Nicewonder about potential clients for his exquisite furniture, but also to hunt with Jefferson and see Kathleen. He didn’t want to be too obvious. Carter teased him.

As the gathering grew warmer, more laughter, many on their second drink or second hot coffee, a knock on the front door took Sister away from the group.

“I’ll get that, honey,” Gray offered.

“I’m halfway there.”

Opening the door, the cold, stepping over the threshold, she beheld John Wickline, Animal Control, whom she knew from his kennel inspections once a year.

“John, come in here. Have a drink, a sandwich. Helps you to fight the cold.”

Embarrassed, he shook his head. “Sister,” he handed her a paper, “you’ve been cited for cruelty to animals. I must inspect not just the kennels but every single animal on this farm. County regulations.”

“Good Lord. Come in, anyway.”

He stepped in as she called for Gray. “Gray, get him something warm to eat and drink then meet me in the library. If anyone asks, tell them I won’t be long.” She smiled at John. “Everybody in the room knows you anyway, especially those who put in hours at the animal shelter. Come on, John. Whatever this is, we can work it out.”

Gray joined them, plate in one hand, a hot toddy in the other. “This isn’t really an alcoholic drink. The alcohol is burned off. It just keeps you warm.” Then he sat in a chair while John took a sip.

“I shouldn’t really be here but I wanted to give you time, so I could return tomorrow. I’ll bring my new assistant. We really must inspect every single animal on the farm. County ordinance.” He repeated this fact. “It will take most of the day.”

“Yes, it will,” Sister agreed. “At least you will have inspected our kennels, which you do once a year.”

“Because you call me and ask me to do it.” He looked from Sister to Gray. “I know your practices are the best, but if I’m given a summons I must follow up. I am sorry.”

“Am I allowed to know who filed the grievance?”

“No. County rules. Anyone can accuse anybody and not have to come forward, the idea being you would retaliate.”

“They are right about that, John. I’d slap them right across the face.” Then she laughed.

Finishing his drink and his sandwich in two bites, John asked, “What time is convenient?”

“Whenever you get to work. Call me, though, in case the roads are bad. We have no idea how long this snow will last.”

“If it’s bad, we’ll reschedule.” He stood, as did Sister and Gray.

Both walked John to the door, Gray took his coat off the hook. “You’ll need this.” Then he held it so the bulky fellow could slide his arms in.

Waiting a moment, John couldn’t help himself. “You know, there’s no common sense anymore. New people. New people in love with rules. Just no common sense.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Don’t worry about it, we’ll have a good time. As you know, my animals have vivid personalities.”

As he left, Sister and Gray looked at each other. Then she touched his hand as they turned to go back to the gathering.

“It’s possible. Usually there’s an element of revenge in something like this. All anyone has to do is come down the drive to see how healthy and happy all the critters are.”

“You know, honey, I wonder if we can take foxhunting for granted anymore. Can we take anything for granted? Even dog shows?”

“If Miss America has been demoted, I suppose anything can be,” Gray responded.

She laughed. “Was the old bathing suit parade demeaning? I don’t know. Men like to look at women. Never did a thing for me, but then again, if there were a male equivalent, I’d be riveted.” A pause. “I would compare every man to you. He couldn’t possibly come up to the mark.”

They walked back to the dining room, arm in arm. Sister would call Betty, Tootie, and Weevil, asking them to come, be ready tomorrow for whatever. No point taking a chance of someone overhearing about the summons. That old game of telephone demonstrates human nature better than decades of university studies.

Carter was telling Freddie the best small art museums in England. She responded with good small ones in the United States, like the Brinton Museum in Big Horn, Wyoming. She then looked out the window, excusing herself. Best to get home.

As the breakfast unwound, people leaving three or four at a time, each time the door opened, the snow was deeper.