Out Of Hounds

CHAPTER 21

February 27, 2020 Thursday

Swirls of sleet demolished hope of warmer weather. Sister, leading the small Thursday group, picked her way down a steep hill made sloppy by the sleet. Sam and Gray rode immediately behind her, as did Kasmir and Alida. Freddie Thomas followed them, along with the treasurer, Ronnie Haslip. Most members had watched the early-morning weather report and snuggled back in bed. Staff does not have that luxury.

Aces led the pack, now at the foot of the hill. Young, he was coming into his own.

“Fading,” Diana alerted them.

Dasher, her littermate, nose down, trotted determinedly. “Here.”

The older hounds paused for a moment. Aces knew better than to forge ahead. One respects one’s elders, regardless of species…well, some species.

“Got to be Charlene and she’s heading home.” Dasher recognized the red vixen’s signature scent.

“What’s she doing over here at Kingswood?” Barrister wondered.

“Hard to say, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she found something good to eat.” Zorro sniffed then walked over to an opened sardine can, which made his point. “Bet you Cindy Chandler put these out, including on the border between the properties. Good way to get foxes to travel.”

Charlene was traveling at a faster pace, for she knew the sleet somewhat intensified scent. Any moisture gives scent a bit more tang unless it’s a driving hard rain or blizzard. In the prime of life, the beautiful red vixen had heard the hounds before she smelled them and they her. So she gobbled the last of the sardines, a delicious treat, then started for home, but home was After All Farm. Given the drive of the pack, she’d need to duck in somewhere closer.

Heads down, the riders trotted across the unkempt meadow on the Kingswood side of the large open space. Made by alluvial deposits over the centuries it, too, held scent. Not that the humans could smell it, but the old human hunters learned a bit about scent over the years. Mostly they learned that nobody knew what the hell it was. Sure, it’s the odor of one’s game, but why on a day like today is it heating up just enough, whereas on another day, seemingly the same weather, nobody can find a thing?

Betty now rode in the unkempt field on the north side of Hangman’s Ridge. Tootie, thinking ahead, galloped to the far side of the ridge, footing awful, but was ready for a run that might head east. Weevil hung right behind his hounds, who now ran, speaking loudly.

By the time Sister and the field reached the narrow deer path on the north side of the rough stuff, everyone felt grateful to still be mounted. Footing proved awful.

Charlene crossed the high flat plateau with the enormous hangman’s tree in the middle, scooted across it to shoot down the south side, scattering minks who had come back too early, being as fooled by the weather as the humans, as she ran. The minks hurried to their dens. Opportunists, they liked coming down the ridge to the Roughneck Farm side and snapping up leftovers, but they needed to be careful of the house dogs. If weather turned dreadful, there were enough outbuildings to duck into that no little thief need be inconvenienced. These minks descended from the minks at Pattypan Forge and returned there for most of winter. Aunt Netty proved such a boor, the younger ones left early.

The branches of the trees shivered in the wind. The lower ones, three centuries old, massive width, didn’t bend as the high branches did. But the wind, powerful across this expanse, could move them a bit so it looked as though they shivered.

Baker, one of the two “B” girls, stretched out, ran hard. As the hounds reached the path down the south side, the first-year entry jumped sideways as a mink shot across her path.

Weevil, now on the plateau, squeezed Showboat. The sleet stung, his hands in his thick string gloves throbbed. Like the animals, he disliked it up on the ridge. Within minutes he, too, slowed a bit to descend at a forty-five-degree angle.

Charlene knew better than to flash across an open meadow and the only way to After All was to do just that until she reached the fence line between the two farms. She cut left to duck under Tootie’s cabin, squeezed through the hole in the lattice hiding the dirt underneath the porch, crawled into Comet’s den.

“Sorry, Comet. Getting bad out there.”

“Is. There’s room enough for two.” The slender gray fox, accustomed to pressed visitors, curled up on a pile of old towels, leaving the dog bed that he had saved from the garbage, for Rooster had chewed it. Charlene nestled in the dog bed while the pack carried on at the latticework.

“You’d think they’d have sense enough to know it’s hopeless.” Charlene rested her head on her front paws.

“They’re bred to run around and make noise.” Comet couldn’t grasp why any creature with the canine mind could be so useless.

“Cheater,” Baker called out.

Weevil gathered his hounds together. Having only been out over an hour he thought he might cast to the Old Lorillard place. As he turned to jump the coop, a loud crack and a crash made people pull up their horses. A limb from one of the apple trees tore off in the wind. Fortunately, no one was in the orchard, but they stood on the farm road next to the orchard.

“Weevil, think we got lucky there,” Sister said as she turned toward the kennels in the distance. “Let’s put hounds up.”

Once horses were settled in the trailers, the staff horses in the barn, the small group gathered in the tack room for hot coffee and tea on the hotplate. Everyone brought sandwiches, cookies, and brownies, enough to fill you for the drive back.

As they talked, Sister’s cell rang; she intended to ignore it but something made her look. She put the phone to her ear, walking out into the colder main aisle.

Listening intently Sister said, “Thanks for calling. I’ll tell our sheriff. I’ll call you later. We got back from a so-so hunt, not bad, not great, but a decent run. The diehards are in the tack room.”

As she clicked off her phone, Gray walked out with her fleece-lined old bomber jacket, which was hanging in the tack room, draping it over her shoulders.

“Thank you, honey. That was O.J. There’s been another theft. In Louisville. Another Munnings, but the thief didn’t make it. As to the suspect in the Buckingham theft, he was cleared. He had truck trouble near the house.”

“They caught the thief this time?” Gray’s eyes brightened.

“Yes, but he was dead. They found him in a truck, another small box truck. The police were called by a neighbor who saw the truck pull out of the driveway. A construction company name painted on the side. Someone followed him and killed him. They got the painting. He may have stolen it but he was killed.”

“This couldn’t have been in the city. Someone would have seen something.” Gray stroked his chin.

“Shelbyville. He made it as far as Shelbyville to turn onto the back road to Springfield. At least that’s how I know it. You go inside, I’ll be right there. Want to call Ben right away and he can call his counterpart in Shelbyville.”

“No one else was harmed? Not killed like the Lexington lady?”

“Just the driver, strangled with a Fennell’s lead shank. And oh, the painting was Why Weren’t You Out Yesterday. Two ladies sidesaddle.”

Gray shook his head as he opened the door to the tack room.