Outfoxed

CHAPTER 24

“You people make me sick.” Alice Ramy shook her finger in Sister Jane’s face. “You think you can do whatever you please. A bunch of rich idiots!”

“Alice, show me the hound.”

Without a reply the disgruntled Alice, as wide as she was tall, waddled out to her chicken coop. The plump bodies of chickens lay about inside and outside the coop.

Rooster, Peter’s harrier, rested amid the carnage.

“I locked the gate. I’m not touching him. You take that damn hound out of here and you pay me for my chickens!”

Sister opened the gate. “Hey, Rooster.”

The harrier pricked his ears. “I’ve been framed!”

Sister quietly approached and petted him. “It’s Peter Wheeler’s hound. He’s bred to run rabbits, small game.”

Alice grumbled. “I’ll call the animal control officer.”

“Don’t do that. I’ll take him to Peter.”

“Thank you. I didn’t kill these chickens but I’d like to eat one. I’m afraid of that harpy, though.”

“He ought to be shot!”

“Alice, if this hound had killed these chickens, he’d have eaten at least one. Have you counted your dead?”

Alice quickly counted the two roosters and seven hens.

A cluck from under the henhouse gave hope to all.

Sister knelt down. “The rest are here.”

Alice couldn’t kneel down. “How many?”

“One, two, three, uh, some are hiding behind the others but I’d say you have eight. No roosters, though.” Sister stood up, brushing off her knees and her hands. “Let me take this big Rooster home.”

“Good. He can kill Peter’s chickens!”

Sister accepted Alice Ramy’s choleric nature. She was a woman only happy when airing a complaint, some terrible thing that had happened to her. Her narcissism was such that she even shied away from the disasters of others, their shortcomings. She concentrated solely on her own dramas. Sister patted the harrier on the head, then walked around the inside of the pen. “Here you go, Alice.” She pointed to a shallow tunnel dug under the wire.

Alice thumped over. “That’s how he did it.”

“Look at the size of this hound. Look at the size of the tunnel. And look at these tracks.” Sister pointed to clear fox prints.

“Dog. I told you.”

Sister knelt down again. “Hey, sweetie, give me your paw.”

“Give it to you. Wouldn’t give it to that bitch. I was on the trail of that fox. Aunt Netty. I’d know Aunt Netty anywhere. By the time I got here, Aunt Netty had had her jubilation.”

Sister pushed the paw into the dirt right next to the fox print. “See the difference?”

“Yes.” Alice shut her mouth like a carp.

“This hound couldn’t have shimmied under the wire. My guess is he was on the fox but far behind. It’s a good day for scent.”

“What am I going to do with all these dead chickens?” Alice chose not to apologize, since she could never be wrong. She simply accepted that the fox had killed the chickens but that didn’t mean she was wrong.

“Give you fifty cents apiece.”

“Two dollars apiece.”

“Fine.” Sister reached in her jeans pocket, counted out eighteen dollars, handed them to Alice. Then she picked up the chickens, tossing them in the back of the truck. Alice threw in the two dead roosters.

“I’ll shoot that fox if I see him.”

“Put a thin strip of concrete on the outside of your chicken coop or even a hot-wire. Might work. But don’t shoot a fox, Alice. It’s unsporting. If the fox comes back, I’ll replace your chickens. Just don’t kill him.”

“Maybe.”

“When the scared chickens come out, I’m willing to bet you another ten dollars that you’re missing a chicken. Fox carted it off.”

“What I want to know is why was this hound sitting in the middle of the chicken yard?”

“I just got here!”

“My hunch is, like I said, scent was good so he could have been a half a mile or even a mile behind the fox. Be easy to keep on the line today. By the time Rooster got here the fox was gone and as luck would have it, you walked out just then.”

“You can’t trust people. You’d say anything to cover a precious hound of yours or Peter Wheeler’s. All you foxhunters stick together.”

Sister whistled softly to Rooster, who followed her. “Can’t trust some people, Alice. Let me know if the fox comes back.”

“I could pee on her leg,” the harrier offered, but Sister trotted him out of there, putting him next to her in the truck. She wanted to get to Hangman’s Ridge before anyone saw the dead chickens in the back of the truck. No point in wasting good chickens. She’d strategically place them throughout that fixture after filling them full of ivermectin, a wormer.

By the time she reached Peter’s, she and Rooster were good friends. She honked the horn. Peter opened the back door. “Hey, Pete. Rooster was in the middle of Alice Ramy’s chicken pen. It’s confusing calling him Rooster in the middle of roosters.”

He slowly walked out, saw the dead chickens. “Guess these chickens won’t be crossing the road. Alice Ramy’s a good five miles from here. Rooster, what are you doing?”

“Fox killed her chickens. She blamed your hound, who doesn’t have a drop of blood on him. God, she’s a miserable bitch.”

“Yeah,” the dog agreed.

“Guess I’d better keep an eye on you, buddy.” Peter clapped his hands and Rooster jumped out of the truck when Sister opened the door. “Come on in for a drink.”

“Thanks. I’ll take a rain check. I want to put out these chickens.”

“Good idea.” He turned for the house. “I forgot to ask you the other day. . . . When I go, will you take care of Rooster and my chickens?”

“Yes. I wish you’d stop talking about dying.”

“Well, I feel just fine but I need to put my house in order. I’ve lived a long time. I’m damned grateful but it may be worth dying to get away from Crawford Howard.” He then related how Crawford had dropped by, giving him the hard sell. Sister didn’t get the chickens out until sundown.