Outfoxed

CHAPTER 64

Foxhunters adore Thanksgiving hunt. The light-to-medium frosts of the night before promise a silvery morning, scent sticking to the ground. Low gray clouds hold hope of long, long runs but even if the day dawns bright and clear as a baby’s smile, the cool temperatures and the late November frost ensure a bit of a good run no matter what.

Hunters prepare their dinner the night before, as much of it as they can. If no one is home to watch the turkey, then the oven isn’t turned on until the horses are turned out. Traditionally, foxhunters eat Thanksgiving dinner in the early evening. This most American of holidays, the most uncommercial of holidays, rings out with toasts to high fences, good hounds, great runs, and much laughter over who parted company from their horse.

Since Thanksgiving is a High Holy Day, horses must be braided. Those who played football, those whose jammed fingers invited pain, those upon whom arthritis visited, cursed as they wrapped the tiny braids with even tinier rubber bands, weaving yarn on those same braids.

Doug, as first whipper-in, was responsible for braiding staff horses. A quiet man, he couldn’t help but boast about his tight braids. Doug’s idea of a boast was to say, “They stay put.”

Lafayette, Rickyroo, and Gunpowder, for Shaker would be riding Fontaine’s big gray, gleamed so brightly that Sister laughingly suggested she needed sunglasses just to mount her horse.

Hounds, always excited before a hunt, sensed the additional emotions of a star hunt.

Dragon bragged, “I got a fox for opening hunt. I’ll get one for Thanksgiving.”

Dasher sniffed at his brother. “You picked up a shot fox. I’d hardly brag about that.”

Dragon turned his back on him.

Shaker backed the hound van into the draw run. Double sliding gates ensured that he could back in, then roll the gates to each side of the van. Shaker, an organized man, left little to chance. He prided himself on never being late to a hunt.

Since the first cast would be at Whiskey Ridge he had only to pull out of the farm and turn right as the state road curled around Hangman’s Ridge. Two miles later, at the end of the long low land between the two ridges, he’d turn left and go to the back side of Whiskey Ridge. He particularly liked to cast at the base of the ridge or at the abandoned tobacco shed but the field liked a pretty view, so they generally started at the top, working their way down in no time. Often the fox would cross the road, a lightly traveled road, but any road strikes fear into the heart of a huntsman. He was careful to post a whip on the road to ask cars to slow down if hounds were running in that direction. Once across the road it was anybody’s guess. But then foxes, being the marvelous creatures that they are, could just as easily bolt down the other side of the ridge, heading for the flattish lands even farther east. Whereas the land between Hangman’s Ridge and Whiskey Ridge was rich and traversed by a strong creek, the lands to the east of Whiskey Ridge rolled into the Hessian River, named for the mercenaries of King George who bivouacked there during the Revolutionary War. This river eventually fed into the James River.

Jefferson Hunt territory proved a test of hounds and staff. The soils changed dramatically from the riverbeds to the rock outcroppings. Rich fertile valleys gave way to flinty soils. Lovely galloping country spiraled down into ravines or up into those same rock outcroppings. Every good hunt breeds hounds specifically for their territory.

A place where the land is flat or rolling, good soils, can use fast hounds with good noses. A wide-open place, like Nevada, needs hounds with blazing speed. Hounds don’t need to hunt as closely together as they would back east.

The Jefferson territory demanded an all-round hound, a bit like the German shorthaired pointer, which is an all-round hunting dog. The Jefferson hound needed great nose, great drive, and great cry because light voices would be lost in the heavy forests. Speed was not essential. So the hounds were big, strong-boned, quite impressive, and fast enough to hurtle through the flatlands but not blindingly fast like the packs at Middleburg Hunt, Piedmont Hunt, and Orange County Hunt. Jefferson Hunt hounds were a balanced mix of crossbred and American hounds. Sister kept four Penn-Marydel hounds for those days when scent was abominable. The Penn-Marydels never, ever failed her. Being Virginia-born and -bred, Sister Jane loved a big hound. She thought of the Penn-Marydel as a Maryland or Pennsylvania hound and like any Virginian she felt keen competitiveness with those states but most especially Maryland. This hunting rivalry stretched back before the Revolutionary War, each state straining to outdo the other, thereby ensuring that the New World would develop fantastic hounds.

But in her heart of hearts, Sister knew the Penn-Marydel was a fine hound. The ears were set lower on the head. While they had speed, they kept their noses to the ground longer, which might make them seem slow but the other side of the coin was that a fast pack could overrun the line. So she kept two couple and was glad to have them but if a person asked what kind of hounds she hunted, she replied, “American and crossbred.” The crossbred was a mix of American and English blood.

Hounds panted inside the van, not from heat but from anticipation.

Shaker shut the back door, rolled back the sliding doors, drove the van out, stopped it, rolled the gates back shut. Ahead of him, Doug waited with the small horse van. Sister, in her best habit, her shadbelly, sat next to him.

Thanksgiving brought out the best in everyone. It had none of the jitters of opening hunt. By now, staff knew how the pack was working or not working, as the case may be. Plus, at the end of the hunt, there was that glorious dinner with one’s family and friends crowded around the table. Mince pie. The very words could send Sister into a swoon.

Every time she thought of her trap, her heart pounded. Would it work? She didn’t know what she would do if she did catch the killer. She had substituted her .38 for her .22 loaded with ratshot. The holster hung on the right rear side of her saddle. No one would know she’d switched guns.

Shaker flashed his lights behind them, indicating he was ready.

“You don’t mind that I put Keepsake on for Cody?”

“No. He needs the work and she’s the best for it. If he can whip, he’s more valuable. He can do everything but lead the field. Sorrel might be able to get more money.”

“I thought she donated both horses to the hunt.”

“She did but I’m waiting to see what her financial condition is—I’ll sell the horses to help if she needs it.” The van pulled out of the farm road onto the state road. “I heard that Crawford made an offer on the business. Nerve.”

“Especially if he killed Fontaine,” Doug replied.

“Do you think he did?”

“I don’t know.”

Other trailers and vans rumbled along ahead of them. Doug checked the rearview mirror; more were coming up behind. In the distance in the opposite direction, trailers were turning onto the Whiskey Ridge Road.

“Going to be a hell of a turnout.” He grinned.

“Oh yeah, they’re waiting for another murder. Probably hoping it’s me because I’ll be in front and everyone will get a good viewing. I wonder if they’ll tallyho?” she sang out.

“How about ‘Gone to ground’?”

They both howled with laughter, a bad situation bringing out the best in them.

Doug flicked on his left turn signal, waited for the Franklins to turn in from the opposite direction.

“You know what crosses my mind? Odd. Remember when we saw the Reaper or the Angel of Death or whatever it was?” Doug nodded that he remembered. “You were on the other side of Hangman’s Ridge, picking up hounds. Well, I wonder if Fontaine saw it, too. I wonder where he was.”

“He did. Maybe.” Doug’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t thought of that. I saw him drive by. That is too weird.”

“Do you think we’re next or can you see Death and he doesn’t take you?”

“You’re giving me goose bumps.”

“If I had any sense, I’d be afraid but I’m not. I’m more afraid of how I will face death than I am of death itself but I’ll fight. Not ready to go. I don’t know what the hell we saw that sunset. Plus there’s a black fox out there—as shiny as coal.” She surveyed the sea of trailers and vans as they cruised into the meadow at the base of Whiskey Ridge. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

“Think of the cap fees,” he gleefully remarked, since those people visiting the hunt had to pay a fifty-dollar fee to go out.

The cap fees helped defray the hound costs, which averaged about eighteen to twenty thousand dollars a year.

As Doug cut the motor and they disembarked, people doffed their hats, calling out, “Good morning, Master.”

As tradition dictated, the master nodded in return or, if carrying her whip, would hold it high.

“Doug, I need to touch base with Shaker for one minute. Be right back. Oh, your stock tie pin is crooked. Get Cody to fix it for you.” She noticed Cody walking over to help Doug unload the horses.

“Morning, Master.”

“Morning, Cody.” Sister hurried to Shaker, who parked a bit off from the crowd.

“I count one hundred and eleven rigs.” Shaker bent over to rub an old towel on his boots.

“I keep telling you, the secret is to use panty hose. Better shine.”

“I’m not going into a drugstore to buy panty hose.”

“That’s right,” Sister mocked him. “Someone will think you’re a drag queen and you’d be so pretty, too.”

“Yes, Master.” He bowed in mock obedience.

“Shaker, I want you to do something today. Should the pack split, stay with the larger body even if the smaller is in better cry.”

His eyes narrowed. “Better not split.”

“Not if the whips are on. Doug up front, of course. Betty on the left. How about Cody on the right. I’m keeping Jennifer in the field. The Franklins have to just get through this as best they can. Or more to the point, Jennifer has to face it down.”

“Makes me glad I never had children,” Shaker grumbled.

“Don’t say that, brother. Children are a gift from God even when you’d like to brain them,” Sister quietly but emphatically told him.

“I’m sorry.” He had forgotten that Walter Lungrun was Raymond’s natural son. Relationships baffled Shaker. Walter’s parentage made him think of Ray Junior. He’d known Junior and liked the boy. He liked the father less. He knew about Walter because once in a confessional moment, a tortured moment after Junior’s death, Ray sobbed out the whole story. Shaker didn’t think Walter knew who his real father was and he was certain Sister knew nothing about her husband’s affair and subsequent child. He wondered if she would find out. He felt he could never tell her. She’d lived this long without knowing. Why disturb her?

She put her arm around his neck. “Don’t worry about it. I remember the good times. Like the Thanksgiving hunt when Junior was ten and he viewed. He stood in his stirrups and was so excited he couldn’t speak. His pony took off and he fell flat on his back, got up, and finally said, “Holloa.”

“Tough little brat. Like his momma.” He watched Crawford pull in with his brand-new Dodge dually pulling his brand-new aluminum four-horse trailer with every convenience known to man or beast. “Can’t believe that man is showing his face.”

“Better his face than his ass.”

Staff, mounted, surrounded the hounds. Sister rode through the trailers, welcoming people. Her presence made them move along a bit faster. Georgia Vann had forgotten her hair net. She bounded from trailer to trailer until she found a woman carrying an extra.

Finally, everyone was up.

Lafayette remarked to Oreo, carrying Bobby, “On time. A bleeding miracle.”

“O-o-o,” Oreo grunted. “He’s put on more weight.”

“Might want to loosen your horse’s girth,” a rider said.

“Might want to loosen his,” Betty called out as she sat by the hounds.

“I want everyone to know that I’m above all this,” Bobby joked, glad that people were willing to let his daughters work out their own problems. He felt a little extrasensitive today so the joking made him feel better. People weren’t laughing behind his back but he noticed that few would talk to Crawford or stand near him as Sister addressed them.

“Happy Thanksgiving. Thank you all for coming out and we hope the foxes will come out also. As you know, we lost a faithful supporter, a generous man, and one of my best friends. I hope Peter Wheeler, young again and strong, is mounted on Benny, his big chestnut, and they’re both looking down at us, wishing us well.” She paused a moment. “Huntsman.”

His cap in his hand, he nodded to the master. Putting his cap on his head, he asked the hounds, “Ready, children?”

“Yes!” they spoke in unison.

“Come along, then.” He quietly encouraged them, turning his horse toward the top of Whiskey Ridge for the scenic first cast.

“Jennifer.” Sister motioned for the girl to ride up. “Keep an eye on Crawford, will you? Talk to me after the hunt.”

“Yes, Master.” Jennifer pulled back, waiting for a few first-flight members to pass her. Then she fell in behind Crawford and Martha. She wasn’t sure what Sister wanted but she was pleased to be given a special mission. At least Sister liked her and trusted her with responsibility.

The top of Whiskey Ridge was rounder then Hangman’s Ridge off in the distance, the giant black oak stark against the silvery rising mists. The sides of Whiskey Ridge feathered and softened down to the creek bed, a small valley on the west side. The grade was even smoother on the east side; the Hessian River was visible across the rolling terrain, a cauldron of mist hanging over the snaking river.

Frost silvered each blade of grass, each leaf, the exposed roots of the old trees.

Shaker, voice low but filled with excitement, leaned down. “He’s out there. Get ’im. Get ’im.”

“Yay!” The hounds dashed away from the huntsman. Noses to the ground, sterns upright, they wanted a smashing Thanksgiving hunt.

Down on the east side of the ridge Uncle Yancy picked up a trot. He heard hounds above him and felt no need to provide them with a chase. He recalled seeing Patsy out before dawn, so just to be sure he swerved from a direct path to his den, crossed Patsy’s scent, and then scampered the half mile to his cozy home.

Up on the ridge Sister hung back about fifty yards from her hounds. Since she wasn’t sure what direction they’d finally take she sat tight.

Dasher’s tail looked like a clock pendulum, back and forth. Finally, he spoke. “Check this out.”

Cora and Diana came over. “Faint but good. Let’s see where it leads.”

Within minutes the hounds coursed down the eastern slope of the ridge, reached the grassy bottom streaking across the well-maintained hay fields, a beautiful sight for the field to behold, since the pack was running well together, Cora in the lead, Diana securely in the middle.

Although the grade was gentle, one rider, frantically clutching her martingale, flipped ass over teakettle when the martingale snapped. Georgia Vann, on mop-up duty, stopped to make certain the lady was breathing.

“All right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to push on?”

“I think I’ll go back to the trailer. I hate to ride without a martingale.” She led her horse back up the hill and the poor fellow was severely disappointed—all his friends galloping toward the Hessian River in the distance.

At the end of the expansive hay field, a narrow row of trees bordering a sunken farm road presented an interesting obstacle. The old stone fence on the other side of the towering lindens was only two and a half feet high but the drop on the other side would scare the bejesus out of a few people.

“Yee-haw!” Lafayette snorted, sailing over. He loved a drop jump because he was in the air so long. Horse hang time was how he thought of it.

Sister kept her center of gravity right over Lafayette’s center. They landed in the soft earth of the lane, then scrambled up the small embankment on the other side into a field planted with winter wheat. She skirted the field, hearing the screams behind her of those who made the drop and those who didn’t. She turned her head just in time to see Lottie Fisher pop out of her tack and wind up hugging her horse’s neck. It was funny although at that precise moment Lottie didn’t think so.

The hounds moved faster now as scent became stronger. They reached the place where Uncle Yancy had crossed Patsy’s scent. Milling about for a few minutes Dragon bellowed.

Not trusting him, Cora hurried next to him before he could take off. She put her nose down. “It’s good. Let’s go.”

They turned at a right angle, heading northeast now into the pine plantation owned by the Fishers. Paths were wide, easy to maneuver. At the end of the twenty-year-old loblolly pines, they hopped over an upright in an old fence line. Sister had built that jump with Ray Senior using sturdy locust trees felled in a storm. Fifteen years later the jump stood strong.

Everyone made it over the upright. Three strides from that another jump faced them as they moved into a cornfield, stalks uncut. This simple jump of truck tires suspended on a cable gave half the field a problem and they had to wait for Bobby Franklin and the hilltoppers to go through the gate. Once through they bade Bobby good-bye, hurrying to catch up with the field, now at the far end of the cornfield, pushing into a second cornfield separated by an expensive, impressive zigzag or snake fence. Sister and Lafayette arched over the point where two sides crossed together. They landed smack in the standing corn. She ran down a row, hounds in front of her and to the side of her now in full cry. They’d picked up Patsy. She was running about a quarter of a mile ahead and being shadowed by St. Just. St. Just, unbeknownst to him, was being shadowed by Athena.

At the end of this cornfield a fence bordered a rocky creek. It, too, was a zigzag. Sister jumped that and one stride later clattered across the creek with inviting low banks. On the other side the hounds turned west. They ran, then lost the scent.

Patsy dashed into the creek, ran two hundred yards, then crossed back into the cornfield by tiptoeing across a log fallen over the farm road. She figured this would keep her scent high and she was right.

Even when Cora figured out where the red vixen had exited the creek she couldn’t get high enough to smell the top of the downed sycamore.

The check lasted five minutes, which helped the field. Sister counted heads. She’d started with sixty-nine and was down to sixty-two. Jennifer stayed just behind Crawford and Martha. Sister winked at her.

People reached down, feeling their girths. A few tightened them. Many reached for their flasks. Nothing like refreshment or what some members called Dutch courage.

“I’ve got a line all right but it’s a different fox,” Diana remarked to her steadier brother, Dasher.

The rest of the pack trotted over to her. They checked it out.

“I can’t pick up Patsy. She’s slipped us somehow, so we might as well go on this. Target, I’d say.” Cora thought a moment. “Just so you young ones know, it’s always better to stay on the hunted fox but Patsy’s given us the slip, so—it’s Thanksgiving hunt; let’s put on a show.”

“Follow me,” St. Just cawed overhead.

“Keep your nose to the ground. I’ll keep an eye on St. Just,” Cora commanded them.

“He hates Target. We can trust him,” Dragon said.

“Oh yes, and he’ll run us all into an oncoming truck as long as it takes Target, too. Trust your senses and me before you trust him,” Cora loudly told all of them. “Now come on. Scent is holding.”

Hounds moved along the creek, then drifted away into woods through some thick underbrush while Sister and the field kept on the edges, crowding along a deer trail.

Sister could see Betty, since leaves had fallen off the trees in the blizzard. Betty moved along; Outlaw’s ears pricked forward, since he could hear the hounds better than she. She let him pick the way.

Hounds burst out of the thicket, hustled along the deer path, then loped into a neatly clipped hay field, a stupendous one hundred acres of rolling land.

The temperature rose slightly; the tops of the grass blades swayed, the frost turning to water, the wind gentle but insistent from the west.

Hounds, in full cry, stretching out to their full length, flew across those one hundred acres in the blink of an eye. Cody was on the right border of the field; her mother was on the left; Doug was ahead, where the edge of the beautiful fields rolled into another farm road, cutover acres on the other side. Shaker stayed with his hounds, a wide grin on his face, his seat relaxed in the saddle. He could have been sitting in a rocking chair.

Target, just out of sight, headed straight through the cutover acres, making certain to make use of any toppled timbers. He knew the hounds could move through them easily but the debris would slow the field.

By the time Sister, first flight, and then Bobby with the hilltoppers picked their way through the cutover acres, Target curved back, running parallel to the fence line along the hay fields. Halfway down the fence line he climbed up on the top rail and sped along, jumping down at the corner, where he swerved across the creek-bottom fields, crossed the paved highway, and lightly trotted halfway up Hangman’s Ridge, where he surveyed the panorama from a monumental boulder jutting out from the ridge.

Cora led the way. Doug pulled up at the highway to slow traffic. As soon as Betty saw him she waved him on, for it was important for Doug to stay in front of the hounds. She took over the traffic cop job. Next came Shaker, the bulk of the pack before him, moving together in good order and on the scent, slowed somewhat by Target’s tricks, especially his jaunt along the fence. But Cora, wise, kept her nose to the ground until she found the spot where he’d launched off the fence.

One hundred and fifty yards behind Shaker rode Sister, Lafayette’s big stride effortlessly eating up the acres. The trailing ribbons on Sister’s cap danced in the breeze; her patent-leather-topped boots caught the light that pierced through the lifting silvery haze. Immediately behind her rode Martha Howard, a surprise to her as well as others as she moved right by them, but Martha, adrenaline banishing her normal fears, just this once wanted to ride in the master’s pocket. Behind her the others spread out, Crawford not far behind, since Czapaka, although not the fastest horse, had a big, comfortable stride. Jennifer was immediately behind Crawford. Walter Lungrun, relying on athletic ability more than skill, was behind them. The remainder of the field was spread out.

They jumped the post and rail near the highway, looked left and right, then sped across, jumped the double coops into the bottomlands, striking straight for Hangman’s Ridge.

By now the field had covered two and a half miles. Horses and humans were limbered up.

Target admired the sight before him. Then, mindful of Cora’s speed and that of the insufferable Dragon, he hopped off the boulder, cut down the side of the ridge, crossed the silvery hay field on the back side, dashing into the woods, making sure to scramble over Fontaine’s coop.

Once in the woods he put on the afterburners, streaking toward the tip of the ravine. He’d covered another mile in less than five minutes over uneven terrain. As he looked down into the ravine he considered how best to trouble the hounds.

Comet walked out of the woods. “Target, are you heading down?”

Target thought if the young gray had been human he would have rolled up a cigarette pack in his T-shirt sleeve. “Yes. You?”

“Thought I’d walk along the edge here and duck into those rocks at the end. I’ve been eating the corn trail. I didn’t expect hounds to get here so fast.” He indicated the large rock outcropping with the ledge looming out of sight at the far end of the ravine. Holly bushes and mountain laurel covered the folds of land leading water down to the creek below. Enormous oaks, hickories, and walnuts, spared from logging by their inaccessible location, gave the place a magical air. Chinquapins dotted the upper rim, their bundles resembling baby chestnuts, a light spiky green.

“Let’s make them crazy.” Target grinned. “See that den there?” He headed over to an abandoned groundhog den. “Let’s go in together. I’ll take the exit just under the edge of the ravine and you leave by the path heading back toward the hog’s back. The death jump.” Target added, “They’ll split for sure. That will make the whips work up a sweat. Ha. Sister laid the corn trail and she intends for the pack to split. A painful thing for a master, so you know it’s—vital.”

Eagerly both males zipped into the groundhog den, moving through the central living quarters.

Target sniffed. “Groundhogs have no sense of aesthetics.”

Comet didn’t reply. He thought the old den was fine although he’d have to pull out the old grass left behind.

At the fork underground, Target went left and Comet turned right.

“Good luck,” Comet called as he wriggled out into the pale sunlight, filtering through low clouds.

“Ditto,” the big red called back from the tunnel, his voice echoing. He emerged just under a pin oak, half of its roots clinging to the rim of the ravine, the other half securely in deep ground. Down he slithered, heading toward the creek. Comet, having the easier path but the more dangerous open one, ran hard to the hog’s back, flattened and crawled under, making sure to leave lots of scent under the jump, then he crawled out, barreled across the high meadow, ducked under the three-board fence at the back side to scramble over the moss-covered rock. Then, feeling devilish, instead of dipping into a den just below the flat rocks he made a big semicircle back into the same high meadow and headed across to the western woods on the other side, blew through those, entering the hay fields leading toward the kennels. He screeched to a halt at the kennel.

“Hey!”

Those hounds left behind, gyps in heat and puppies, lifted their ears. “What are you doing here?”

“You can’t get me.” He lifted back his head and laughed.

“Just you wait, Comet. Pride goeth before a fall,” a pretty tricolor hound warned.

Raleigh—sneaking up behind Comet, Golly behind him—would have pounced except that Rooster, overexcited at the prospect of game larger than a rabbit, bounded past the shrewder animals.

Comet heard him, spun around, knew he had a split second, and he leapt sideways, narrowly escaping Rooster’s snapping jaws. He shot toward the chicken yard, a makeshift arrangement, as Sister hadn’t time to put chicken wire up over the top, a precaution against hawks, who were hell on chickens.

Comet climbed up over the wire on the side, dropping smack into the middle of Peter’s chickens.

“Fox! Fox! We’ll all be killed,” the chickens screamed, running around. The smarter ones hid under the henhouse.

Raleigh growled at Rooster, then ran over to the chicken coop.

Golly, ahead of the Doberman, climbed up the chicken wire. “You get out of there!”

Raleigh hollered, “Golly, don’t go in there!”

Golly glanced down. Comet’s open jaws awaited. “You’ve got a point there, Raleigh.”

Rooster, frenzied, was digging, trying to get under the fence.

“Leave it!” Raleigh commanded. “You won’t get in in time and the chickens, if any live, will get out.” Turning his attention to Comet, equally as trapped as the chickens, Raleigh reasoned with him. “If you kill those chickens, Sister will have a fit. Now let’s work together. You need to get out.”

“I don’t trust him,” Comet snarled at Rooster.

Golly wasn’t sure Rooster could be controlled under the circumstances. Back on the ground she leaned into Raleigh, who understood her wordless thoughts.

In the distance they heard hounds; then they heard silence.

Comet knew hounds would find scent soon enough but they weren’t where he thought they’d have to cast again. “I need to get out of here before the pack is here.”

“You’re in dangerous territory even if you do get out. Your one hope is to go under the porch.”

“You can’t let him go! You can’t.” Rooster was beside himself.

“I have an idea.” Golly spoke to Comet: “Stay here. We can’t get in. The hounds can’t get in. If you don’t kill one chicken, Sister will put hounds up and us, too. She’ll let you go. It’s better than taking a chance with Rooster.”

“No!” Rooster spun in circles of frustration.

“Calm down.” Raleigh’s deep throaty growl meant business. “You can hunt rabbits all you want but leave the fox alone.”

“But I’m a harrier. I can hunt foxes as well as those damned foxhounds.”

“I don’t doubt that but you’re not supposed to hunt foxes and besides, where would you be if Sister hadn’t brought you home? She doesn’t want any fox killed. This is no way to reward her. Peter would be upset if he knew you offended Sister.”

Rooster, anguished, lay down, putting both paws over his eyes. He moaned.

“Your word?”

“Yes.” Comet, full of corn, wouldn’t have killed a chicken anyway, but no point in spoiling his image.

Raleigh stood over the harrier. “I’m bigger, I’m stronger, and if you even twitch, I will tear you up.”

“And I’ll scratch your eyes out.” Golly puffed up to three times her size. Then she hissed at Comet. “You, too. Worthless carcass!” She was brave but sitting under Raleigh’s chest she was especially brave.

The gyps in heat, the household animals, and Comet listened as cry picked up, then stopped again.

“I thought they’d be halfway here by now,” Comet commented. “I wonder what’s going on?”

Back at the edge of the woods, the hounds hit a hot pocket, one of those swirls of air sometimes ten or more degrees hotter than the air around it. The scent, already over their heads, scattered. As the hounds cast themselves St. Just flew low overhead. He circled, then flew down just above their heads.

“Target’s in the ravine. Comet split off from him. You’ll have a split pack if you aren’t careful.”

Dragon, ready to roll, shouted to Cora, “Let’s follow the raven.”

“No. We pick up scent properly. We aren’t gallivanting across the county because of one raven’s revenge. Put your nose to the ground and get to work. Now!”

The check, that pause in hunting where hounds must again find scent, although unexpected, was near the ravine, a half mile away if one could move in a straight line, which one couldn’t.

Sister leaned over to Martha. “Will you take the field? I’m feeling punk.”

Thrilled to be given such responsibility, acting field master, Martha gushed, “I’d be glad to. Would you like someone to go back with you?”

“You know, I think if I walk back I’ll be fine and if I feel better I’ll find you. I must have eaten something that doesn’t agree with me.” Standing in her stirrups, Sister said, “Stay with Martha.” Then she rode across the meadow as though heading home. To her surprise, Walter Lungrun followed her.

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

“Upset stomach. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll escort you home. We’re close enough to go back to your place, don’t you think?”

“You rejoin the field. I’ll be fine, thank you.”

He hesitated. “It won’t take long. I can find them.”

It occurred to her that Walter might have killed Fontaine to revenge his father. She thought he was too smart to risk his career, his own life . . . but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have done it. Find a motive and you find the murderer. A thin ripple of fear shot through her. She shook it off. Even if he did have reason, she didn’t think he could ride well enough or knew enough about scent to lay a good drag. She was fluttery inside.

“I’m the master and I’m telling you to rejoin the field.”

“Yes, Master.” He obediently turned Clemson back toward the field, which was still waiting for hounds to find the line.

Sister walked across the creek meadows to the base of Hangman’s Ridge. She followed the base of the ridge until she was out of sight. She heard hounds strike again, moving across the creek meadows toward the woods. Once into the woods she turned back, squeezed Lafayette into a canter, skirted the meadow, jumping in at a stiff coop—three feet nine inches—used only by staff. This dropped her closer to the ravine. She dismounted, leading Lafayette to a sheltered overhang. Tying him to a low limb, she patted his neck. “Stay here, buddy, and stay silent.”

“Yes, but don’t leave me for long. It’s too good a day,” he pleaded.

She rubbed his head. “Silent, dear friend.” Then she used whatever cover she could find and slowly worked her way toward the rock outcroppings. She reached them in five minutes, slipping a few times. At the outcroppings she dropped down to the ledge, partially protected from view by holly bushes at the edge plus the low full limb of a fir tree. There she waited.

She heard hounds at the other edge of the ravine, the sound funneling down, then lifting up to her. She heard another check, another find, and she heard the pack split, the bulk moving away from her, a splinter group heading down into the ravine. Below her she saw Target, fat, glossy red, trotting down to the creek. Then he walked through the creek, crossing a bit above the rocky crossing where the envelope was tacked to the tree. To her amazement, Aunt Netty popped out of her den and Inky called from the tree she was perching in.

Target paused, barked something to Netty, then hearing the splinter group close in, he hurried up toward the rock outcroppings as Netty ducked back into the den, her nose still visible.

Low into the ravine flew St. Just, dive-bombing Target. And behind St. Just, closing fast was Dragon, three couple of young hounds racing with him.

“Kill him. Kill him,” St. Just screamed.

Hoofbeats thundered behind the rock outcropping. Sister shrank farther in, flat now against the rock. She prayed Lafayette, beautifully gray, wouldn’t catch the eye of the whip above her and he wouldn’t whinny to the horse. He didn’t.

Down into the ravine the whip rode and it wasn’t until she saw Keepsake that Sister knew it was Cody.

“What a gifted rider,” she thought to herself as Cody cracked her whip, trying to turn back Dragon.

St. Just dive-bombed Target again, so intent on his mission, the blue-black bird didn’t hear Athena overhead. She waited for St. Just to reach the bottom of his dive. Then with open talons she streamed down, raking the raven across the back.

Sister had never seen anything like it. The two birds climbed into the air and St. Just screamed at Athena, who silently flew to a high tree branch. St. Just swooped past her, then dove for Target again, who was climbing up toward the rock outcropping. Athena opened her wide wingspan, lifted off, again striking the raven, this time with her claws balled up. Black feathers flew and St. Just pulled off Target to face the huge owl. St. Just’s only weapon against his foe was speed. Athena’s size, wisdom, and famed ferocity ensured that only a fool would tangle with her.

By the time St. Just pulled away, turned in the air to strike again at the red fox, Target had reached the rock outcroppings, climbing to the ledge.

He froze when he saw Sister, then boldly ran right between her legs, ducking into the den behind her.

St. Just flew toward the den, squawking loudly. Cody, down at the creek crossing, would have seen Sister if she’d looked up but instead she was whipping off hounds and finally went to the ratshot to stop Dragon.

She fired.

“Ouch!” he yelped.

“Leave it!” She commanded. “Hold up,” she yelled at the other hounds, who were scared now.

Sister admired Cody’s whipping ability just as St. Just flew right in her face, screaming about Target. Athena struck again, knocking the raven sideways in the air. She scared Sister, who grabbed the fir limb.

Down below, Cody saw the envelope. She dismounted, holding the reins. She dropped the reins to reach the envelope.

As she did, Aunt Netty, who’d figured out the truth, stuck her head out of the den and taunted, “Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah!”

Dragon, butt full of ratshot, bolted toward the den. The others followed and Keepsake, green, spooked. He tore up the ravine.

Cody, hands shaking, whip draped around her neck, knew she couldn’t get him back. Then she heard Lafayette whinny.

“Come stand with me!” the gray called from his hiding place.

Keepsake, scared at the hounds bolting, scared that he would really be in trouble for leaving, picked his way up to Lafayette. By the time he reached the seasoned master’s horse he was lathered.

So was Cody as she read the letter. “I know who you are. Give yourself up and make it easy on everybody, yourself included.”

She slipped the letter into her frock coat pocket, looked around. She didn’t see Sister but she caught sight of Keepsake. She began climbing the ravine to reach her horse.

The hounds dug outside Netty’s hiding place but she was safe in the back with lots of ways out. She laughed at them.

Inky stayed put in the tree. St. Just, bruised, repaired to the top of a walnut. Athena sat opposite him just in case. She watched Cody finally reach Keepsake, where she saw Lafayette. Defeated, she waited for Sister.

Sister reached the rim of the ravine, picking her way around to the horses. Cody led out Lafayette, handing him to a woman she had been trained to obey since childhood.

“Why?”

Tears rolling down her face, Cody simply answered, “Jennifer. Even after rehab he’d give her drugs.”

“Oh, Cody, there had to be another way.”

“I hated him.”

Knowing that hate, like love, can’t be explained neatly away, that passion defies all logic, she put her hand on Cody’s shoulder. “Come on.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Sister swung up in the saddle.

“I’m not sorry I killed him. I’m sorry I dragged everyone into it.” A flash of panic hit. “Is there no way out?”

“No.” Sister turned to her as they reached the farm road in the woods. “Crawford shouldn’t pay for your sin.”

“He’s so rich he’ll get off.”

“That’s not the point. You have to turn yourself in.” Sister inhaled. “In a way I can understand why you killed Fontaine. You believed Jennifer wasn’t strong enough to resist him. You were wrong but I understand. But to kill a healthy red fox and to use the hunt for your revenge . . . Cody, that was beneath contempt.”

Although Cody could have fired ratshot straight into Sister’s face the thought didn’t occur to her. She’d acted impulsively once, fueled by love for her sister and hate for Fontaine. Her mind worked clearly enough now, even if her moral sense remained tilted. She hung her head, saying nothing.

Sister cupped her hands. “Come to me.” She yelled for her hounds, who, tricked by Aunt Netty, ran up out of the ravine. Knowing they’d been bad, once in sight of Sister, they crawled on their bellies. “I’m ashamed of you. Now come on.” She reprimanded them, which was worse than any ratshot from a whip, for the hounds loved Sister.

Each woman rode back with a heavy heart: Sister, distressed that a young life was wasted as well as a man’s life taken away, no matter his irresponsible behavior. Cody, burdened with shame and fear, fought her tears.

In front of them they heard the hounds heading toward the kennel. Well, Cody would give herself up but they might as well hunt their way back.

They flew over the jumps, galloped across the upper meadow and then through the woods into the creek meadows, around Hangman’s Ridge, reaching the chicken coop in about fifteen minutes of hard riding, the three couple of hounds behind them.

Shaker, on the ground, stood outside the chicken coop. The entire field, mounted, watched with amusement. Doug and Betty had come in from their posts as Shaker blew them in.

“Sister!” Shaker called out. “You okay?”

“Yes. Are you hunting chickens now, Shaker Crown?”

“Look here.” He pointed and Comet stuck his head out from the chicken coop.

“Well, I’ll be.”

Golly, in a tree, bragged, “He’s afraid of me!”

Raleigh ignored this. “I promised he’d be safe.”

“This is a first.” She smiled, dismounting. “Well, folks, you’ll long remember this day. Shaker, take the hounds back to the kennel. And let’s lock up Rooster in the tack room. Folks, we’ve put foxes to ground today but we’ve never put one to a chicken coop, so I think we’ll call it a day. Thank you for hunting with us.”

People raised their caps, others reached down, touching Sister’s shoulder. Betty noticed the greenish-white cast to her older daughter’s face.

Sister smiled up at Cody. “Ride on back to the trailers with your family. I expect you to call Ben Sidell.”

Cody nodded yes.

As everyone left and Sister, Doug, and Shaker got the hounds in, praising them lavishly, they marveled over the day’s hunt.

“If we ignore the chicken coop, he’ll climb out and leave,” Sister advised.

“Funny he hasn’t killed any chickens,” Doug remarked.

“Guess he’s full,” she replied, not revealing that she’d put out enough corn to feed a regiment of foxes. “But to be sure I’ll put out corn.” She left Doug to care for the horses. She opened the door to the chicken coop, warily eyeing Comet. “Here. Go when you’re ready.” She admired him, for he was a handsome gray. “You know, fellow, anyone who says grays aren’t fun to chase doesn’t know foxes.”

“Thank you.”

“Get that fox outta here,” the chickens complained bitterly from under the chicken coop.

“Actually, why don’t I hold open the door.” She did and Comet scooted right out.

“You’re a good dog,” he called to Raleigh in passing.

Golly backed down the tree and Rooster howled from the tack room, deep distressed howls.

Taking a deep breath, Sister returned to the stable, where Doug was putting sweat sheets on the horses. “I’ll go pick up the trailer later. Did Cody say when she would bring back Keepsake?”

“Tomorrow. I told her to take him home for tonight. Easier.”

“Good.” He whistled.

“Doug. Cody killed Fontaine.” He stopped whistling as she continued. “She admitted it and she will turn herself in to Sheriff Sidell this evening. She’s telling her parents and Jennifer now.”

He rested his head on his hand, which was on Lafayette’s neck; then he looked up. “I did it.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did. I hated that she slept with him.”

“Nice try.”

“She confessed because she knew a black man wouldn’t stand a chance. As a woman she can throw herself on the mercy of the court.” He breathed hard.

She put her arms around him. “Honey, I’m sorry.”

“I did it!”

“You’re too smart to kill like that, Doug. I’m sorry she did it. I’m sorry for you, too. I don’t know what will happen. With a good lawyer—” She released him. “Go to her. I’ll finish the horses.”

“Thanks,” he whispered.

As he left, Sister checked the sweat sheets. She finally let Rooster out of the tack room.

Shaker came in from the kennel to discuss the hunt. She told him. “She could have lied and made it worse. But she didn’t.”

He shook his head. “Crazy. People do crazy things.” He sat on a tack trunk. “Maybe it’s better not to feel much.”

“I don’t know, Shaker. I just don’t know. I liked Fontaine. I’m horrified he sold drugs and used drugs to seduce these girls. My God, it’s sordid.”

“Had a leak in his soul.” He crossed his leg over his knee. “How’d you know?”

“Process of elimination. Had to be one of my whips or you, and I could see you all the time. But you are the only people who ride well enough to have pulled it off. That narrowed it down to Betty, Cody, and Doug. When Dean Offendahl started talking, then I figured it was probably Cody.”

“Her mother?”

“Too stable.”

“Jennifer.”

“I don’t think Jennifer could have executed the plan. She’s a beautiful girl but she’s a thirty-watt bulb in a hundred-watt socket.”

“There is that. Doug?”

“Well, he had reason but in the end, character tells. He might have gotten into a fight with Fontaine once he knew the story but I don’t think he knew the whole story until Dean spilled his guts. What a smarmy kid. He’ll grow up to be just like his father. But Doug, he wouldn’t kill a man for that even if he wanted to do it.”

“Bobby?”

“Can’t ride well enough to lay the drag, then fire through that ravine. Although Bobby could kill.”

“I expect any of us could if we had to.” Shaker sighed. “It’s been quite a day.”

“Yes. Thank you for a good hunt. Hounds did well.”

“Not so well. Dragon took a few with him.”

“My fault. I’ve been putting out corn for days. I needed to get Cody back into the ravine. I didn’t know if it would work. Anyway, there were so many foxes out today it’s a wonder the pack didn’t split before then. I even saw a black fox up in a tree when I was in the ravine.”

“I see her now and again. You could have told me about the corn.”

“No. I had to do this alone. I’m sorry for her even if she did kill Fontaine. It will take me longer to forgive her for killing the fox—I know that sounds awful but it’s truly how I feel. It’s a Greek tragedy without the gods.” She paused. “But then I suppose they are always with us.”

“Oh, don’t go into these weighty matters, Sister. Zeus. God. Allah. All the same to me.”

“You’re right. Well, how about fresh coffee? Come on up to the house.”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

The two old friends walked across the leaves, crunching underfoot. Raleigh, Rooster, and Golly raced around them. The chickens settled down again in their house.

As she made coffee she glanced at the photograph of Raymond, Ray Junior, and herself, in full regalia at the start of a hunt, years ago. It was the last year of Ray Junior’s life. She thought to herself that she didn’t know if the gods were always with us or not. She hoped they were or that something kind was out there but she felt, often, that the people she had loved in this life, her mother and father, her husband and son, and now Peter Wheeler, were with her. Love never dies, she told herself and a pain, deep and sharp, caught her breath. If only she could pass on what she had learned to young people. If only she could have stepped in and turned Cody away from the drugs, the downward slide. What love had been given her she wished to give to others. Most times they didn’t much want it but hounds, horses, cats, and dogs did and they were a gift from the gods, too.

Back in Target’s den, Target, Charlene, Patsy, Aunt Netty, and Uncle Yancy felt a satisfaction that Reynard’s killer would pay the price.

After full discussion, including the help of the grays, especially Inky, the foxes dispersed to their separate dens.

When they were alone Charlene said, “Sister thought like a fox.”

“I suppose.” He sighed. “But you know, I’m about as amused by humans as I care to be.”