Scarlet Fever

CHAPTER 23

March 21, 2019 Thursday

Ground fog hovered over the two ponds at Foxglove. The running water could be heard out of the pipe from the higher pond to the lower but Sister couldn’t see it.

Mid-forties, light rain off and on, she wondered why the fog hadn’t dissipated. With a light rain the ground fog wasn’t going to lift but it could disperse. Fortunately her densely woven hunt coat dispersed the rain, but for how long?

The hunt, an hour into it so far, kept her tight in the tack. Hounds hit one fox after another although the runs proved short. But the undulating ground, the wetness of it, meant you’d better keep your leg on.

Sister waited as hounds cast again, a few raindrops dripping off her cap brim, clouds seeming to dip lower. A hard rain washed scent away fairly quickly if hounds could initially pick it up. The great thing about foxhunting was that textbooks, lectures couldn’t help you. You figured it out or endured it on your own. The field, only fourteen today, heads down to ward off the moisture, had time to consider this.

Hounds moved deliberately, noses down.

A little tickle made Tattoo pause. “Georgia.”

The others walked over to him, now all hounds walked slowly up the rolling pasture to the schoolhouse, where Georgia listened. Hounds didn’t speak, scent wasn’t heavy enough, plus they knew where Georgia was and they knew she wouldn’t come out. Still, they moved in a single file, stopping at the house then looking up at Weevil.

“Good work.” The blond fellow smiled down at them. Sister and the field waited perhaps forty yards off and Second Flight, only five people today, rested behind them.

Weevil turned toward the west, walked out on the farm road to cast on the other side of this road, where a woods gave some protection. The rain stayed light but the longer one was in it, the wetter one got, and now they’d been out perhaps an hour and fifteen minutes.

Hounds filtered into the woods, as did Weevil. Sister waited on the farm road. Her string gloves, while wet, allowed her to keep her hands on the reins. If she’d worn leather the reins would have slipped constantly.

Comet must have kept a calendar in his den because Wednesday nights Cindy Chandler often left gummy bears and bits of little honey cakes by the feeder boxes that Jefferson Hunt kept on her farm. The purpose of the boxes, which had an entrance and an exit too small for a hound but perfect for a fox, was to feed. However, during terrible weather those feeder boxes saved many a fox from hunger. Throughout the fall, wormer was spread on the kibble to clean out tapeworms and roundworms. Hence the very healthy Jefferson Hunt foxes with splendid coats. But good as all that was, sweets sang a siren song. Cookies, gummy bears, Jolly Ranchers, bits of candy bars, and every now and then a few peppermints lifted from the horses created a vulpine foodie heaven.

Comet had climbed the ridge between Roughneck Farm and Foxglove, descended, trotted through the lower weedy meadow. Then he crossed Soldier Road to hurry on to Foxglove. He ate too much and waddled home, leaving scent, too much scent because he wasn’t that far away.

Pookah, a bit to the side of the main pack, found his line first. “Comet.”

Hounds knew their foxes. Mostly they knew where all the burrowing animals lived as well as the larger animals, some of which they avoided. No point irritating a deer in rut. Besides, if they even looked at a deer, Tootie or Betty would call their names. If any hound was foolish enough to ignore a whipper-in naming them and naming them loudly, the human would ride up close and crack the whip over their head. It was embarrassing. So deer could be damned.

The pack opened. The ground in the woods, firm, offered some relief but soon enough hounds charged out into the huge wildflower field, now barren except for creepers here and there. The footing began to deteriorate. Not so much that staff worried, but as the grade dropped toward Soldier Road, time to slow a bit.

Comet, hearing the pack, disgusted with his piggery, picked up speed. Full though he was he could still run like the devil.

Fortunately no traffic filled Soldier Road. As this road took traffic far west including over the Blue Ridge on an old winding road as opposed to perfect I-64, the only time cars rolled along it was to get to work and to get home, for there were other farms beyond Foxglove.

Looking both ways, Comet shot across. Hounds within five minutes also shot across. One can’t really stop hounds on a good line without cracking whips or firing .22 pistols in the air. No one wished to do this except in the case of danger, but no staff member ever really wants to cross a paved road, especially a wet one.

Weevil crossed on Midshipman, a four-year-old Thoroughbred learning the ropes who would eventually be ridden by the master herself. Sister prized a Thoroughbred or an Appendix, which is a Thoroughbred/quarter horse cross.

She stopped at Soldier Road holding Matador, not happy. Then she clucked and they crossed too fast for comfort but all was well. The two fields followed soon, fighting their way through the untended lower meadows on the north side of Hangman’s Ridge, which loomed up ahead like doom itself.

Thorns never died. The worst blizzard couldn’t end their nasty lives. Those creepers reached out, scratching boots, or worse, scratching thighs in a few cases, pulling the threads right up from the thick material.

Comet had reached the high flat ridge with the huge hanging tree in the middle toward the west. Most of the animals hated that tree, as they could feel the spirits, which the humans ignored or denied. Such things weren’t logical and humans were hagridden by logic. Not Comet. He put on the afterburners.

Within another four minutes he was sliding down the south side of the ridge. A good mud farm road led up to the ridge while a few navigable deer trails snaked down, as well as one that circled the ridge.

Hounds closed then skidded down the southern trail. The trees, many of them conifers, created a few barriers but they also slowed down the rain now picking up. Sister followed but wisely chose the farm road, muddy though it was.

Comet flew down now on the farm road, which ran by the orchard. Inky, the black fox, popped her head out of her den, said nothing, then popped back in. Why Comet needed to go to Roughneck Farm when there was plenty of food at After All, she didn’t know, but she lacked his sweet tooth.

Comet reached Tootie’s cabin, paused, then crawled underneath, finally going down into his den. Target wasn’t there, as he had gone back to After All. Target liked second and third homes.

Panting and wet, Comet nestled into the blanket he’d stolen from the barn. Dragging that back was a feat but he was glad he had. Snuggling in he flipped his gray tail over his nose, no white tip.

Then he listened.

First to the den was Dragon, out today and as offensive as usual.

“Chicken. Show yourself,” the arrogant hound complained.

“Comet, you’re slowing down.” Ardent also insulted him.

A high-pitched voice called out, “I ate like a pig and still you couldn’t get near me. You didn’t even see my tail, you were so far behind.”

“If we’re so slow, why did you move out so fast?” Diana sagely replied.

“To get out of the rain.” Which was partly true.

By now Weevil had reached the cabin. Betty was already in the field between Roughneck and After All Farms, having cleared the stiff coop in the north corner while Tootie stood on the farm road, down near the kennels. She had figured out where everyone was going and had reached the ridge before either Weevil or Betty. If hounds surged forward, she’d be there.

Weevil dismounted, knelt down, gloves wet and rain pattering on his back. All the hounds wanted to kiss him.

“Good hounds.” He stuck his head under the stone foundation, for the entrance underneath was big enough. The odor of fox filled the air.

Comet could smell Weevil. Humans give off a distinctive scent, often heavy and often laced with cologne or perfume, especially if they’ve been sweating. The fox was tempted to stick his head out of his den.

He did.

“Ha!” was all Comet said, but it sounded like a bark.

“Cheeky devil.” Weevil laughed then stood back up, patting each hound on the head. His knees shone with red clay. Rain, a trickle, managed to find its way down the back of his boots.

Sister rode up. “That was a surprise.”

“Cheeky devil,” Weevil repeated himself to Sister.

“Life’s good here. Why he went all the way over to Cindy’s I’ll never know, but I suppose foxes like people enjoy a change of scenery.”

“A better day than I thought it would be.” Weevil reached Midshipman.

“Why don’t you walk him to the barn? We’re here. No point in riding back over the ridge and crossing the road again. I hate that road.”

“Yes, Master.” He took Midshipman’s reins, the young fellow stood patiently, clearly a good student. Weevil reached down again to touch those beautiful heads. “Come along, come along. You were such good hounds.”

“I did the heavy lifting,” Dragon bragged.

His sister, Diana, snarled, “Hell you did.” She walked alongside Pookah. “Good work.”

The older hounds congratulated the younger hound, a few brushing next to her so that they walked shoulder to shoulder. A hound pack is a society. This was a step up for Pookah. She was a very happy hound and wiggled her way to the kennel.

Betty and Tootie dismounted, held the big double doors to the draw pen open as Sister and Gray stopped to take their horses’ reins, walking them to the barn.

Sister told everyone to leave their horses in her paddocks if they wished. Each paddock had a run-in shed. They could all be driven over to Cindy’s, then after the breakfast drive their rigs back here. No point riding and getting soaked.

Everyone was grateful.

Shaker, who could drive now, rolled down the farm road. Sister told him the decision so he began to load people in his truck. Yvonne and Aunt Daniella also showed up, as they had followed the hunt as best they could.

Sister and Gray wiped down their horses, Betty and Tootie’s horses, then put them into their stalls with a thin cotton sheet, which would soak up the wet. Upon returning they’d swap it out for a blanket but not a heavy one. Nights were warming up. Maybe not as much as one would wish, but on the other side of freezing was good.

At Cindy’s, people dripped even though they’d hung their coats in her mudroom.

“Don’t worry about it. That’s what mops are for,” the hospitable blonde told them.

Freddie and Alida discussed politics. No one else had the stomach to do so. Drew was catching up with Betty. He’d told her about Morris’s latest moment.

“Can you predict these outbursts?”

“No. He trashed his room after I locked him in. All I need is for him to find the keys and take off again. I’ve actually put the keys in a small metal lockbox.”

“I can understand why you don’t want to put him in a facility—”

He interrupted her. “Betty, they’d drug him insensate. You’ve seen what happens, or maybe you haven’t, but I’ve visited a few of these, checking them out, you know? It’s not a life. Morris at least is on familiar territory.”

“Thank God he made a good living. Can you imagine what this is like for someone who hasn’t?”

Later, driving back to Roughneck Farm, Betty relayed the conversation to Sister and Tootie, jammed into the cab of the truck, for Sister had allowed Weevil to use her Jeep to drive others back.

“What a mess.” Sister turned up the speed on the windshield wipers. “I need a new car. The Jeep is, what, four years old, and I’ve beat the hell out of it. Thank the Lord, the truck’s held up.”

“You have. I’m sure you’ve checked out prices and what might you be looking at?”

“I’m torn between a Highlander and a BMW X5. I think either one can handle what we have to go through out here. The price difference is, um, unfortunate.”

“Is there any such thing as car prices lowering?” Betty asked.

“Probably not.” Sister sighed. “You’re smarter than all of us. You kept your Bronco. Goes through hell and high water. Sure, it sucks gas but the money you’ve saved in not cycling through cars makes up for it.”

“I’ve been reading that gas prices will spike this summer. Way up. If so, then the car lots will be crammed with SUVs, and those little cars, good on gas, will fly off the lots.”

“Maybe I should wait.” Sister considered this.

They slowed to a crawl as a line of rigs clogged the Roughneck Farm road.

“What would you do if you had a Morris in your life? If Gray began to lose his marbles?”

A long silence followed this. “I’d talk to him before the inevitable and do what he wishes while he could still make good decisions. I’ll tell you what to do for me.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Shoot me.”