The Hounds And The Fury

CHAPTER 16

The freezing and thawing, and a few days of mid-forties temperatures, made parking at Orchard Hill unwise. The nights stayed cold. The farm road leading in was too narrow to handle the volume of trailers, and there was no way to park in the fields, which would be frozen at first cast but possibly a muck hole when hounds returned.

Two hours before casting hounds, Sister put a message on the huntline number that everyone should park at Chapel Cross. The membership knew to check in. They were glad they did, because the area around the tiny church had been plowed.

Masters must be mindful of landowners, sextons, and other kindly people who call in useful information. Each year the hunt club made a nice donation to Chapel Cross, and she herself always gave the sexton one hundred dollars at Christmas. It helped that she liked everyone there, so it never seemed a chore to make the rounds.

Adolfo Vega, the sexton, was grateful for the cash and for the straw and manure that the members carried to his mulch pile. Adolfo prided himself on the gardens around the white clapboard church. He credited the manure for some of the result.

Any members not properly cleaning up after their horses faced a stiff fine, accompanied by a reprimand from the master. The reprimand was worse than the seventy-five dollars. Sister bided no disturbing of landowners who were friends of hunting.

Walter arrived an hour early to direct parking so no one would get stuck. The parking lot, not huge, called for maneuvering. Clemson, his older tried-and-true hunter, stayed on the trailer, happily munching from his hay bag while Walter, in his Wellies, got everyone squared away.

Sister and Shaker liked to park the party wagon slightly distant from the rest of the trailers. The hounds, obedient but curious, could be tempted to investigate someone’s tack room if the door was open once they were out of the party wagon. Trinity evidenced a streak of kleptomania. In the bustle to mount up, someone usually forgot to latch a trailer door.

Today, the party wagon parked behind the chapel in front of the tidy churchyard, snow banked up against gray tombstones. Adolfo, knowing Sister’s habits, carefully plowed out a circle on the north side, sheltered from the winds because of a double line of blue spruce trees. Little snow had melted, although it was packed down, so Adolfo, without realizing it, had plowed off the gravel path back there over dormant grass and had plowed over a den entrance. Foxes prudently dig more than one way in or out of a den. Even so, the medium-sized red dog fox who lived there was irate at having to clean out the snow to clear his entrance.

Shaker parked right over the entrance. Given the shade back there, he didn’t see it.

When the hounds bounded out of the party wagon, Ardent wiggled under the trailer.

“Fox.”

Before the others could join him, Shaker, thinking the older hound was having a silly moment, called him away. And Ardent, who deserved his appellation, crawled out. No point in getting into trouble before the hunt even began.

It mystified the hound that Shaker couldn’t smell the den; it was potent, even with the sun barely nudging the horizon.

Noting his mournful face, Cora predicted, “Don’t fret, Ardent. By the time we come back here he’ll smell it, and you’ll be golden.”

“I forget how bad their noses are.” Ardent fell in with the others as they walked down the gravel road, heading south and east to Orchard Hill.

The brisk air tingled in nostrils, on cheeks. Those who had slipped toe warmers into their boots had reason to be grateful. The mercury hung at thirty-one degrees but would surely rise to the mid-forties. The day, overcast, promised good hunting.

The fields and farm roads would require vigilance, for the surface would loosen with the rise in temperature, but underneath the soil would stay tight. Streaks of snow where the sun couldn’t reach looked like icing. In other places the snow had drifted so much it hadn’t melted down. But the general lay of the land was packed-down snow, with some bald patches due to earlier winds, all covered with heavy sparkling frost.

Puffs of condensation escaped horses’ nostrils, peoples’ mouths, and hounds’ mouths. A bit of steam lifted off horses’ hindquarters, but not much, not yet.

Sister loved mornings like this. Canada geese, many of which stayed throughout the winter, flew overhead, honking flight directions, their V formation later imitated by fighter pilots. Rabbit tracks were encased in the frozen snow and mud along with raccoon and possum tracks. Deer tracks crisscrossed meadows.

She felt a warm wind current as they approached the turn into Orchard Hill. Just as quickly she passed through it. Today, January 7, was the feast day of Raymund of Pennafort, who lived to near one hundred, going to his heavenly reward in 1275. Raymund, from Catalonia, had become a Dominican: a dog of God—or watchdog of God, if one prefers. The two words dominus and canis had merged together. Raymund believed in reconciling heretics, Jews and Moors.

With husband and son both named Raymond, Sister had always thought January 7 was a lucky day. The embracing temperament certainly applied to her husband in a more earthy fashion, but it truly applied to her son emotionally. His impulse had been to include, to find what was good about a person, to build bridges.

Those thoughts flitted across her mind until finally they reached a narrow covert, snaking along a tiny creek that fed into a much larger one. Ice crystals stood out in pretty clumps along the farm road.

“Lieu in there,” Shaker called. Then he blew “Draw the covert,” one long note followed by two short sharp ones.

Hounds dashed into the covert. Colder in there than out on the field, they nonetheless had the advantage of being sheltered from the light breeze swooping down from the northwest.

Trudy worked alongside Cora, her hero. Not as fast as the older strike hound, Trudy absorbed all of Cora’s knowledge. She wasn’t slow, but Cora could pull ahead of all the hounds in the pack save Dragon, her nemesis. Rabbit scent curled up. The bitter odor of dried berries and bent-over pokeweed also was apparent.

The sun, now clear of the horizon, cast long scarlet shadows. The hounds worked through the narrow covert to where the little creek fed into the big one.

“To the left,” Shaker called out, and the whole pack wheeled as one, working the left side of the fast-moving creek.

Tootie, Val, Felicity, and Pamela rode at the back of first flight. The custom for centuries had been for children, young people, and grooms to ride in the rear. On days when fields were quite small, Sister invited the girls forward. On the children’s hunt, adults followed children.

The reasons for this were sound. Young people could observe those in front who had earned their colors. Those members knew the territory, respected hounds, and nine times out of ten were strong riders. Watching how they approached a tricky fence, negotiated a drop, dealt with an obstacle whose approach had been poached, churned up like cake frosting, taught the youngsters. Being nimble, they could more easily dismount and mount up than many older members. If someone dropped a crop or needed a hand, the young were expected to supply it. Also, if there was damage to a fence or to anything else, they weren’t expected to repair it, but they were expected to remember. The person doing the damage was to report it immediately to the field master, even during a hunt, so long as they didn’t disturb hounds. But the young provided a backup in case the offending rider did not. In their defense, sometimes so many people hit a fence that no one was a culprit. Still, all should ’fess up.

The other thing about having young people ride in the rear was that everyone in front had also performed these services, watched the experienced riders, prayed for the moment when they, too, would be one of them: the hunt’s colors proudly worn on their collars, hunt bottoms sewn on their frock coats.

Hunting was a chain stretching back thousands of years. Tootie, Val, Felicity, and Pamela profited from the wisdom of the ages.

Tootie, fond of history, particularly responded. She never felt alone when she hunted. Ghosts rode with her.

Walking behind her hounds, still searching, Sister noted she’d seen no deer hunters. This was the last day of deer season, which could be as frightening as the first. Harvest had been good this season, many hunters reaching their bag limits. Anyone out today was most likely from the city. Not one orange cap or jacket flashed human presence.

A hunter needed a good memory for the seventy-three firearm regulations in the state of Virginia. Adding to the burden was the fact that each county also had specific regulations.

Hunting generated income. First, the state raked it in from the licenses, and then if the sheriff or animal control officer cited a hunter for a violation, there was that tasty fine, which was dumped into the county coffers. Without hunters of all stripes, states would go bankrupt.

Usually Sister could focus on the hounds, but when the going was slow, her mind wandered a bit.

She woke up, though, as Dasher opened, followed by Diana and Tinsel. They had picked up a line along the large creek bed.

Betty, on the right side of the large creek, loped along on Magellan and cleared a large tree trunk, keeping hounds well in sight.

Sybil, on the left, paralleled an old cart road, its ruts frozen. She passed a stack of pallets used during apple picking. A packing shed in serviceable condition sat near the pallets. The apple orchard covered the lands to the west, rising upward for fifty acres on the west side of the creek.

The fox kept straight as an arrow, but he was well ahead of hounds. He’d been courting, and having been unsuccessful in his designs had turned north, which meant he headed back toward Chapel Cross, where the tertiary gravel roads formed a perfect cross.

The field galloped through the western orchards and passed into the wide hay field with the one-hundred-thirty-year-old sugar maple of epic proportions in the middle.

The fox veered further north, picking up speed. The field, sweating now, cheeks flushed, cleared coops, rail fences, and a line of brambles entwining a disintegrating three-board fence. On they ran, hounds in full cry, ground beginning to soften in spots, for they’d been out an hour.

The fields, frost shining gold as the sun rose ever upward, rolled onward. The Blue Ridge Mountains provided a spectacular backdrop, the ice on deciduous trees and on pines flaming in the climbing sunlight.

“What the hell!” Dreamboat cursed as an eight-point buck shot right past him.

However, hounds smelled no hunters.

As they ran on and on, scent intensifying along with their cry, Sister and the field noticed deer moving past them or cutting at angles. No deer ran away from the direction of the hounds. If anything, they were running to the hounds. Four miles past Chapel Cross, galloping flat out, they thundered into Paradise.

Bobby Franklin, leading the hilltoppers, pulled up on a high hill for a moment. He’d fallen behind because the old gates, rusting on the hinges, had taken some doing to open. The youngsters in the back of the hilltoppers dismounted to open the gates. This was done in twos so no one would be alone at a gate, everyone rushing off, their horse eager to join them.

Bobby heard Shaker’s horn, piercing. He saw his wife flying across an open meadow with Sybil on the left. The hounds, tightly together, dashed over the meadow. Shaker next hove into view. He was followed by Sister on Rickyroo, his long stride eating up the ground. Behind Sister the field strung out, some already succumbing to the pace. The four Custis Hall girls were passing those who faltered or were pulling up, which was their right to do.

Just before Bobby squeezed his horse, a big fellow, something told him to wait.

More deer appeared, then a black and tan hound, followed by another and another. They looked like black jellybeans tossed over icing. To their credit, they weren’t chasing the deer. A few had their noses down, but others had come up on the line that Dasher, Cora, Diana, and the others were following. The black and tans had been running backward on the line.

Within a minute they smashed smack into the pack.

“Pay them no mind!” Cora ordered.

“Cur dogs!” Dragon yelled to the young ones.

“Be damned if I’m a cur dog, sir.” A black and tan snarled at Dragon, who snarled back.

Shaker, coming up hard, tucked his horn into his coat between the first and second buttons. Clear and loud, he commanded, “Ware riot!”

“Don’t worry,” Diana said, her nose down.

“Who are they?” Young Delight, baffled, yelped.

“Deerhounds. Pay them no mind,” Ardent counseled.

One black and tan, reversing herself to join the Jefferson hounds and run in the right direction, replied, “We’re foxhounds. We’re out here with a human who is a perfect fool.”

Dana, littermate to Delight, was about to reply, but the scent grew stronger. She stretched out, pushing off with her powerful loins supplying smooth power.

One by one, the black and tans reversed to fall into the tricolor pack. All the voices sang a crescendo of happiness that echoed off the mountains.

Sister now came up. Without faltering, she pushed Rickyroo on. “Jesus H. Christ on a raft.”

“Yeah, but isn’t the sound great?” Rickyroo flicked his ears back, then forward.

She laughed out loud because she loved him, because the pace was searing, the sound divine, the situation unique.

Just as Bobby moved out again, Jason Woods, perfectly turned out, galloped toward Betty. Hounds had turned toward him, so he pulled up, reversing with them.

Jason’s Kilowatt, though beautiful, was no match for Magellan, who pulled alongside, then sped by him. Jason labored to keep up.

Crawford appeared, hanging onto Czpaka for dear life. Marty, a better rider than her husband, rode on his right as a whipper-in, a position she had no burning desire to fulfill.

Crawford blew into his reed horn. A thin note escaped. Within seconds the doubled pack blasted right by him, as did Shaker, then Sister, then the field.

Sputtering, Crawford turned, only to find himself between first flight and the hilltoppers. As he tried to blow again, Bobby rode by him and hollered, “Don’t!”

“Who the hell are you to tell me how to handle my pack?”

“You look fool enough, Crawford. Don’t sound like a sick hen and make it worse.”

Furious, Crawford threw the reed horn onto the ground.

He had no choice but to fall behind Bobby, since he couldn’t catch up to first flight, now flying at Mach speed.

A fence row ahead, sagging, had a gap where one rail had long since fallen off. Hounds soared over, followed by Shaker forty yards later, then Sister, then the field.

Hounds screamed.

The fox, safely ahead, heard the music. This pack could wake the dead.

He cut sharply right, dipped into a wide ravine, popped back up, and skedaddled to the ruins of Paradise, its Corinthian columns majestic under gray, cottony clouds.

He slowed, flicked his impressive tail, and sauntered into his main entrance under the marble steps.

Four minutes later, all the hounds, jubilant, announced they had put their fox to ground.

Betty rode over but didn’t take HoJo when Shaker dismounted to praise hounds and blow “Gone to ground.”

Walter had ridden up to hold the reins, having been told to do so by Sister.

Given the cacophony and the strange hounds, Betty stayed outside the circle of hounds, as did Sybil on the other side.

Jason, breathing hard, rode up.

Betty said not one word.

Finally, Crawford rode up, Bobby hiding his laughter behind his gloved hand.

Crawford glared at his hounds, glared at Jason, and was about to bark at his own wife until he noticed she had a hound with her. Marty was the only one who did her job.

Sister smiled as her hounds watched Shaker for a sign.

The only ripple of discontent came from Dragon, who raised his hackles at a large, handsome dog hound.

“Dragon,” Shaker quietly called his name.

Dragon turned his face from the offending hound and walked over to his huntsman.

“Come along.” The hounds clustered around Shaker, but so did the black and tans.

“Where’s your horn?” Jason asked.

“Threw it away.” Red-faced, Crawford spat, now at the edge of the combined pack.

“Well, you’d better call your hounds out.” Jason stated the obvious.

“I know that!” Crawford, enraged, slunk down in his saddle, then bellowed, “Come on.”

Not one hound turned his or her head.

Crawford dismounted, so Czpaka walked over to Walter, HoJo, and Clemson. Crawford grabbed a hound roughly by the collar.

Sister, lifting her feet out of her stirrup irons, swung her right leg over, dismounting effortlessly.

“Don’t touch a hound like that!”

Crawford wheeled. “It’s my goddamn hound and I’ll do as I please.”

“You don’t deserve these hounds.”

“She’s got that right.” A beautiful black and tan bitch agreed.

Sister walked right up to Crawford as Shaker, still as a mouse, had all the hounds around him. “If you so much as touch one of my hounds, I will knock the stuffing right out of you!”

Crawford, vanity wounded and ego aflame, moved toward her. “Don’t tell me what to do, you old bitch!” He pushed little Diddy out of the way with his knee.

“Ouch,” Diddy cried.

Sister stepped forward with her left leg, her hands fast. She followed with a hard left, then a hard right, her whole weight in the punches.

Blood spurted from Crawford’s mouth. He spit out teeth as he staggered.

He rose and threw a wild punch.

Sister ducked and came up, swinging both fists as hard as she could into his gut.

He doubled over, then sank to his knees.

Walter, mesmerized by the sight, walked toward them, three horses in tow.

Shaker, pack still with him, moved toward her.

Both men were encumbered.

Jason leaped off his horse and ran between the two antagonists. “Crawford, we’d better leave.”

“I’ll sue your sorry ass,” Crawford cursed as he spurted blood.

“You just do that.” Sister was ready to belt him again.

Walter reached her and placed his hand on her right shoulder.

Crawford, helped up by Jason, cried, “Furthermore, you’re trying to lure my hounds away from me.”

“Smoking opium,” Cora said as all hounds laughed.

“I’ll sue you. I’ll see you bankrupt,” Crawford threatened.

Jason, loud enough for those close to hear, sensibly said, “Crawford, what do you think will happen when you testify that you were beaten up by a woman in her seventies?”

This had the desired effect.

Marty prudently turned her horse. “Come along, hounds.”

“We want to stay with them,” a large fellow replied.

Jason handed Czpaka to Crawford and held his hands together so the bloodied man could mount up. Czpaka, sense of humor intact, took a step as Crawford tried to put his right leg over the saddle. Jason had to run alongside propping up Crawford until he was finally in the saddle.

No sooner was Crawford mounted then down the main drive to Paradise, churning old snow and mud as she roared, came Margaret DuCharme. She skidded to a halt and got out, slamming the door of her little Forester.

Margaret pointed her finger at Jason and Crawford. “What are you doing on my land?”

Crawford looked down at her. “It’s not your land.”

Jason groaned, then turned on the charm, smiling broadly at Margaret. “We’d like to know the foxes, human and otherwise.”

Voice controlled, ice cold and loud enough for the entire field to hear, Margaret replied, “I will see you both dead before I let my parents sell Paradise.”

“Alfred wants to sell.” Crawford, rattled, had just let the cat out of the bag: he knew too much.

“We’ll see about that.”

Walter, Clemson and HoJo with him, walked over to Margaret. “It was one of the best runs of the season.” He smiled. “Thank you for allowing Jefferson Hunt on Paradise. Can I help you with anything?”

She liked Walter and replied quietly, “Thanks, Walter. Get these trespassers out of here, please, before I really lose it.”

“His hounds will follow ours. We’ll get them and him out.” Walter said this so Shaker could hear, too.

She half-whispered, “I’ll see Jason in hell. I really will.”

“You buy Jason’s ticket. I’ll buy Crawford’s.” Sister regained her composure.

Two egotistical men, pride wounded in different areas, seethed on their horses.

Marty, hound tagging along, rode up to Margaret. “I am truly sorry.”

“Marty, I can’t understand how someone as lovely and sensitive as yourself could marry such a…” Words failed her. Margaret threw up her hands, and Marty knew this wasn’t the time to defend Crawford, no matter how much she loved him.

Useless as tits on a boar hog, Crawford and Jason couldn’t extricate their hounds from the Jefferson Hunt hounds.

Another motor was heard in the distance: a big, booming diesel.

Sam Lorillard, in the passenger seat, eyes wide open, involuntarily smacked his forehead with his hand as Rory stopped the truck and trailer.

Sam emerged stiffly. Rory cut the throbbing motor and walked around to the back. He opened the trailer door.

They couldn’t get the black and tans to load.

Sister, on foot, Rickyroo’s reins now in hand, called out to Shaker, “Help them, or this will get even worse.” She then directed Betty and Sybil: “You, too, if you don’t mind.”

Diddy leaped onto the new trailer.

“Diddy, out,” Shaker gently chided the eager little girl. “Hold up,” he instructed his hounds, who quizzically looked at him and at Sister, then Betty, then Sybil.

“Kennel up.” Sam called the black and tans to him as Sybil and Betty quietly, with no fanfare, moved at the edges of the hounds who didn’t break.

Sister breathed a prayer of relief the black and tans didn’t bolt but loaded up.

“Told you this would be a good hunt,” Pamela bragged.

“Not over yet,” Val replied.

Watching this was Ben Sidell. Nonni, his gentle teacher, took it all in as she stood next to Bobby’s big draft cross.

“Ben, I’m old enough to know when hounds won’t hunt for a man. Those hounds will never hunt for Crawford—not even if he feeds them calves’ liver daily,” Bobby drawled.

Sam, soaking up the tension, clambered back into the truck as soon as the black and tans were loaded.

The big trailer also carried the horses. Crawford, Jason, and Marty dismounted and walked their horses onto the trailer.

It was against state law to ride in the trailer, but under the circumstances, Jason urged them to do so. They’d get out of Paradise more quickly, and the ride back to his SUV wasn’t that far.

“I’ll get you for this!” Crawford shouted to Sister as Rory slammed and bolted the door.

Sister didn’t reply.

Shaker, back up on HoJo, apologized: “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you fast enough, Boss.”

“Maybe we both belong in the ring.” She half smiled, referring to their boxing prowess.

“Hell of a combination.” He smiled broadly.

“Was, wasn’t it?” She couldn’t help but feel pride, even though she knew that worm Crawford would churn up mud.

Hounds moved off. At the edge of Paradise people could hear the big diesel truck straining.

It was nearly noon when they arrived back at Chapel Cross. This time the whole pack wedged under the trailer.

Shaker bent over, then got down on his hands and knees, mud on his white breeches. “Holy smoke!”

“Now what?” Sister swung her leg over Rickyroo.

“There’s a den right under the trailer.”

“Shaker, you’ve denned your fox. How about giving tongue?” She bent over laughing.

Sheepishly, he stood back up and called hounds out from under the trailers. “Ardent, you were right.”

“Golden.” Cora beamed at her friend.

Reluctantly, one by one, hounds gave up their quarry, who was unconcerned in his cozy quarters.

The field gathered round for the spectacle.

At the tailgate, everyone buzzed with the unusual events of the day.

Finally, at one, Sister drove back, Betty as her passenger.

“Wait until I tell Gray. Poor baby, he’s at the office, and Garvey’s there, too. Oh, they missed a show!”

“The audit sounds difficult. I couldn’t do that tedious work.”

“Since Sam’s accident, Gray’s been staying home with Sam, who can’t dress himself without help. Of course, even if he were with me, he couldn’t say anything. Gray is a very principled man, and really, most accountants are. I do know Garvey needs Gray’s report for the Farmers Trust.”

“Red tape. Pure and simple.”

They drove along, wondering what to do about Crawford, wondering how Sam could stand it, and feeling sorry for a nice pack of hounds who were being ruined.

A minivan, going much too fast, began to pass them.

“Iffy. What’s with her? And why isn’t she at Aluminum Manufacturers? This may be Saturday, but it’s all hands on deck at Garvey’s.”

Sister turned her head slightly as the dark blue metallic van flew by. “Is everyone nuts today?” She focused on the road again. “You know, if there is an irregularity at Aluminum Manufacturers, she’s the first one on the griddle.”

“I’m sure she knows that,” Betty replied.

“Wonder if she knew Crawford would be over here today. Her land backs up to his at that ridge.”

Betty interrupted, “I don’t think being a neighbor gave her the inside track.”

“You’re right. Then I wonder if Alfred knew. Someone had to know. I mean—would Crawford really be dumb enough to cast hounds here?”

“Big ego.” Betty, too, wondered. “Or he was set up to fail?”

They looked at each other, saying in unison, “Jason.”

“Makes no sense.” Sister shook her head.