The Hounds And The Fury

CHAPTER 23

Winter’s gray skies depressed many people but not foxhunters. Low fleecy clouds, ranging in color from pearl gray to gunmetal gray, cast their darkening shadows on the snow.

Sister sat quietly on Lafayette as the huge tree, over three hundred years old, on Hangman’s Ridge waved its branches in the breeze as if beckoning.

The fixture card, printed on heavyweight good paper, had been sent out before Opening Hunt, the first weekend in November. The Jefferson Hunt tried to stay close to St. Hubert’s Day, November 3, for their opening. Crawford had left the club a few days before Christmas. Today they would have hunted from Beasley Hall, Crawford’s estate. That had to be changed. The easiest thing to do would be to hunt from the kennels. Since foxes flourished around Roughneck Farm, After All Farm heading east, and Foxglove Farm heading north, it should be fine.

Like most masters, Sister loathed changing a fixture once it was in writing. She thought scheduling one of the hardest tasks a master had to perform. She hadn’t much liked doing it as a wife and mother, either. Those Friday nights when Big Ray, RayRay, and she had sat at the kitchen table, individual calendars open, the large hanging family calendar off the wall to be altered had given her fits. She’d worn out one big white India-rubber eraser each Friday night.

She missed hunting at Beasley Hall. Crawford had spared no expense in opening territory. Coops, zigzag fences, tree trunks lashed together, even a beautiful river stone jump bore testimony to his largesse. Crawford had directed the workers, although at the time he’d known nothing about siting a jump. Sister had used all her tact to make sure the jumps had a decent approach.

Foxhunters, accustomed to leaps of faith, didn’t worry about sight lines or ground lines, but they sure worried about footing.

This Saturday, January 14, Crawford would be hunting his pack at Beasley Hall. She wondered what the foxes would do.

Despite her years at the helm of the Jefferson Hunt, she wanted to show good sport for members and guests, and was a bit nervous before each hunt.

This Saturday she had riders from Casanova Hunt. This pleased her, as it was one of those four-star hunts.

She also had Vicki Van Mater riding Jaz and Joe Kasputys on Webster from Middleburg Hunt. This, another glamour hunt, had hard-riding members.

Having a check on top of Hangman’s Ridge gave her the shivers. The wind always blew there even in summer. Winter’s wind, however light, cut. The ghosts of murderers, mountebanks, and hard-luck men whispered along this long wide plain, high above the cultivated fields, the one huge wildflower field, and way beyond to Soldier Road, snaking east and west.

Hounds worked the large ridge, then moved down into the underbrush, tight even in winter. The horses used the deer paths on the north side, the old farm road on the south. The remnants of the colonial road, originally the road up to the Potomac, a hundred miles and then some, occasionally would be cleared. That ran in a big S down the north side out to Soldier Road.

Hounds moved that way; Sister walked behind them and Shaker. A sudden burst of wind sent a moan from the giant oak. Her spine tingled.

Did dead souls meet? Would Iffy join these men and spin her tale of woe? She wasn’t surprised that Iffy had been secreted over Jemima Lorillard. What surprised her had been that not one penny of the filched money had been found in her bank account, nothing in her house.

Ben had come by Friday night. She fed him fried chicken, greens, and cornbread. Halfway through the impromptu supper, Gray had arrived, worn down by events but bearing the gardenia bush in bloom as promised.

Ben rode out this Saturday. He needed the hunting to clear his mind, and it was his weekend off. In fact, the field, at sixty-seven, proved cumbersome on such a cold day. The ones in the rear, continually pushed up by the Custis Hall girls, grumbled, but if they didn’t keep up, then Bobby Franklin would sweep them up and they’d need to stay with hilltoppers instead of first flight.

Lafayette stopped, pricked his ears.

Uncle Yancy shot straight in front of him, followed by Inky, the black fox vixen, and Comet, her saucy brother. A collective intake of breath from the field followed by everyone with their derbies, top hats, and hunting caps off pointing in three different directions added to the confusion.

When the hounds blew through the bracken back out onto the ridge, they split into three different prongs. How could anyone fault them, for the scents were equally hot? Had one line been fresher than the other, the huntsman could have hoped his whipper-in on the side where the pack split could send them back. Today, Shaker faced an unenviable dilemma. As he reached the ridge again, up from the north-side deer path, he caught a glimpse of three brushes disappearing in three different directions.

During January or February, a huntsman would rather chase a dog fox than a vixen if one could choose. But Shaker couldn’t choose. Cora led the group on Uncle Yancy. Dasher roared after Inky, taking many young entry with him. To everyone’s surprise and Sister’s delight, little Diddy, showing her mettle for the first time as a strike hound, blew after Comet.

Shaker paused under the moaning tree, then plunged down the south side, using the farm road. He stuck behind Diddy. First off, he delighted in seeing this development. Second, he wanted to get the pack onto Comet. He didn’t want to run Inky. Not only was she a vixen, but her den was too close. Too short a go. Also, today was January 14. It was possible she was pregnant. He never liked running a pregnant vixen, even early in a pregnancy.

Luckily, Betty, on Magellan, was further to his right. She could push back Dasher and the young entry. Dasher, a biddable hound, might wonder why he was being called off a hot line, but he trusted the huntsman and he trusted Betty.

Sybil, on his left and out of sight, was still learning the intricacies of whipping-in. A brilliant rider, she was developing nicely. However, hounds would test her long before they’d test Betty or Shaker. Then, too, if they heard a reprimand from Sister riding up behind them almost like a tail whip, which Jefferson Hunt did not use, those hounds would do as told.

As it was, Sybil rode like a demon to get in front of Cora, a hound of speed and intelligence.

Cora turned her head. Why was Sybil, on her big bay thoroughbred, Bombardier, riding like hell to get in front of her? She was right as rain. She was on Uncle Yancy.

“Leave it,” Sybil called.

Cora refused. The human was wrong.

Then the crack of Sybil’s whip like rifle fire brought her head up. She slowed. Her concentration broke, and she heard Shaker’s horn blow “Gone Away” from the farm road. She was in the middle of the wildflower field, white with snow.

“Go to him,” Sybil ordered.

“What’s going on?” Dreamboat, second-year entry, asked.

“Too many foxes, but I picked the one who had furthest to run. Dammit!” Cora cursed.

Tinsel suggested, “We could go on.”

“Better not. Better trust Shaker.” Cora reluctantly turned right, heading back toward the farm road, a line of pines breaking the increasing wind.

“Good hounds,” Sybil called after them.

“Good, yes, but I picked the fox, the best fox for the day. Why, we could have run all the way to pattypan!” Cora grumbled to herself as she loped across the field to rejoin the center splinter of the pack. “What is Uncle Yancy doing over here anyway? He’s all over the place.”

“Ha!” Uncle Yancy stopped right in the middle of the wildflower field when the pack turned.

Sybil, trotting behind the hounds, turned to face him. “You’re one lucky devil.”

“Not with my wife, I’m not.” He grinned raffishly. “Had to get away from Netty. Here I am.”

Sybil laughed when he barked at her. That flooding sensation of speaking with another species filled her with awe. In a sense, the two creatures understood each other.

Bombardier understood every word and whinnied, “Long hike to escape your wife.”

“Hells bells, I gave her pattypan. I came back to my old den.”

Uncle Yancy’s old den, originally shared with Aunt Netty, was on the west side of Roughneck Farm, about a half mile from the apple orchard where Georgia, Inky’s daughter, now lived.

That was the last den where he and Aunt Netty had cohabited.

“Maybe you should become a bachelor,” Bombardier grinned, his big teeth quite a contrast to Uncle Yancy’s sharp fangs.

“You’re a gelding; what do you know?” Uncle Yancy taunted the bay.

“I have imagination.” Bombardier humped his back, kicking out playfully.

Sybil, enraptured by Uncle Yancy, had slowed to a walk. The buck brought her to her senses. She squeezed Bombardier’s flanks, and the two moved along faster.

Cora, speed serving her well, had already reached the main body of the pack. The others, not far behind her, joined in.

Cora came alongside of Diddy. “Well done.”

Wild-eyed with excitement, Diddy yelped, “I can do it!”

“You can do it when I retire.” Cora pulled ahead, but she said this with warmth.

One thing, she’d never relinquish her position of strike hound to Dragon. If only the coyote had severed his jugular. She’d think about training Diddy. Somewhere down the line they’d both have to deal with Dragon.

Dasher, pushed back by Betty, now joined the pack, too. Inky had popped into her den just as Betty rode near the northernmost splinter of the pack.

He stuck his head in Inky’s den to prove what he’d done. Betty told him he was really wonderful but he’d better yank his head out of that den and get to Shaker.

Once the two groups had joined the chase after Comet, Shaker blew the long note followed by three short ones. They were all on.

The sixty-seven riders, amazed at their good fortune, contended with the packed snow, the patches of ice, and the splotches of frozen mud churned up during the short thaw earlier in the week.

Faces flushed, they were breathing hard, and sweat soaked their backs even though the temperature was barely nudging forty degrees. Comet raced straight down the farm road in full view. He had a head start and trusted his fleet paws as well as his cunning.

His special treat for them today was to run for the trailers. He ran in the back door of one big rig and out the tack room door, swinging open. Two minutes later the pack did the same, except that they jammed in the tack room door, and that slowed them down.

He ran into Joe Kasputys’ rig, heard Caesar, the German shepherd, bark from the truck cab, and quickly bolted out of that trailer. When the hounds hurtled into the trailer it rocked back and forth. This plucked Caesar’s last nerve.

Next Comet ran around the kennels, which sent every hound not hunting that day into a frenzy. The cacophony was deafening and confusing because it took some time for Shaker to recognize where the pack was once the hounds were on the other side of the kennel.

He managed to pick his way around it and realized the pack was blowing through the orchard. A few unpicked apples rested under the snow. One couldn’t race through there. The horses carefully walked through, emerging back out on the farm road.

However, a few hounds stopped by Georgia’s den. This also cost time. Georgia, relaxing, became irritated when two hounds dug at her main entrance.

Betty had to push them on.

Back together again, the pack now leaped over some old hedges, neatly trimmed. They crisscrossed the farm road three times, jumping those same hedges, as did the field.

Comet, in his glory, thought to run through the wildflower field but decided against it in case there were drifts. Much as he wanted to show himself to the humans and rub his superiority in their faces, he prudently blasted down the farm road, just nipped through the corner of the apple orchard again, then snaked through the trailers, causing pandemonium once more as hounds rattled through shining aluminum trailers, older steel ones, and one big old horse van, rarely seen among foxhunters these days.

After this display of agility, he made a beeline for Sister’s house.

Golly, not a cold-weather girl, had been out for her constitutional. The racket intrigued her, so she sat on the back stoop to watch the show. Her cat door, not far, reassured her she could escape if need be.

Comet, seeing the snotty cat, ran straight for her. “I’m going to get you.”

“Oh, balls, Comet.” Golly turned and ducked into her door, the flap closing as the magnetic strips touched each other.

Comet easily fit through the same door.

Facing Golly in the mud room, he heard Raleigh and Rooster come to life on the other side of the kitchen door.

Golly, frozen in astonishment, puffed up to twice her size. She danced sideways.

“You look like a broody hen,” Comet laughed.

“I’ll scratch your eyes out.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll pop through that second cat door there and tell those idiot dogs how smart I am. And how generous. I could bite you in two.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Golly hissed a spectacular shower of droplets.

He stepped toward her.

She backed right up to the door as Raleigh tried to poke his head through the cat door.

“Raleigh, you dolt. I need to get through.”

Raleigh withdrew his head. Golly turned and shot through the door, then hit Raleigh on the nose as hard as she could.

He screamed as bright red blood drops appeared on his moist black nose. “Harpy!”

“You were in my way. Comet out there could have bitten me, although I would have hit him, too.”

Comet, flamboyant stinker, stuck his head through the door. “Domesticated twits.”

Rooster lunged for him, but Comet just stepped back.

“You’re lucky I’m on the other side of this door. I’d tear you limb from limb,” the harrier threatened.

“Dream on, fatty.” Comet then sat back down to groom his tail while the entire pack hit the door like a tricolor avalanche. Couldn’t get in, of course. This pleased the gray fox immensely. Sister wouldn’t open the door. He was as safe as if he’d been in his own den, a half mile away.

Shaker, flummoxed, a rare occurrence, lifted both feet out of the stirrups, vaulting off HoJo, who, curious, stepped up after Shaker to get closer.

Shaker looked to Sister.

“Blow ‘gone to ground.’” She laughed.

He lifted the horn to his lips, the happy notes filling the air along with the cries of the pack, Raleigh and Rooster’s howls, and the voices of the entire kennel.

Golly hollered at the top of her considerable lungs, “I denned the fox!”

This shut up Rooster for a second. “You did.”

“Oh, Christ, Rooster, there will be no living with her now,” Raleigh moaned.

“Now? There’s never been any living with her.”

“I am the Queen of All I Survey.” Golly sashayed to the cat door and stuck her head out. “You’re the asshole.”

Lightning fast, Comet lunged for her. She reeled backward, falling over herself.

He now stuck his head through the cat door. “I’m the boss. You’re the applesauce.”

As the house pets endured Comet’s doggerel, Sister said, “Let’s pick them up, Shaker. I don’t believe we’ve ever had a day like this. Best to stop while ahead.”

“Want to go into the house? Through the front door,” Shaker laughed. “I’ll hold Lafayette.”

“No. I don’t hear crashing about. I expect he is availing himself of the dog food in the mud room. I’ll let him out later if he doesn’t leave of his own free will.”

With some effort, as the hounds were terribly thrilled with this new type of den, Shaker, Betty, and Sybil managed to walk them to the kennels.

No sooner were they all in than Comet slipped out through the outside cat door to sit on the stoop. Leaving was the furthest thing from his mind.

“Tally ho,” Tootie whispered, taking off her hat.

As she was back at the Custis Hall trailer, Val, Felicity, and Pamela turned, also removing their caps.

Vicki Van Mater noticed and took off her cap. Joe Kasputys followed suit.

The babble of human voices subsided. Everyone turned. Even the hounds in the kennel runs who could see that side of the house watched in amazement.

Finally, Sister, having dismounted, stepped forward. She removed her cap, bowed, and swept her cap before her with an actor’s grand flourish. “I salute you, Comet.”

Smiling, he walked down the steps, took in this tribute, then walked around the house and vanished as only a fox can do.

The humans cheered.

Walter, buoyant, raised both arms over his head. “Well, we’ve cheered the fox. How about three cheers for the hounds!”

After three lusty cheers, the people wiped down their horses and removed their bridles. Some took off the saddles; others loosened the girths but allowed the saddles to stay on the horses’ backs. As the horses cooled down, their riders threw blankets over them.

The hunt breakfast was potluck. People gingerly negotiated the snow, dishes in hand.

No one could miss Comet’s scent when they hung their coats in the mud room.

Raleigh and Rooster, let out, tried to pick up the wily fellow’s trail. No luck.

Golly, meanwhile, told everyone within earshot of her valor.

Excitement bubbled over along with the coffeepot.

Few mentioned Iffy. She hadn’t been a part of the club, although Sorrel, Walter’s steady, expressed her sympathy to Jason on losing Iffy.

“Thank you,” he replied. “She turned the corner.” He drank a hot toddy, then spoke again. “One of the things about our profession”—he nodded toward Walter—“is you must accept death.”

“I suppose, but Walter hates to lose a patient.”

“I do too, but Sorrel, there’s a time to live and a time to die.” Then he smiled. “You know what’s worse than death? The paperwork!”

Tootie patted her britches pocket. The lockback knife Sister had given her was there. She hadn’t expected anything for leading back Aztec on Thursday and was delighted with the beautiful knife.

A foxhunter should always have a pocket knife in a coat or britches pocket.

The girls talked with one another. Pamela felt more of the group these days, although she could still get on their nerves, especially Val’s. She did, however, give each of them a steel-tipped stock pin from Horse Country, as promised.

Sister pulled Walter to the side. “Haven’t had a minute to talk to you.”

“What a day.”

“Was, wasn’t it?” She touched glasses with him.

Tedi came up. “I feel twenty-one again.”

“Me too.” Sister laughed. “Today is Felix of Nola’s feast day. I remember because of Nola.”

“How do you remember these things? What did Felix do?” Walter grinned.

“Survived torture and persecution in the third century AD, going on to perform conversions and miracles. Died 260 AD.”

“Every day is a miracle.” Tedi beamed.

“Today certainly was.” Walter noticed Sorrel motioning to him. “Excuse me.”

The phone rang. Val, next to it, picked it up and cupped her head over the receiver. “Sister,” she called over the din. “Sam.”

Sister pushed through the crowd, listened, then hung up the phone as Gray walked over to her. She started laughing. “Crawford has hounds out all over the country. Sam asks if we see any, would we pick them up.” She asked for silence, then added, “You can take them to the barn in the back.”

“Damned if I’ll help Crawford,” a member groused.

“Hounds first,” Sister simply replied.

Margaret DuCharme slipped in the back door. Her eyes watered a bit from Comet’s signature odor. She found Ben. Sister had invited her and told her that no one thought for a second she had anything to do with Iffy’s disappearance. However, it was damned inconvenient that Iffy’s wheelchair had been in her SUV. With Iffy dead it became quite upsetting.

Sister had asked her to come for Ben. She’d noticed their connection at the New Year’s party. And she really did want Margaret to know she was above suspicion. No one was pointing the finger at her.

They were pointing it at Golly, who had soared onto the table, grabbed a succulent slice of ham, and jumped off, racing upstairs with her prize.

“That damned cat!” Sister couldn’t get through the crowd to smack Golly’s bottom.

Ben’s cell phone rang as he was talking with Margaret. He flipped it open and recognized the number. “Excuse me, Margaret.” He listened, said little, then flipped the phone back. “We have permission from Angel’s great-niece in Richmond. That saves time.”

“Permission for what?” Margaret asked.

“To exhume Angel Crump.”