The Hounds And The Fury

CHAPTER 25

Iffy’s remains provoked slight controversy among her distant relatives, none of whom felt sufficiently close to pay for interment. Garvey, pity overtaking anger, paid for cremation and picked up the shoe box of her earthly remains, an I.D. sticker on the sides. His wife, horrified at the idea of baked bones in the house, told him to dump Iffy on the rosebushes, reminding him that ash is good for roses.

As the bushes slumbered under the snow, the tops visible, it made no sense to squander the ash on the snow.

For all his troubles, Garvey retained his sense of humor. He gave the ashes to Gray and asked him to scatter Iffy on Hangman’s Ridge: “For if we dispensed justice as once we did, she’d have probably been hung.”

Iffy, placed on a shelf in the kennel feed room, awaited Sister and Gray’s return from today’s hunt, Tuesday, January 17.

Gray had brought her to Roughneck Farm Monday night, and neither he nor Sister wanted to go up to Hangman’s Ridge. They told each other it was because the farm road was icy. They couldn’t use darkness as an excuse, since the moon was just past full.

Slapping Iffy on the shelf, they promised to scatter her ashes and read a prayer. They would not speak ill of the dead.

At this exact moment, this impending pathetic ceremony didn’t enter Sister’s mind.

Riding Matador for the first time in a hunt, she thought this would be a good day to try him. Usually hunting was slack for a few days after a full moon, animals weary after the heightened activity of the time. It affected humans, too, hence the term “lunatic.” Tuesdays the fields were small, another good reason to test Matador. He wouldn’t be overwhelmed with other horses.

After the visit last summer by Sister and Walter, Franklin Foster up in Fairfax had said yes to allowing the Jefferson Hunt on his land. Since the hunt would clear trails, build attractive jumps in old fence lines, and keep an eye on this one thousand acres without charging him a penny, it didn’t take a genius to see the advantage to himself. The land abutted Paradise on the north and west; it was rough but rich in game.

Sister hadn’t pursued this fixture during the years when Binky and Alfred’s disagreements had flared up. One would say the hunt could use Paradise; the other would say no. She’d steered clear. There was no point in hunting Mr. Foster’s land if hounds ran into Paradise. One brother, at least, would be mad at Jefferson Hunt. Last year, Margaret, working as hard as a shuttling diplomat, had secured Paradise once more for foxhunting. That’s when Sister and Walter drove to what they considered Occupied Virginia: northern Virginia.

The Jefferson Hunt now had a fixture of seven thousand acres, counting both places together plus odd pieces surrounding those two large parcels of land. This more than made up for the loss of Beasley Hall except that Crawford had groomed his estate, built all the jumps, and been a generous host during his years of membership.

It takes a year to learn your foxes on a new fixture. It takes years to cut the trails according to the manner in which your foxes run. It’s a foolish master who rushes into a new place, squandering people’s time, energy, and money, opening trails, cutting brush and trees, and building jumps only to find that the foxes use a different highway.

That meant today she rode in thick woods, ravines unfolding before her. The deer trails proved useful. Discarded farm roads, saplings lacing through them, could be followed slowly.

Out for an hour. Nothing. Matador, walking along calmly, swiveled his ears each time Shaker blew the horn. She felt disgust about Iffy’s murder. She wondered, too, about the mound of frozen blood she’d found on Crawford’s land. Gave her the creeps.

Tootie rode Keepsake. Apart from wanting Tootie to hunt, Sister thought Matador would feel better if a stablemate rode with him. She had horse sense.

Tootie finished her term paper, but no one else at Custis Hall could keep up with her. Bunny wasn’t going to trailer one student and her horse to a hunt, so Sister had picked Tootie up Monday night. She and Gray laughed at Tootie’s stories; she laughed at theirs. Even better, she rose at five-thirty in the morning without being called three times. Tootie readied the horses while Sister made a light breakfast.

Listening to the horn, appreciating the silence behind her, Sister realized she loved Tootie. She loved being a mother again, even only a part-time mother.

Tedi and Edward, those stalwarts; Gray; Ben; and Tootie constituted the field. Walter usually worked on Tuesdays.

The mercury wouldn’t budge over thirty degrees.

“What kind of foxes do you think live here?” Trinity asked Asa.

“Lots of rabbits. Lots of everything. Both. Grays and reds,” he answered, his nose down.

“Hard day,” Delia said.

She’d put on a little weight, thanks to her extra rations. Sister and Shaker thought she could get back into the game today, as it appeared the pace would be slow.

Nothing is sure in foxhunting.

“Look at it this way, if we do find anything in this cold, it will be red hot. We’ll be on good terms with our fox,” Diana, always pushing for scent, said optimistically.

Dasher, who had stepped up to the plate, driving very hard now that his brother, Dragon, was laid up in sick bay with his wound, opened his mouth. “Yes.”

Cora ran over to Dasher and inhaled deeply. “Rock and roll.”

Hounds opened. Shaker blew three short notes three times. Given the thick covert, he couldn’t see whether all the hounds were on. He didn’t blow “Gone away.” He fought his way through the brush.

Matador, a little up now, listened to Sister. She possessed the gift of soft hands, imparting confidence to her horse through light contact with the horse’s mouth. Nor did she clamp down her legs in a vise. She had an educated leg. Matador appreciated that, too.

Both Betty and Sybil battled the rough territory.

They emerged onto an untended field, sumac sticking up out of the snow, spikes of broomsage visible. That was easier going, and the little group ran as hard as they could.

Surprised by hounds, the fox would learn in time what all this meant. Today all he wanted to do was reach his den. As he headed for it he leaped logs but otherwise kept a straight course.

As the small red plunged down into a steep ravine, a fine place against harsh winds, Darby lifted his head. “What’s that?”

Even Cora didn’t know what the sweet odor was. She slowed, waiting for Asa to come alongside. As the senior dog hound he might know, she thought.

“Don’t know,” he said as he kept running.

Delia, the oldest hound there, ran at the rear of the pack. “Hold up.”

Her wisdom went unheeded as the second-year entry shot past even Cora, who paused for the senior hound. Cora then stretched out to catch the pack.

By now Sister had caught the deep sweet odor. “Shit,” she thought to herself.

Gray recognized it. Tootie did not. Tedi and Edward, swept along with the run, glanced nervously at each other.

Five seconds passed. Then a terrible crash rising out of the deepest part of the ravine told the tale.

Shaker blew three long notes. “Come to me. Come to me,” he called.

A shotgun blast shattered the air. Matador leaped straight up.

Sister, with her years of training, didn’t even think about it. She sat deep, leaned forward, and pulled one rein down to bring Matador back down. She kept a tighter rein on him so he wouldn’t put his head down and buck after standing up.

“They’re going to kill us.” Matador sweated.

Nonni, Ben Sidell’s been-there-done-that trooper, calmly said, “Steady, young feller. Hounds will get shot before we do.”

Keepsake leaped straight forward but settled right down as Tootie remained calm.

Sister slowed Matador. “Ben, you’d better come up here with me.”

Gray rode on one side of Sister, Ben on the other.

Tootie, Tedi, and Edward rode behind.

Clouds of condensation billowed from mouths and nostrils. Sister passed a jutting ledge to behold a large still, broken glass and bottles everywhere.

Alfred DuCharme, shotgun pointing at Shaker, cussed a blue streak.

Tedi uncharacteristically blurted out, “Guess Alfred’s not such a lazy sod.”

“Get the hell out of here!” Alfred bellowed.

The hounds—unhurt, thank God—bundled around Gunpowder and Shaker.

Ben Sidell calmly rode forward. “Alfred, put that shotgun down.”

“Goddammit!” Alfred recognized the young sheriff. “Goddammit to hell!” He lowered the shotgun.

“Break it open, Alfred.”

Alfred did break open his shotgun.

The smell of fermenting corn nearly knocked Tootie off her saddle.

“Anyone have cut pads?” Sister rode up to Shaker as Betty and Sybil rode in, quite shocked at the scene.

“No.” His face was pale.

“Alfred, you’re operating an illegal still, and you’re trespassing on…” Ben turned to Sister.

“Franklin Foster.”

“…Foster’s land.”

Dejection overcame Alfred. “Will this be in the papers?”

Canny, Ben dismounted. Tootie rode up to take Nonni’s reins. Ben removed the shotgun from Alfred. “Now, Alfred, things don’t look good for you. If you help me, I’ll help you.”

A fleeting look of hope crossed Alfred’s craggy features. “What can I do?”

“The first thing you can do is destroy this still. Remove all traces of it. You wouldn’t want Mr. Foster to find out and nail you to the cross, now would you?”

“No.”

“The second thing you can do is promise me you will not do this again.”

“I do.” Alfred almost sounded believable.

“There’s more. Are you listening?” Ben kept his voice low.

“I am.”

“Did you sell to Iphigenia Demetrios?”

He cleared his throat. “I did.”

“Did she come out here to you two Saturdays ago, January 7?”

“Yes.”

“Was she a regular customer?”

“Yes. She’d pour my stuff in other bottles. She drank bourbon, too, mind you, but when she needed a real pick-me-up, she came to me.”

“I see. Did you kill her?”

“No!” He stepped back, frightened.

“It’s not so far-fetched, Alfred. She could have threatened to expose you, and from the looks of this, you’ve profited greatly from illegal liquor.”

“I would never kill anyone. Even for that. Because I break one law doesn’t mean I’d break all laws.” Alfred’s wits were returning.

“I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t,” Ben joked. “Any idea why she was so upset that Saturday?”

“Work. Said work wasn’t going right. Said she had no love life. Said she felt betrayed.”

“By whom?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Does a cell phone work down here in this hollow?”

Alfred nodded. “If you climb up there on that rock ledge, it does.”

“All right, here is what we are going to do. I’m going to call the fire department. Tattenhall Station is the closest volunteer station. I’m going to tell them that I’m performing a controlled burn here. I won’t give the circumstances. But this way, if they get calls from anyone, they won’t respond. I won’t arrest you, and I will swear these people to secrecy.” Ben nodded toward the field. “Are you with me?”

“Yes.” Alfred sighed deeply.

Not only was Ben saving his face, he was saving him lawyer’s fees, possible jail time, and significant damages to the state.

Ben walked over to Sister. “Sister, you are to never speak of this. Shaker, Betty, Sybil.”

They agreed.

He walked over to Tootie, Tedi, and Edward.

“Edward, do you have room on your trailer to take Nonni back with you? I don’t know how long it will be before I can pick her up.”

“Be glad to do it,” Edward replied.

“Tedi, Edward, Tootie, you must promise not to reveal what has happened here.” He stopped a moment and hoped Tootie, despite her youth, could resist telling the story. “This may have a bearing on Iffy’s murder. I need full cooperation.”

Each pledged not to tell.

He spoke louder. “Alfred, when next you see any of these people, do you swear not to speak of this or treat them rudely?”

“Of course.” Alfred might hate Binky, but he treated other people with respect.

“You’re going to drive me to After All once we finish business here,” said Ben to Alfred.

As the little group left, the fox, den up on the ledge within hearing distance of the clear creek below, thought this day memorable.

The hounds passed right under his nose.

“He’s up there,” Asa said.

“We must go in,” said Delia, now up front, as they were walking.

“How’d you know?” Dasher asked Delia, his mother.

“Long before you were born there was a still hidden in a stone springhouse not far from Tattenhall Station. Fox ran into it and so did we. Once you get a whiff, you don’t forget. The humans use different grains, so it can smell different, but it’s always sweet and thick.”

Trident, finding the smell gross, asked, “How can they drink that stuff?”

“If they eat spinach, I reckon they can eat or drink just about anything,” Asa laughed.

As the happy group of hounds walked up and out of the ravine, Matador asked Keepsake, “Is it always like this?”

The gelding replied, “No, you just had a special initiation.”

“Whew.” The gorgeous flea-bitten gray exhaled, which made Sister laugh.

Ben and Alfred smashed up what was left of the equipment with axes. Once Ben felt the horses were far enough away not to become frightened by the smell, he lit a match, and the place blew up like a tinderbox.

Alfred sighed deeply. “Best damn country waters in the state of Virginia, if I do say so myself.”

“Do it legally, then, Alfred.”

“Ah shit, Sheriff, I’d choke in laws like kudzu.”

Ben didn’t reply, but he sure did think life had become overregulated. He couldn’t enforce much of the law; he’d need an officer for every five people.

Enlisting Alfred in his search for the killer was one reason why Ben had let him off the hook. The other reason was that he wanted Alfred’s tacit blessing as he courted the old man’s niece.

Margaret didn’t know it yet, but Ben meant to win her. For him it had been love at first sight.

Once back at Roughneck Farm, Tootie took Sister’s Matador. As she and Gray cleaned the horses, Sister and Shaker checked each hound.

“Let’s give them a treat,” Sister said as she walked into the feed room to put down the troughs. She noticed Iffy’s ashes all over the feed room, the box chewed to bits. “Great day, Shaker.” She used the old Southern exclamation.

He walked in, the hounds were in the draw pen. “Jesus.”

“I expect she’s with him now if forgiveness comes as advertised.” Sister burst out laughing. “What a sight. Iffy all over the kennel floor. Who did this?”

“Oh, that’s not hard to figure.” Shaker walked through the swinging doors to the special medical runs, as they called the sequestered housing and runs for an injured hound.

Dragon, bored, had lifted the latch on his gate with his nose. He knew well enough where the feed room was, so he pushed through the doors. Couldn’t find any extra feed, since it was all in tightly closed zinc-lined bins. But the toasted bones were a treat. He’s chewed up the box, chewed up some of Iffy, and then sauntered back to his special quarters.

Shaker, in a fog this morning, had forgotten to put the pin through the latch that prevented it from being lifted up.

He apologized to Sister as she swept up what was left of Iffy.

“Look at it this way,” Sister said. “It may be one of the few times Iffy provided genuine pleasure.”

Dragon, hearing this on the other side of the swinging doors, said, “Bones were a little too dry.”