The Hounds And The Fury

CHAPTER 27

The party wagon swayed slightly as Shaker turned from the Roughneck Farm road right onto the state road.

“Wrong direction,” Cora wondered.

Ardent, who along with Asa and senior members of Sister’s “A” line was resting on the top tier, said, “Changed the fixture.”

“How do you know?” Delight asked, not impudently.

“Heard Shaker when he called me out of the Big Boys’ run. Trouble at Little Dalby.”

“What kind of trouble?” Diana, curious, lifted her head off her paws.

“Human trouble,” Ardent responded.

“That’s better than rabies.” Dasher, eager to hunt, paced in the medium-sized trailer.

“True enough,” Cora said, “but human trouble has a way of rolling back on us.”

Sister, with Betty in the cab, pulled the horse trailer to Foxglove Farm.

Straight as the crow flies, the distance was two and a half miles, a booming run on a straight-necked fox. Going around the land by available roads, it took fifteen minutes to arrive at the lovely farm, where nothing was done to excess, all in proportion.

“I hate to overhunt my foxes.” Sister slowly cruised round the big circle in front of Cindy Chandler’s barn. She parked, truck nose out, so other trailers could park alongside.

This crisp January 19 morning, Thursday, more people came than Sister expected. She had a very respectable midweek field of twenty-five.

Pleasing as that was, being forced to shift the fixture at the last minute plucked her last nerve. Anselma Wideman had called at nine last night to inform her that Crawford Howard had chosen to hunt Little Dalby on her, Sister’s, day. Crawford knew full well this would inconvenience Jefferson Hunt.

She changed the information on the huntline, simple enough. She sent out e-mails, also simple enough, and she called her staff to make certain they knew. Hunt clubs have phone lines that members call two or three hours before the appointed time in case a fixture needs to be changed because of weather or other events.

Needing all her wits to chase foxes, Sister held her emotions in check. She was wondering whether she could get away with murder. Crawford would be such a juicy, satisfying target. However, one murder was enough.

Walter juggled last-minute questions from visitors. He lent one an extra stock tie. The Custis Hall quartet along with Bunny, their coach, and Charlotte, the headmistress, were there.

Sister led Rickyroo off the trailer. Betty followed with Outlaw.

Sybil helped Shaker so Betty could assist Sister if she needed help.

Folding back her deep green blanket with dark orange piping, Betty, to lighten the mood, asked, “Perhaps we’ll have an epiphany, late as usual.”

“January 19 is a big day. Feast days of Branwalader, Canute, and Henry of Finland.”

“Think we might have to call on them?” Betty folded the blanket over, then stepped into the tack room to place it over an empty saddle rack.

“We might need to do that, but none of them are called upon by hunters.”

“I don’t have your head for dates, but I am a Virginian. Birthday of Robert E. Lee, 1807.”

“Yes, it is. And Edgar Allan Poe, 1809, and Cézanne in 1839. A lucky day.”

“Think there was an epiphany?”

“I do.” Then Sister laughed, her gloom lifting from the fixture problem. “But the Wise Men didn’t find Jesus. Their camels did.”

“Ha. Imagine hunting from a camel.”

“Think I’d throw up. Couldn’t take the motion.” Sister checked her horse’s girth and gathered the reins in her left hand, holding the left rein shorter than the right so if Rickyroo should take a notion he’d turn inside toward her instead of outside, which would throw her out like a centrifuge.

Betty did the same, and both women mounted up without a grunt.

Sister rode over to Cindy Chandler, who was on her tough little mare, Caneel. “Thank you so much for allowing us here on short notice.”

Cindy, a true foxhunter, smiled. “I love having you here.” She stepped closer to Sister, which pleased Rickyroo, as he was fond of Caneel. “Would you like me to speak to Anselma and Harvey? If you do it’s official, and you scare people sometimes.” Cindy could say this, being a trusted friend. “The Widemans don’t know hunting. They might finally understand territory conflict, but they won’t grasp overhunting foxes.”

“Do talk to them. Use all that deadly charm.” Sister joked gratefully. “I’m not upset with them.”

“I know that. It’s Mr. Ego.”

“We seem to have a few of those.” Sister cut her eyes toward Jason, resplendent in a hacking jacket made expressly for him by Le Cheval in Kentucky so it fit perfectly.

“Peacock.”

“M-m-m,” Sister touched Cindy’s arm. “Thank you many times over for everything. I always feel better when I see you or talk to you.”

“Go on.” Cindy smiled at her.

Sister saw that hounds were ready and everyone was mounted except for Ronnie Haslip, usually one of the first up. He’d dropped his crop and dismounted, and was swinging up again.

To give Ronnie one extra second, Sister quietly said to Walter, facing her, “You ride tail today. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Take Jason with you. If he wants to learn, then he can learn service first.”

“Ah.” Walter sighed, but he didn’t argue.

How could he? She was right. The look on Jason’s face was not one of a man being honored by a position of responsibility. It was that of a spoiled person who wants to ride right up in the master’s pocket.

Millions he might have, but Sister was damned if she’d be bought. She had kept Crawford in line for ten years, succeeding in getting him elected president—a good place for him in many ways. The boob ball, which is how she thought of the hunt ball, had put an end to all. Bobby Franklin, who had resigned his presidency, submitted to an emergency general election. Bobby, a good leader, had accepted with grace, tabling his ideas of a long vacation this coming summer. Betty was thrilled. Vacations bored her to tears.

There they were. Frost heavy on the ground. The sun kissing the horizon. Puffs curling from horses’ nostrils, hounds eager.

The horrid cow, Clytemnestra, and her equally enormous offspring, Orestes, had been bribed and barricaded in two stout stalls in the small cattle barn. Sweet mash liberally laced with decent bourbon contented the holy horror, who had gleefully smashed fences and chased people in times past.

Given the heavy frost, the mercury still below freezing, Shaker walked hounds up the slow rise to the two ponds, one at a lower level than the other, a long pipe and small waterwheel between them. Cindy had added the waterwheel in the early fall. Formerly the water had cascaded from the pipe in the upper pond to the lower pond. Now the pipe fed directly onto the wheel, whose sound as it turned was one our ancestors had heard for centuries untold, one lost now to the roar of turbines and internal combustion engines.

Those who had never before heard the mating of gears, the slap of the paddles, the sound of the water rising and falling off the paddles discovered the peacefulness of it. Those who had ridden at Mill Ruins had heard it before in deeper register.

The cascade produced a spray of droplets, arching out over the pond and turning to thousands of rainbows as the sun rose high enough to send a long, slanting ray to the wheel.

The moving water crystallized at pond’s edge here and there, but until frosts stayed hard and deep for many days the ponds wouldn’t freeze.

Grace, the beautiful resident red fox, returned before sunrise to her den behind the stable. Given the wealth of treats, especially the hard candies that Cindy put out for her, Grace had lost her motivation to hunt afar. Occasionally she provided a bracing run. Today wasn’t the day.

Grace glanced up and back. A blanket of thick clouds massed on the mountaintops. In front of her, the east, the sky was crystal clear. Very interesting. Very tricky.

Hounds picked up Grace’s scent at the waterwheel. The beautiful red liked fishing, a hobby she’d taught to Inky. The two girlfriends would sit at pond’s edge for hours watching the goldfish, big suckers. Every now and then, Grace would grab one or Inky would. The squirming fish sometimes gained its life by flopping right out of their paws and back into the pond. Occasionally they were successful and enjoyed sushi.

Today, a tall male heron, motionless, stood on the far side of the upper pond. With a jaundiced eye he watched the hounds. He wasn’t going to budge unless someone approached him. He was here first. Furthermore, he was hungry. He tilted his head, and an orange flash caught his eye. Fast as lightning he uncoiled his snakey neck and plunged his long, narrow, terrifying beak through the thin ice at pond’s edge into the water, pulling out an extremely healthy fish.

“Wow.” Diddy’s soft brown eyes widened.

“He’s an old crank,” Ardent jibbed.

“Sure can fish, though,” Asa whispered, since Shaker was within earshot.

Grace’s scent lingered enough for hounds to feather, the rhythm of their tails seemingly connected to the intensity of the scent.

Moving upward away from the ponds, hounds reached a higher meadow, where for fifteen minutes the sun warmed the remains of the snow, bare patches of slicked-down pasture also visible.

About a half mile away rested an old schoolhouse by the farm road. Aunt Netty had once lived there until Uncle Yancy filled the den up. Their former addresses littered three fixtures.

Cindy hadn’t noticed, since she hadn’t been riding her property in the cold, but a huge, leggy, red dog fox, Iggy, had recently taken up residence. The lure was not only the abundant supply of mice, moles, rabbits, and grain tidbits but Grace. He meant to have her. At this point, she was coy. Another week, and she might be in season. He was patient. She wouldn’t be so coy then. As it was, she maintained warm conversations with him.

Hounds walked up the pasture and jumped over the fence line, trotting down into the woods where an old springhouse still stood.

Most of the old farms kept their springhouses because they remained useful.

Human reasoning would predict that a fox moving down into the woods, coursing through a narrow creek, and going through the springhouse would produce no scent because the springhouse water would be that much colder, which it was.

However, foxhunting rarely follows the book. Expect the unexpected. Perhaps this is why foxhunting prepares people for life.

Dana, second year, gaining confidence, flanked the pack. She lifted her head, and a tantalizing odor wafted into her nostrils. She moved in that direction, going away from the main body of the pack. As Sybil was on the other side of the creek, deep covert between her and Dana, the whipper-in didn’t notice.

“I have something,” she spoke once but clearly.

“I’ll check,” Cora told the others as Dasher pushed up to take the place of strike hound. “She might be right.”

“Gets too far from the rest of us,” Asa noted.

“Shaker will think she’s a skirter.” Ardent seconded Asa’s concern, for both dog hounds thought Dana showed promise.

Skirters don’t stay in good packs for long.

Cora reached Dana and put her own educated nose to the ground. “Bobcat.”

“Can we chase him?” Dana wanted to be right.

“Sure can. Bobcat and mountain lions count. But here’s the thing, Dana. If we pick up good fox scent, we have to leave off and go to the fox.”

“Over here,” Cora called, and the others honored her.

The pack roared alongside the creek.

Sybil couldn’t keep up through the underbrush. Wisely, she pulled farther west to a cleared path so she could run parallel. Familiar with the country, she knew the places where she could cut back to get closer to hounds.

Sister at first thought hounds were on a gray running in tight circles. She, too, couldn’t follow closely, given the rough terrain.

Hounds sounded fabulous, the echo of voices ricocheting from the steep terrain.

Tootie, Val, Felicity, and Pamela rode at the back of first flight. Out of the corner of her eye, Val perceived movement. She turned her head just as the bobcat shot out from under the thick mountain laurel.

“Oh, m’God,” she gasped.

Tootie followed Val’s eyes, and she, too, caught sight of that unique bobtail, a forty-pound cat, booking along. He then slid into more heavy cover on the other side of the trail. Had the hilltoppers been closer, they would have viewed him.

“Say something,” Pamela ordered. She’d caught a brief sight of the bobcat.

“I don’t know what to say,” Tootie replied irritably.

“Staff!” Felicity shouted for she saw a flash of red heading for them at a right angle.

“Shit.” Val, in tight quarters, wondered how to get out of the way. “One dollar,” Felicity gleefully announced.

The whole pack thundered behind them.

“Shut up, you two.” Tootie, passionate about hunting, thought they’d all talked too much already.

Val urged Moneybags into the bushes.

Unhappy though he was at the idea of getting scratched up, he did as he was told.

Iota, Parson, and Pamela’s Tango, a stunning bay, battled their way into the brush in the nick of time, for Shaker hurtled toward them.

Tootie had the presence of mind to remove her cap and swivel in the direction the bobcat had taken, since she couldn’t turn Iota any more, given the tight quarters.

Shaker, face scratched by thorns, sat upright as Showboat soared over a cluster of mountain laurel.

Seeing Tootie’s arm extended, cap at the end, he called out, “Gray?”

“Bobcat,” Tootie called back as Shaker disappeared on the other side of the deer path.

Ahead of them they heard Walter, obscured by the covert, but they couldn’t hear exactly what he said, given the sound of the hounds drawing away from them and the rattle of dead brown oak leaves clinging fast to branches. Certain oaks retain most of their leaves until the bud swells in spring, finally pushing them off.

“Are we lost?” Pamela asked.

“No. I know this territory,” Felicity said. She’d hunted it more than Pamela had.

“They must be reversing.” Tootie strained to hear up ahead. “Let’s get out of here.”

“All we have to do is stay to the side, then fall in the back.” Pamela couldn’t cede anything to Tootie, whom she considered a rival.

“There’s no room. We can’t get any farther off the path than we are now,” Felicity observed.

“I’m following the huntsman. The hell with it.” Val shot out of her tight quarters and turned Moneybags to the spot where Shaker had plunged into the brush again.

“Val, don’t,” Tootie admonished her.

Val disappeared.

Pamela, hearing the field approach from one direction, the hilltoppers from the other, groaned, “We’ll be squished.”

“Pamela, jump the mountain laurel, where Shaker jumped into the deer path. Do it. Everyone can get by, then we can jump out and bring up the rear.”

Pamela studied the formidable obstacle less out of fear than to plan her approach. Tango was facing in that direction, so she clucked to the sleek animal, then squeezed with purpose as she slid her hands forward.

Tango, a scopey fellow, meaning he could jump wide as well as high, took three trotting strides and soared over. A small clearing provided enough room for him to move forward before he smacked into a copse of black birch, the trees close together. He stopped in time as Iota cleared it, followed by Parson.

The three girls sat there, silent.

Sister trotted by. Three velvet hunt caps appeared on her right, although she couldn’t see the girls clearly. Saying nothing, she pressed on. Soon the sounds of Bobby Franklin and the hilltoppers getting out of first flight’s way filled the air.

People shouldn’t talk during a hunt except on the way back when hounds are lifted, but in such tight quarters a word here or there did escape lips. The crashing about in the bush amused Iggy the schoolhouse fox, who had watched the drama from under a mass of junipers on a rise in the land, their thick scent masking his.

He stayed upwind. Hounds blasted one hundred yards beneath him, but the bobcat scent, heavy, kept them from even catching a hint of his, for potent as the junipers were, a tendril of fox musk might have reached them.

As Charlotte Norton and Bunny Taliaferro rode past, Bunny craned her neck to see her three charges in there. Pleased at their perfect manners, she smiled broadly, as did Charlotte Norton. At that moment it didn’t register with either woman that they counted only three caps, not four.

Once Jason and Walter had passed, Tootie clapped her leg on Iota. He cleared the mountain laurels again with ease. Felicity and Pamela followed, as Tootie had quickly moved up the deer path to give them room.

Before they could trot on, out popped Iggy. He grinned ear to ear.

“Tally ho,” Pamela called out.

“Won’t do any good.” Iggy sauntered next to them, using their horses as a cover and a foil.

“Oh, my God; oh, my God.” Felicity, overcome by Iggy following them like a dog, could scarcely breathe.

“He’ll duck out when he’s ready,” Tootie predicted.

“Smart for a young human,” Iggy remarked to the horses.

“She has all the instincts to make a great hunter, this kid,” Iota bragged on his human.

“Mine has no game sense at all,” Parson sighed, as he loved Felicity.

“Doesn’t need it,” Tango replied. “Mind like a steel trap. She’ll run a company someday and have more hay than anyone else.”

“Ever notice how some humans can learn and others can’t, whereas we always learn from what’s around us?” Iggy mused.

“Curious.” Iota had noticed this because Tootie absorbed everything, whereas the others, not unintelligent, only picked up what they were looking for in the first place.

“They need systems,” Parson, named for a practitioner of such a system, said.

“I think they’re born that way.” Tango turned his head slightly to avoid a hanging vine. “Damn thing.”

“I don’t. Heredity is stored environment. This fear, this need to believe, overrides their heredity. They don’t listen to their bodies anymore except for sex. They’re making a real mess of it, too.” Parson had strong opinions.

“Well, you must observe natural phenomena without judgment,” Iggy shrewdly noted. “That’s the only way you can flourish.” He stopped for a second. “Coming back. He won’t break into the open. If he gets bored with it, old Flavius will climb a tree. Mind you, he’s ferocious.” With that Iggy disappeared, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll cross his line and get you all out of this ravine.”

Old Flavius, the bobcat, shot in front of Iota, who shied for a second. Tootie, tight leg, stuck like glue. Her heart pounded to be so close to such a beautiful yet fearsome beast.

“Hold hard.”

The other two had caught sight of the big cat, too.

Two minutes later the whole pack crashed in front of Tootie and charged into the brush.

Confusion overtook them as Iggy’s scent crossed Flavius’s line.

Seconds later, Shaker, more scratches on his craggy face, appeared.

Pausing in the deer path, right in front of Tootie, he listened intently. “Two lines.”

She remained silent. He smiled at her and turned his horse toward the north, staying on the deer path. “Girls, follow me.”

Thrilled, they did as they were told. Not four strides down the deer path, Val fought her way through the brambles to fall in behind Pamela.

Pamela turned to see Val’s gorgeous face crisscrossed with scratches like tic-tac-toe. She stifled a giggle and pressed on. Val was displeased to be following Pamela.

Shaker kept close to his hounds as they milled about. Once he thought he knew which was the fox scent, he put his horn to his lips and, doubling the notes, urged them on to the scent.

First to figure it out was Diana. “Dog fox. Don’t know him.”

The hounds swung to her except for two couple of the second-year entry. The bobcat scent—hot, hot, hot—fooled them into thinking they were closing on their quarry.

Shaker couldn’t count all his hounds in the thick covert. He blew again, feeling his shirt stick to his back from sweat despite the cold. Hounds opened again.

Dana froze as Betty Franklin and Outlaw blasted into the bush.

“Hark to ’em.” Her voice, firm and clear, bided no stragglers.

The two couple squirted toward the sound of the horn and the cry of the pack.

As they scooted away, Betty paused one moment and said to her beloved friend, “How in the hell do we get out of this mess?”

“Leave it to me.” Outlaw lowered his head and pushed through tight cedars, brush, and vines. Tarzan would have felt at home here except for the cold.

Steady as a rock, the quarter horse moved forward until he broke through to the creek again.

He leaped down into the creek; it was a two-foot drop, but the footing wasn’t rocky in the creek.

Betty, trusting him, let him pick his exit spot. Little blue cedar berries, round, had slipped behind her coat collar. They drove her nuts, but there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. A few had found their way into her boots, too.

“We can fly from here.” Outlaw blew air out his nostrils, waiting for her command.

“I love you.” Betty patted him on the neck, then galloped forward, for they had real estate to cover.

Flavius, free of the hounds, walked to the springhouse, where he’d stashed some kill. He paid no attention to Sybil on Bombardier. The horse shied as Flavius bared his fangs for effect. Sybil flew off. Bombardier stood still, and she remounted, amazed that the bobcat sat and watched her. Sybil felt like prey.

Iggy led everyone on a merry chase. Needing the exercise, he didn’t head straight for the schoolhouse. He boogied to the twin ponds. The heron, livid that Iggy circled both ponds, lifted wide his huge wings.

“Scares me to death,” Iggy sassed him.

Athena and Bitsy reposed on the topmost limb of a towering sycamore denuded of leaves.

“It’s been quite a show,” Athena chortled.

And it wasn’t over yet, for hounds, finally out of that heavy covert, sped over the patchy ground, tiny bits of snow and mud shooting off behind them. Cora, first, flat out, circled the upper pond, leaped down to the lower, and circled that.

Iggy, a secure four minutes ahead—given his speed, he was in the prime of life—veered into the manicured woods, called “parked out” in this part of the world. Making no attempt to foil his scent, he then raced in a large semicircle. As he reached the woods’ edge, he kept to it, knowing it would be full of scent from edge feeders like rabbits.

Just as the field came out by the upper pond, Iggy came into view.

Sister, seeing him, did not make the mistake of an overenthusiastic field master. Her task was to follow the hounds, not the fox. She didn’t cross the huge expanse of snow-covered pasture to get on terms with him. That would have cut off her hounds. She stuck behind the hounds, which she could finally see as they launched themselves off the bank to land next to the lower pond, the waterwheel paddling away.

As “Tally-hos” sounded behind her she fought the urge to turn and tell them she wasn’t an idiot, she might be old but she wasn’t blind, she had seen the fox. Better yet, hounds, heads down, were on. No need for “Tally-ho.” Well, it was a large field. Not everyone knew her, as many were cappers. She pressed on, wondering how people can foxhunt yet remain ignorant. That flew out of her mind as she launched off the upper bank, a tidy drop jump onto the slick surface by the lower pond.

That would part a few riders from their mounts, thereby enriching the club bar. Off you go, and a bottle must be produced at the next hunt. If a junior you had to deliver a six-pack of soda.

The music, spine tingling, swelled, and she now saw Shaker come out of the woods followed by Tootie, Val, Felicity, and Pamela.

Jumping off the upper bank, Bunny also beheld her students. She’d get to the bottom of this when the hunt was over. What were those girls doing behind the huntsman? She was going to skin them alive.

Iggy, in the open now, treated everyone to a view as well as an appreciation of his blinding speed.

The pace began to tell. People fell behind. Gray, riding in the middle of first flight, moved up behind Tedi and Edward, who rode right up behind Sister. He didn’t feel it was proper for him to ride with Sister on days when there were large fields. It would smack of favoritism. When fields were small, he’d be close.

As Sister thought, five people came a cropper on the drop from the upper bank to the lower. Ronnie Haslip, a good rider having a bad day, broke his collarbone. Walter stayed with Ronnie, sending Jason forward in case anyone else went down hard.

“I’ll ride back to the trailers with you,” Walter offered. “Or if you want to stay here I can drive up here for you.”

“It’s only my collarbone. Tie my arm up with my stock. Hurry, Walter, hurry.”

Walter unpinned the long white four-fold tie and wrapped it around Ronnie’s shoulder, careful not to make it too tight as he looped it under Ronnie’s forearm resting across his chest.

“There.”

“Give me a leg up, Master.” Ronnie grinned.

Walter, strong as an ox, practically lifted the lighter man up and over onto the other side.

They lost ten minutes but caught up with the field in time to see Iggy dart under the schoolhouse.

Bobby put the hilltoppers just to the side of first flight so they could see everything.

Ben Sidell, riding with Bobby, felt his cell phone buzz in his pocket. He’d pick up the message later.

Shaker, blowing “Gone to ground,” effused over his pack. “Picking up the right scent, what good foxhounds. What good hounds.”

“We were good, weren’t we?” Diddy’s tail flipped like a windshield washer.

“I made you look good.” Iggy laughed. “Hey, I’m one smart fox. I live under a schoolhouse.”

Cora called back, “Okay, Professor.”

This would be his name ever after: Professor.

Shaker walked over to Showboat. The footing was slick as an eel. He slid, nearly falling flat on his face. Tootie held Showboat’s reins.

“Thank you, Tootie.”

“Thank you. I’ve never had so much fun in my life. Thank you.” Tears filled Tootie’s eyes.

He took the reins, patted her hand, “Tootie, neither have I.” He swung up, then said to the other girls, “You all can go back to Sister now.”

“Thank you.” They beamed and rode past Sister, all smiles, and joined Jason, Walter, and Ronnie at the rear.

“Let’s pick ’em up.” Sister would have searched for another fox had the footing been better.

They’d had a bracing day, been out for two hours. Best to stop.

The clouds reached them at last, the only clear sky being a thin, brilliant, blue stripe in the east. Pines rustled. Branches started to sway.

By the time they reached the trailers, the first snowflakes were dotting their velvet hunt caps.

Val, on hearing of Ronnie’s mishap, volunteered to cool out his horse. He offered her money, which she quite properly refused. She wanted to help. Tootie took care of Moneybags for Val.

“Mr. Haslip, if Coach lets me, I’ll drive your rig home and do everything. I’d like to do that. I’m really a good driver.”

“Thanks, honey.” He melted at the sight of the girl, even though he was gay. Val was breathtaking. “I think Walter will drive and leave his horse here with Mrs. Chandler.”

“Well, if that doesn’t work, I’ll do it.”

Jason strode over. “All right, Ronnie, let me get you up in the tack room.”

He, too, melted at the sight of Val, but most men are wise enough to not dally with minors.

Ronnie stepped into the tack room. Jason untied the makeshift sling.

Ronnie, feeling the pain once the adrenalin of the chase had worn off, joked, “Hey, at least you don’t have to cut off my boots.”

“I’d never do that,” Jason joked back.

Sister stuck her head in the trailer tack room. “Need a belt? Say bourbon and branch?”

“When it’s over.” Ronnie grimaced as Jason wiggled the coat off his left arm.

Sister stayed outside, holding a flask carrying Woodford Reserve mixed with 25 percent pure water.

Ronnie unbuttoned his shirt with one hand. What hurt was having Jason pull over his head the silk and cashmere long-sleeved undershirt he wore on the nasty cold days. Tears ran down his eyes. The cold hit his lean naked torso, and he shivered.

“All right, Ronnie.” Jason felt the collarbone. “Not my specialty, but it’s a poor doctor who can’t set a bone.”

Walter joined Sister at the tack room door. Val worked on Ronnie’s nice mare. She didn’t want to see the bone being set. People in pain upset her, made her feel helpless.

“Ronnie, with those abs you ought to be a cover boy.” Sister made light of the situation.

“Right.” He gritted his teeth as Jason put his right hand on one side of the break, left on the other, then snapped the bones back.

“Oh, shit,” Ronnie blurted out. He nearly crumpled.

Jason put his hand under Ronnie’s elbow, helping him to lean on the raised section in the tack room, the nose of the trailer.

Walter stepped in. “May I?”

“Sure,” said Ronnie, lips white.

Walter lightly ran his fingers over the collarbone. “Good job, Jason.”

“What’d you expect?” Jason smiled. “Ronnie, as you probably know, it doesn’t do much good to set a collarbone. Keep it in a sling. That’s the best advice I can give.”

“He’s broken that left collarbone twice before.” Sister handed up the flask. “First time was at our hunter pace when he was twelve.”

“You didn’t give me bourbon and branch then.” Ronnie’s color was returning.

“I would have if your mother hadn’t been hovering.” She noticed his shiver. “Boy, you aren’t going to get that pullover back on. I don’t have anything I can give you.”

“I have an old flannel shirt in my bag,” Walter said. “Better than nothing. It’ll be six weeks before you can get a sweater on.”

“Three,” Ronnie resolutely replied.

Jason pulled a Montblanc ballpoint pen out of his coat pocket. He produced a prescription pad, for he’d first gone to his own trailer and changed coats, picking up the pad, too. “I’m giving you a prescription for 800 Motrin. Take one in the morning. One at night. It’ll help.”

“Thanks.” Ronnie took the small white paper.

“Nice pen.” Sister admired the Montblanc.

“If you use the best equipment you have fewer problems.” He stepped out so Walter could come up to help Ronnie on with the shirt. “Walter, you want to tie him up?”

“That doesn’t sound right.” Walter reached for Ronnie’s stock.

Despite the short notice, Cindy Chandler had put together a breakfast. People brought in dishes. Most wanted hot coffee or tea more than anything else at that moment.

As Sister walked to the farmhouse, a little jewel, she had her own epiphany.

So did Ben Sidell when he called back the number displayed on his cell phone. Lyle Aziz was jubilant that the results had come in so quickly on Angel Crump.

“Her death certificate said heart attack. Her heart stopped beating all right, Ben. She was loaded with scopolamine.”