Homeward Hound

by Rita Mae Brown

  “But Dehner’s does put Thinsulate in their boots if you order it,” Cindy informed Sister, who had been grousing.

  “Do they really?”

  “Sure. You’ll pay more but then again Dehner’s is in Omaha, Nebraska. They know about winter.”

  “I always wonder how Genesee Valley”—Sister named the famed upper New York state hunt—“or Toronto–North York can do it.”

  “Me, too,” Cindy confessed. “But I think there are times when the weather is so ferocious, even they have to stop. I always heard Genesee Valley stops when the river freezes.”

  “God bless them all. It’s bad enough here, although I do like looking at it and it is bracing. I wonder about people who only remain in comfort, don’t you?”

  Cindy nodded yes, then stopped, as did Sister, who nodded in return to her dear friend, rode slightly ahead, given that she was leading the field and hounds were about to be cast.

  As Jefferson Hunt was on Cindy’s property, she could ride up front. Given her years of hunting, protocol would have dictated this anyway. But the landowner does have pride of place should the landowner be in the field. As Cindy had won the Eclipse Award twice in her life, the Oscars for horsemen, she would have been invited up front anywhere. She was far too modest to mention her awards or her hunt team victories in her youth. In Cindy and Sister’s world, only the insecure cited their achievements.

  Betty, home today with a nasty cold, called before the hunt beseeching Sister to call her the minute she was back in the house and tell her everything, everything.

  Weevil took Betty’s place on the right while Tootie rode on the left. Sister noted how the blond young man, seemingly born on a horse, looked at Tootie. Tootie inherited her mother’s beauty but not her mother’s ways. She seemed to evidence no interest in romance with any gender and yet, ah, and yet, Sister hoped. To be young and in love, euphoric, painful, everything at once, is one of life’s great introductions to the irrational, to a connection that can’t really be explained, only felt. She wished it for this young woman she had now known for six years. And as she was beginning to know the young man, gentlemanly, responsible, and bold, she hoped it for him, too.

  This reverie was broken. “Master.”

  “Huntsman, forgive me. My mind wandered.”

  “As long as your body didn’t wander with it.” Shaker teased his boss. “As you see, the waterfalls are frozen. I would like to continue to the top of the hill and cast at the old schoolhouse.”

  “Good.” She smiled at him.

  The small waterfalls flowed from two ponds, one higher than the other and each containing a pipe, the upper flowing into the lower and the lower’s pipe discharging directly into the lower stream. The upper stream ran underground into the upper pond, so only the lower stream was visible and it usually ran vigorously.

  Cindy discovered all this while overseeding these pastures. A thin vein of quartz ran toward a piddling pond. Knowing land, soils, and flora, she felt sure an underground stream could be induced to fill an enlarged pond. Then she got the idea for a lower pond and to open a water course up below it. The sound of the spilling water soothed her. Quartz was often a sign of underground water.

  Between the ponds a wide path, wide enough for a tractor, allowed one to ride.

  The foxes used the ponds to drink, to gather and gossip in warmer weather. Cindy often found fox prints everywhere.

  Upon reaching the schoolhouse, the whippers-in moved somewhat away from the pack.

  “Lieu in,” Shaker called.

  Hounds surged forward to the schoolhouse for Georgia, a gray, lived inside. She actually lived in the rooms, having entrances in the basement. Cindy, knowing she had a fox there, installed a cat door in the basement door. Georgia lived the high life because treats were also available. But Cindy placed them far enough away from the house so Georgia would leave scent.

  “What do you think?” Asa, the oldest hound in the pack, asked, his nose to one of Georgia’s entrances.

  “She’s still living here.” Dreamboat, one of the “D’s,” answered.

  “The way to find out if she’s there is to track her line”—Diana stood on the line—“away from the house. If it heats up in that direction, she’s gone out. If it fades, she’s in the house. No chance to bolt her out of there.”

  “Right.” Everyone agreed, casting themselves in a large semicircle just in case Georgia cut right or left.

  A line of scent track stayed straight but it was fading.

  Diana stopped, looked up at the sky. No help there for a clear, bright day made her work harder.

  Parker, wise beyond his years, suggested, “She’s inside. Why don’t we go into the woods? Maybe we’ll have better luck there.”

  Hounds circled the house. Shaker came to the same decision as Parker. He blew a little toot.

  “Come along.” He turned toward the woods below the schoolhouse, to the right of the waterfalls.

  The snow crunched underfoot. A light wind came out of the west, cold on faces. Down they walked, a slip here and there until into the heavy woods. The hickories, oaks, sycamores, gum trees had shed their leaves, the sky bright blue between their branches. All the pines, some boughs lower because of the snow still on them, provided a bit of protection from the wind. As they walked farther down, all finally were free of the wind, a relief.

  A thin creek flowed, ice at the edges, where it was more shallow, solid ice. This creek dipped underground at the edge of the woods and that was the water feeding the ponds. Hounds moved on both sides of the creek.

  Trooper stopped, sniffed a large fallen tree trunk. “Been here.”

  Diana checked it. “Long time ago.”

  Still hounds spread out hoping for scent. Perhaps whoever sat on the tree trunk left a warmer line, but it was too old.

  Deer tracks, easily spotted, dotted the paths, yet not a deer was in sight. Possum and raccoon prints meandered along creekside. Birds remained in their nests, some in tree trunks. All creatures lived on the south side of their trees, nests, wherever, for the wind almost always cut down from the northwest. Those animals like Georgia, residing in human-built structures, could make them even cozier. One could drag in rags, bits of discarded clothing. Georgia even had a stolen down vest she filched from the barn years ago when Cindy Chandler left it on a tack trunk. The vest was perfect. Mating season, beginning, would bring gentlemen foxes to her door. Georgia, at this moment, evidenced no interest. For one thing, she rather liked having everything to herself. Cindy’s barns delighted her. The horses spilled feed. Cindy might leave out crackers, mostly saltines. Every now and then if the weather turned ugly, Cindy would place a bucket of high-protein, high-fat dog kibble inside the schoolhouse. She’d open the door to the schoolhouse, set the bucket to the side of the door, then close it. Georgia had become so accustomed to the human she’d sometimes sit while Cindy placed the bucket in the adjoining room. Cindy could see her through that open door and vice versa. A few pleasantries were exchanged, then the human would leave. Georgia would make up her mind about mating when she was good and ready.

  The gray could hear hounds down in the woods. Occasionally a hound spoke. Nothing came of it. The weather, too harsh, kept the males in their own dens. As soon as things improved they would be traveling. The smart ones brought little gifts. The dumb ones just showed up at your door assuming a female would be thrilled to see him. Females are picky regardless of species.

  Twenty minutes of hunt-and-peck. Nothing. The treetops bent lower. Shaker looked up. Best to keep in the woods. Sister looked up, too, as the sound of wind in pines is distinctive, a whoosh. She knew the minute they left the woods they’d feel that wind clear to their bones.

  The creek meandered east. So did the hounds, but it really was useless. The huntsman asked them to keep looking so they did.

  Pookah, a youngster, puzzle
d, asked Ardent, an older hound, “Don’t they know there’s no scent?”

  Ardent, lifting his head a moment, replied, “The smart ones do but they can’t smell. They know from memory.”

  “A lot to remember,” the sweet boy said.

  “Well, yes, but they have good memories. Not as good as the horses but good especially about things they want to remember,” Ardent answered. “Ah, here’s a whiff.”

  Pookah put his nose down. “Not a fox.”

  “Bobcat.” Ardent took a few more steps. The bobcat had dipped down over the side of the swale.

  The bobcat tracks, out of sight to the huntsman, disappeared quickly, for the animal climbed a tree, came down on the other side, then repaired to his own living quarters. Hunting in such weather meant you went hungry a lot unless food was left out for you, and humans did not put food out for bobcats.

  Another twenty minutes passed. Shaker turned back after crossing the creek at a flat place, ice crunching with each step. The cracking scared some horses in the field but their equine buddies in the field got them through it.

  Emerging from the woods, a blast of icy air hit everyone smack in the face. Hounds turned upward, with the wind in their faces, too.

  Sister rode up to Shaker. “Bluebird day. Let’s go in.”

  “Well, we’ve had a bit of exercise and they tried. Can’t ask for more than that.”

  “Can’t.”

  Bluebird day meant a blank day, nothing a huntsman wants but it does happen.

  Once back at the trailers, Lafayette noticed that Clytemnestra and Orestes, snug in their barn, didn’t pay attention to them. Clytemnestra may have been a cow but she was not stupid where her creature comforts were concerned. Cindy left the doors open to their big indoor living quarters so they could come and go. As night approached she would shut the doors, plug in the water trough heaters. Anything that broke the wind kept one a bit warmer, and the cattle barn did just that.

  Blankets now on the horses, the hounds on the party wagon with lots of straw so they could curl up in it, the people walked to Cindy’s house.

  The aroma of food and hot coffee greeted them.

  Warming their hands around hot cups of tea, Sister and Cindy wondered what the rest of the weather would be like for the remainder of the week.

  “Just seems like there’s one storm after another lining up in the Midwest.”

  Sister nodded. “Cindy, can you imagine what it feels like to live next to one of the Great Lakes? We think we get snow and cold. Gotta be tough to live out there.”

  Cindy agreed. “Remember when you and I drove out there to hunt in Michigan? I gained new respect for everyone, including the foxes.”

  “Where does the time go?” Sister mused. “How about last year when we had ten days of seventy degree temperatures in February? That was crazy. My forsythias bloomed.” She laughed. “I bloomed. But it did interrupt breeding when the cold snapped right back. The foxes didn’t know what to do and neither did I.”

  “It’s odd, though. I know animals can sense weather better than we can. Do you think there was a time when we could do it, too?”

  “I often wonder about that. Have all our advancements blunted our senses, our animal vigor, so to speak.”

  Her phone rang. Cindy clicked mugs with her and walked away to talk to other hunters.

  “Hello,” Sister answered. “We missed you today.”

  “What did I miss?” She heard Kasmir’s voice, his light accent.

  “Raw cold.”

  “Then I don’t feel so bad. Alida and I decided we’d pick up all the things left here from the breakfast before we misplaced them.”

  “How about I pick them up in forty-five minutes?”

  “We’ll be here.”

  Sister clicked off, walked over to Shaker and Weevil. “Fellows, I’m going to Tattenhall Station to pick up whatever was left at the Boxing Day party. Can you take the hounds back without me”—she paused—“or with Tootie in case there’s a lot to carry?”

  “We’ll be fine,” Shaker said.

  “Come on.” Sister put her hand under Tootie’s elbow. “I need you to go with me to Tattenhall Station. I forgot to ask Kasmir how much was left over from the party. Just in case it was a lot, I’ll make use of your youthful vigor.” She teased her.

  Grabbing their scarves, their tweeds not really keeping out the cold, Sister cut on the engine and the heater.

  “Stop by the hound truck for a minute, will you? I want to pick up my down jacket.”

  “Right. I always carry one in this car, keep one in the old truck, too. The weather can change on you in an instant.” As Tootie got out, grabbed her jacket, slid back in, Sister said, “I need to pick up Raleigh and Rooster. Haven’t given them a ride for a few days because of the weather.”

  “You spoil those dogs.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve been thinking about getting Mom a dog. There’s a fox who visits the doghouse in the back, which we put up for the fox. Now she wants me to open up the back, put in double mudflaps, so if he should get caught in there he can get out. Well, anyway, she’s out there all alone. Do you think a dog would bother her fox? She thinks of it as her fox.”

  “Depends on the dog and it depends on whether she puts in a dog door for the dog.”

  “Something small and sweet,” Tootie replied.

  “That wouldn’t be too much work for her. As for the fox, of course, I want that fox to stay healthy and safe, so why don’t you fix up the dog box as you said and then build a dog yard for whatever you get your mother. That way the animals can coexist, but my bet is that the dog will stay inside with your mother most of the time or drive around with her in the car.”

  “Good idea.” Tootie brightened. “Chapel Crossroads is kind of sparse. There aren’t a lot of people around that are close. I mean there’s the Van Dorns but she doesn’t see much of them.”

  “Age is catching up with them.” Sister inhaled. “I never thought about your mother out there alone. Has she said anything about it?”

  “No. I was just thinking. Apart from the Van Dorns, Mom would need to drive to Kasmir and Alida. There’s no one at Old Paradise but workmen. All the other places are either up or down the road, miles away.”

  “You’re right. It’s a good idea, assuming she’d like a dog. How small?”

  “Small enough to crawl into her lap.”

  “I think she’d be pleased that you’re thinking about her. You two seem to be getting along.”

  “I’ve spent more time with Mom here than I did all through grade school in Chicago. It’s funny to be in my twenties learning about my mother.”

  “She’s learning about you. I expect your whole family has paid a high price for all that success.”

  * * *

  —

  While a good crust covered the snow, one could still break through, snow up to your ankles. The ground exhausted you. After two hours of meticulous searching, Ben Sidell and his team rendezvoused at Chapel Crossroads.

  “Let’s duck into the vestibule of the church,” Ben advised. “We’ll be okay. I know the sexton, Adolfo Vega.”

  He did know the sexton. He knew Adolfo would be half in the bag by now, sound asleep. Did the priest know of this affliction? Yes, but the older man kept the grounds and the tiny church in good order. He was never sloppy or rude when he’s had one too many. Also where would Adolfo go? Christian charity demanded he be kept on.

  The small vestibule, two benches along the sides, unadorned, felt warm. Heat, kept at fifty degrees to keep pipes from freezing, felt like the subtropics at this moment. The four dropped down.

  “Whew.” Carson Blanton plopped on the seat.

  “It’s a real winter,” Jude Hevener, another young man in the department, said.

  Ben, early forties, lik
ed working with young officers. He was impressed by their training, their calmness under most situations, just as he was surprised by what they didn’t know. Usually what they didn’t know was how politics worked. As a sheriff’s department, funded by the county, politics intruded on their work. It certainly controlled their budget. Still a bit idealistic, the two young men would become furious, spoke freely to Ben, about how when anything went wrong they were blamed. It was always the sheriff’s department’s fault.

  Ben would nod in agreement, then reply, “Get used to it.”

  Jackie Fugate, late twenties, never expressed that frustration. Her father, retired now, had worked his way up to detective. She grew up with all this and understood it. Smart, cool, quick on her feet, Ben kept his eye on her as he felt this youngster would climb. Maybe she would be the first female sheriff in Albemarle County, although the county commissioners would have to go through the theater of an outside search first.

  Ben’s focus was on the best people. He didn’t care about race, background, or gender, but a little part of him liked seeing those who had been denied these opportunities win them. His department had good people. They worked well together. He sidestepped the problems of large police departments, city departments where quotas, enforced as part of the legislation, created more problems than they solved. He was grateful he didn’t have to deal with that. He wanted good people and that was that. And right now he wanted Gregory Luckham.

  “Sheriff.” Jackie always addressed him by his title. “What about retracing the hunt from Tattenhall Station to where we started looking? Go backward.”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  She unzipped her heavy parka and smiled.

  “It will still be hard to see anything. I mean the surface of the snow is smooth. No big lumps.” Carson sank farther into the bench. “If he was grabbed, if he slipped off, well, you’d think some part of him would be showing by now. The snow is packed down.”

  “A human body would be packed down, too,” Ben told him. “It’s possible wind might have blown more snow on parts of the body. That’s why we’re here.”