Homeward Hound

by Rita Mae Brown

  Noses down, hounds walked with deliberation. A whiff of bear, deer, they ignored. Finally, they, too, emerged on the gravel road.

  Cora crossed it, dropping into the woods on the far east side of the farm road. This woods wasn’t as thick as what everyone called the Pattypan woods.

  Nothing, so she hopped back up on the road, waiting for Shaker.

  Once on the road, Weevil at his rear, Shaker cast toward the Old Lorillard place. Uncle Yancy lived there and usually offered a bit of a run until the clever fellow dashed into one of his many places to elude hounds.

  Along they all walked, the field out on the road finally. Although a farm road, it was well maintained with crushed rock.

  Tootie waited by an outbuilding, which the Lorillard brothers used for extra firewood, a closer one right behind the house. However, one can never stack enough wood in the winter. They could always fill the front-end loader with this, refill the woodhouse by the house if necessary.

  Dragon walked over to her, nose to the ground. His stern wagged. He opened. Arrogant though he was, Dragon was rarely wrong. The pack came to him and instead of running toward the house, they ran due west, skirting the Pattypan woods but crossing roaring tributaries of Broad Creek finally bursting out, for it was now a flat-out run, onto the cornfields at the westernmost end.

  Sister, keeping up, watched for any sign of movement in the standing corn. Nothing there, but then hounds soared over an old, large hog’s back jump. She followed after Weevil, found herself on her wildflower meadow, denuded, charging across, soil relatively dried out, all things considered. One by one First Flight negotiated the hog’s back, the first really big jump of the day, while Bobby Franklin had to hurry to a gate, lean over, and try to lift the chain with the handle of his staghorn crop.

  Before Sister knew it, she’d passed Tootie’s cottage, jumped out of that area over a simple fence, came out onto her back farm road. The fox had headed straight up toward Hangman’s Ridge, so hounds followed, as did she. The climb, not precipitous, was steep enough; by the time she reached the large flat pasture on top, the enormous Hangman’s tree in the middle, hounds barreled across it, down on the other side.

  Galloping down took a tight seat and good balance, which fortunately the Master had but not everyone in the field did. She could hear commotion behind her but she couldn’t stop. That wasn’t her job. Her job was to stay behind hounds and this she did until down on the other side of Hangman’s Ridge they screeched to a stop. She could see Cindy Chandler’s fence along Soldier Road, that’s how far they’d run.

  Hounds milled about. Horses and humans took deep breaths and those who had parted company from their horses straggled down, muddied a bit, last of all, even behind Bobby Franklin, who as usual shepherded everyone and kept them mounted.

  Weevil drifted to the side and rear of hounds. They didn’t turn. Betty, far ahead, guarded the road. You didn’t want a pack of hounds out on Soldier Road without someone stopping traffic. Luckily, there wasn’t much, but it only takes one car.

  Shaker cast in a circle very slowly. But no scent. Where they waited, the field full of old broomstraw should have held scent, but nothing.

  The huntsman was certain they’d been on a fox, most likely a visiting dog fox, but how did he get away without leaving a trace? He scanned the ground for fallen logs, checked the base of a few old trees down low: no dens in the bottom. Nor did he see any holes in the ground or under a large rock here or there.

  Once again the magic of a fox foiled them. What a good fox, too. Just ran straight as an arrow.

  Shaker turned, rode up to Sister, both of them still taking deep breaths.

  “I can cast as you say, but let’s walk to wherever that might be. Thanks to all that bad weather, we aren’t as fit as usual this time of year.”

  She smiled at him. “We’ve been out for two and a half hours. That’s enough.”

  “It can’t be.” Shaker shook his head.

  She pulled out her grandfather’s magnificent pocket watch, flicked open the gold cover, held it toward him. He leaned over to peer at it.

  “I would have sworn we were only out for forty-five minutes.”

  “Time changes on a great run. It makes me wonder about all those time theories. A pity Einstein wasn’t a foxhunter.”

  Shaker laughed. “Beats writing on a blackboard. So, Master, what next?”

  “We lost a few people running downhill. I would have thought we’d lose them at the hog’s back but they all made it. Why don’t we go back up, walk past that hateful hanging tree, go down, and you, Betty, Tootie, Weevil, and I can put the hounds up since we’re at the farm. Then we can drive over to After All. We’ll be just in time for breakfast.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” He tapped his cap with his crop, calling out. “Come along. Come along, good hounds.”

  “I’d get another fox. I’m not tired,” Dragon bragged.

  “We’d all get another fox.” Diana, his littermate, agreed. “But we’d wind up with only staff and maybe three people in the hunt field. We haven’t had a run like this since before the snowstorm.”

  “If the weather stays like this, they’ll all be right in no time.” Trident smiled, eager as only a youngster can be.

  “But the weather never stays consistent on the other side of New Year’s,” Giorgio prophesied. “Mark my words.”

  Pickens said, “We can hunt no matter what.”

  “Pickens”—Zane walked next to him—“we don’t need to be in a snowstorm like we were at Christmas Hunt. That was truly hateful.”

  “Hear, hear.” The rest of the pack agreed.

  Sister smiled, thinking the hounds chatty.

  Forty minutes later hunt staff joined the people at the breakfast. Others were trickling in, having put their horses in trailers or tying them next to them. People changed into their tweed coats, wiped dirt off their bottoms if they could. People had popped off like toast.

  Aunt Daniella talked with enthusiasm to Tedi and Edward Bancroft, as they had known one another for most of their long lives, shared many of the same reference points.

  Yvonne, encircled by men, chatted amiably as Tootie and Weevil reviewed the hunt.

  “How’d you find that outbuilding? I’m surprised you remembered.” Weevil complimented her. He’d studied maps as well as asked territory questions.

  “If I go somewhere even once, I almost always remember.” She looked into his bright blue eyes as though registering them for the first time. “I thought we were on a coyote at first.”

  He nodded. “Me, too, but then I hadn’t heard anyone say they’d seen one in our territory so I figured a red.”

  “Wasn’t Ardent terrific? It’s his ‘A’ line. Asa is the oldest but if you go into the graveyard, well, you’ve been there, the brass hound in the middle is Archie. Sister tells such stories about him.”

  He smiled at her. “She loves her hounds. That’s why I hunt. I want to be with hounds.”

  Sister joined Yvonne and the crowd. Gray came next to her, slipping his arm around her waist. Both of them had been raised to not be very physically demonstrative but she glowed—a hard run always made her glow. She looked up at him, thinking as she always did that he was one of the kindest men she had ever known as well as one of the most handsome.

  “And then Tootie cut out a back door, two mudflaps.” Yvonne continued, then held up her hand, the ring on her ring finger.

  “I asked the Van Dorns if they’d lost a ring but they hadn’t. I can’t imagine leaving Beveridge Hundred. It felt like home the first time I saw it and Tootie has helped me move stuff about. I hope this pipeline threat doesn’t upset them too much. But if you’ve lived somewhere most of your life, a change like that would be hard to bear.”

  “Hard to bear no matter what,” Dewey said. “And the land would drop in value. That, too, woul
d be hard. Plus if I lived where a fox brought me such a beautiful ring, I’d never leave. The fox alone pumps up the land value, hell with the pipeline.”

  “We’ll all probably outlive our money.” Betty laughed.

  “Maybe not all of us,” Dewey rejoined.

  “The point is to live long enough to be a trial to everyone,” Aunt Daniella, having overheard, called out.

  “You’ve succeeded, Aunt Dan.” Gray lifted a glass to her, as did the others, to much laughter.

  CHAPTER 21

  Crawford walked with the head of the Virginia Historical Society. January 26, cold but clear, allowed Crawford to point out what he deemed important.

  “We estimate two hundred bodies in this area alone. The radar has uncovered other burial places but this is the largest here on the east side of this slope. As the land is flat, the slope or hill somewhat protects the site.”

  “I’m assuming you will remove the debris.” John D’Etampes observed the heavily wooded area overgrown with thick underbrush.

  “Underbrush but I’ll keep the trees. With a little effort this will be a lovely spot.”

  “Do you plan to exhume a corpse?”

  “In order to accurately date the people in here, we will need to do so. What my historical researcher and I are studying now is what spot might be the oldest, what area the youngest? Do these people go back to immediately after the War of 1812? Others much later? Obviously, we have work to do. Personally, I don’t want to disturb any remains.”

  John took photos of the area.

  “I have a lot of visual materials,” Crawford offered.

  “I’ll take them, too, or make copies, but this is for me.” He took another photo with his phone, then looked up at Crawford. “Big undertaking. Perhaps that isn’t the right word.”

  Crawford smiled, pulled his collar up as the wind edged upward to about twelve miles per hour. The wind changed in the blink of an eye by the mountains.

  “The ground-penetrating radar has revealed garbage pits. Dumping grounds. Old wagon wheels, broken bottles, junk, but useful to understanding how Old Paradise was run.”

  “More buried people?”

  “Yes. If you get back in the Rover, I’ll take you there.”

  John climbed in, Crawford slowly backed out, drove over the fields to a rise above a tributary of Broad Creek. He stopped, did not get out but pointed to the land just west of this narrow creek.

  “The radar shows a small grouping of people. We’ve counted fifteen. Charlotte believes these may be the last of the Monacans who lived here, we think, in the summers, moving farther east in winter. Again, we will have to unearth one.” He stopped, cleared his throat. “My wife, opposed as she is to the pipeline, becomes squeamish at the thought of digging up old bones. She says we mustn’t disturb the dead.”

  “Many people feel that way. However, it is the only way we can get accurate information about nutrition, health, age. Did these people die of old age? Were they wounded in skirmishes? Could some of them have perished of starvation?”

  “Of course,” Crawford said. “It’s the only way. Marty, my wife, is a spiritual person. Then again, there are people around here who believe this will release the spirits of the dead. There’s a fascinating woman, in her nineties, who said to me, ‘Don’t conjure up what you can’t conjure down.’ ”

  “Voodoo.” John laughed. “Speaking of conjuring, you all have had your trials.”

  Crawford cut the motor for a moment, still gazing at the older burial site. “I can’t pretend I’m distressed over the Soliden president disappearing. The entire pipeline project is a hideous mistake. But the fellow who was found, he worked for me. He was a decent fellow.”

  “I am sorry.” John had no idea that Rory had been employed by Crawford.

  “Bashed in the head.” Crawford shook his own head. “No idea. No one has any idea at all. I think”—he said this with conviction—“I think Rory encountered whoever killed or kidnapped Gregory Luckham. Well, killed. Why kidnap him? We’d hear about a ransom by now. I’d ransom his life against the pipeline, were it me.” He shrugged. “Has people spooked.”

  “Small wonder.” John looked back out the window as Crawford turned around, pointing out things he felt of interest, explaining the outbuildings, the plan for rebuilding Old Paradise.

  “You know, I have to admit, the first thing I did when the radar got here was I had them go over the remains of the house. Well, there is only the columns, which you see, and the basement, which I have rebuilt. As soon as it’s warm I’ll raise walls again. We have the plans plus this place was stunning. A lot of people took pictures or painted it.”

  “I take it you found nothing so far?”

  “No. But I heard all the stories about buried treasure. Couldn’t help myself.”

  “I did a little research on Old Paradise myself before coming here. From its founding until right after World War Two, money rolled in like the tide. Then it rolled in somewhat sporadically and finally it didn’t roll in at all, it rolled out. And two brothers who didn’t speak. A strange place.”

  “Yes. When I saw it I felt an electric current shoot through me. I had to have it. Had to wait out the two brothers. Rented it first.”

  “You were wise. I researched you, too.” John grinned.

  “Ah,” Crawford replied. “Well then, you know I get what I want.”

  “Yes. What is it you want from me?”

  “A statement from the historical society that remains have been found here, remains of importance to Virginia’s history. A press statement and, if you would, a statement here for the TV people. I will arrange and pay for everything.”

  “Thoughtful. Wise. This will arouse public interest. Remember the excitement when the graves, new to us, were uncovered at Jamestown in 2015? One of the deceased had been a priest, not a pastor but a priest. We are pretty sure of this, which casts a new light on Jamestown. Then again, we will never know everything, will we?”

  “No but we can grasp the larger picture. I am, by the way, prepared to give a five-hundred-thousand-dollar donation to the historical society. I need your help and I do support your work.”

  “Thank you.”

  The two drove on, Crawford again pointing out this and that while John was already writing the press release in his head.

  CHAPTER 22

  Low clouds, mercury hanging in the high thirties, promised a decent day’s hunting this Saturday, January 27, Mozart’s birthday in Austria in 1756. Jefferson Hunt met at Whiskey Ridge, a new old fixture, ten miles south of Chapel Cross. When the hunt was first started in 1887, Whiskey Ridge was an original fixture. Over the decades it remained so until the 1950s, when new owners, opposed to blood sports, ended it. In those days foxhunting was a blood sport, although one rarely caught the fox. But by the 1970s this faded away, until today it’s only a memory for those who are old.

  The new owners, the Garnetts, new as in the last twenty years, appreciated the fact that foxhunters did not kill and so the old place came back onto the fixture card.

  And it was a ridge. One turned right off the two-lane road, drove through some flat pastures, then climbed about six hundred feet up to the ridge. The reward was gorgeous views in all directions, the backstop being the Blue Ridge Mountains. Cold though it was, it wasn’t piercing cold, so eighty-some people showed up.

  Shaker cast east as there was little wind. The field walked down the driveway their trucks had labored up, pulling those heavy rigs. The ground, soft, wasn’t sticky mud. Sister noted it would be slippery in parts but mostly the footing seemed good.

  Once in the front pastures, which staff thought of as the flats, hounds began working. Deer had crossed, a rabbit must have wandered out of its warren then hopped back in. Rabbit scent, fragile, wafted up hound noses, which is how they knew this was recent.

  “Thos
e little white tails get me,” Dasher remarked.

  “Come springtime, this place will be overrun with them.” Dragon kept his nose to the ground.

  The flats comprised one hundred and fifty acres on which the Garnetts grew good hay. No one worried about trampling shoots in January, but by mid-April, conditions permitting, delicious green blades would push through the earth. Good hay contains protein and sugar and tastes wonderful to many creatures.

  On the hounds walked, intent. Weevil, behind, noted tracks. He leaned over Midshipman, a young Thoroughbred learning the ropes. The tracks, blurred, became clear as he moved along. Huge great blue herons had walked here, no doubt dabbling in the large puddles as the snow melted. Whiskey Ridge’s pond, down low, filled with fish, proved a favorite with the herons, but any body of water, even a big puddle, excited interest. Weevil sat upright again, noticed that a few sterns waved languidly. He decided to move up a bit closer.

  “What do you think?” young Aero asked Tatoo.

  “A skunk.”

  “Ooo, wouldn’t that be stronger?” the young hound asked.

  “Aero, this line is old. You need to learn how to tell time. Water changes scent, wind changes scent, and this line is hours old.”

  “Well,” sputtered Aero, “what’s a skunk doing out here in an open pasture?”

  Tatoo laughed. “Looking for food or a girlfriend. The skunk was here in the middle of the night. No one to bother him. No other animal is going to kill a skunk.”

  Aero puzzled over this when Cora opened, others following. It was the end of January. January and February, the mating months, when the weather is half decent, give you the best runs.

  This fox, a male, was moving north and moving fast. Hounds, scent bursting in their noses, sounded like nature’s chorus. Bass voices boomed, baritones from darker to lighter, those sweet tenors and then the squeaky yip of a youngster whose voice had not yet changed filled the air.