Homeward Hound

by Rita Mae Brown

  “You might be on to something.” Gray, boots off, enjoyed the warmth in his feet as both men sat near the fire. “If Ben finds anything, that would sure help.”

  But Ben and his crew weren’t finding anything. Granted, they still had three large quadrants yet to search but with those cadaver dogs and the handlers it seemed something should show up.

  CHAPTER 26

  True to its name, Muster Meadow’s lower acres were made for drilling. Hounds left the flat meadows unaware of the history therein but quite aware of a promising day. Low gray clouds, fluffy, a steady temperature of 42ºF with promise of falling later, would have appeared a dull, dreary day to most people yet looked wonderful to foxhunters. Little wind, no rain, sleet, or snow, at least not yet, soft footing. All the snow and moisture, freezing and thawing, dried out the earth, but not so much that one was running on brick.

  The meadows, surrounded by woods and higher meadows beyond that, gave foxes chances to observe everything below them, places to scamper, and enough scattered outbuildings to give hounds fits.

  Weevil, Betty on his right, Tootie on his left, started out circling the lower pastures. His horn work, a bit garbled as he was nervous, did clear into distinct notes. He thought scent might hold on those lower meadows. Traces of fox clung to the edges but the quarry moved off the lowlands upon hearing the rumble of the big diesel truck engines.

  While only two hundred and fifty acres, Muster Meadow adjoined other farms that Jefferson Hunt could use, so it provided opportunities for sport.

  Some people took off work to support the young man in his first time carrying the horn. All those people could make a person nervous but Sister, next to Weevil, before the first cast, said to him, “The late, great Fred Duncan who hunted hounds at Warrenton, before that whipping-in to Dickie Bywaters”—she named the man, Bywaters, considered by many to be the finest American huntsman immediately after World War II—“not a man given to lots of gabble. Anyway, Fred said, ‘Hunt your hounds and don’t look back.’ ” She smiled at him as he drew a deep breath. “Thank you for taking this on, Weevil, and no matter what, have a glorious time.”

  He smiled back, white teeth gleaming, tapped his horn to his helmet, Ray’s horn, looked down at the hounds who looked up.

  “He knows our names,” Asa, the ballast, told the others. “Help him out.”

  Pookah looked up at the handsome fellow, his eyes big with wonder. “His voice is different.”

  “Lieu in. Lieu in,” Weevil sang out to them.

  “Let’s do what he says,” Diana ordered everyone. “Come on, we’re here to find foxes. It will all work out.”

  Hounds moved forward, a hop-a-long pace, noses down. Reaching the farm road curving upward, Parker stopped, moved again, stopped again. He wanted to be sure; his stern flipped a little.

  “Whatcha’ got?” Thimble came alongside, sniffed then uttered, “Oooh.”

  The others gathered, milling about. Cora held her head up after a deep sniff. “Take the dog fox.”

  Two foxes crossed, conversed, one a vixen and one a dog fox. Perhaps it wasn’t romance because he didn’t follow her as she dipped down toward the meadows. Then again, did they make a future assignation? Vixens could be highly peculiar when in season. They looked the boys over, not mating with the first fox who came along. Humans chalked this up to where the vixen was in her estrous cycle. Perhaps she wasn’t fully ready. The vixen thought otherwise but then humans really had no estrous cycle like other mammals. This explained many of their problems. She, the vixen, had ample time to consider what she wanted to do, with whom she wished to do it, and if she wished to mate at all. Again, humans believe hormones drive everything. Up to a point. A vixen isn’t going to mate with a male she doesn’t like. For one thing, she doesn’t lack for callers. If she likes the fellow, if the dog fox is smart enough to bring food or other gifts, then she may choose him and he will stick with her until the fox cubs are big enough to leave the den. There are dog foxes who stay when the youngsters leave and there are those that go. Foxes do as they please. Humans attempt to make rules about what those foxes are doing.

  The hounds, on the other hand, closer to clear thinking, jumped to no conclusions. They could smell that two foxes sat in each other’s company for perhaps forty minutes and recently. The scent was lifting off the dirt farm road with packed-down grass in the middle, dead but life was underneath.

  The pack headed upward as scent intensified. They spoke at once, began running, and the running turned to flying.

  Weevil blew “Gone Away” as Matador stretched out, thrilled to be galloping behind a fast pack.

  Up and over an old stone fence probably laid back during the Revolutionary War. A well-tended stone fence lasts forever.

  Sister, Rickyroo underneath, easily cleared the three-foot fence. Not all that big but big enough for a first fence. Woke everyone up and that fox led them along the farm road, up through the woods’ edge, then away from the woods across a high meadow where a coop with a rider atop kept the cattle in.

  Weevil just took the whole thing. Sister, thinking of those behind her, rode alongside, dropped her crop, and lifted the rail with the antler handle, dropping one end to the ground. Then she trotted four strides back, asked her lovely fellow to clear it, which he did, and he took it big. Hounds were running, dammit. He needed to be up there.

  Laughing, Sister let him rip. At that moment she was twenty years old, without a care, no husband, just out for the day while at college. The world was in front of her.

  And here she was seventy-three without a care and the world was in front of her.

  On and on they thundered. This dog fox gave them one hell of a run. He zigged, he zagged, he turned, almost doubling on his tracks but slipping through the woods so no one would see him. He ran through hollowed-out logs—now that did slow hounds down. But they corrected, found where he emerged from the log, and on they ran. They splashed through a hard-running creek, clambered up a slippery bank, shot past the neighbor’s barn, horses inside and not at all happy to be there.

  The mountains, to their rear, offered no escape but parallel ridges, not high but say five hundred feet above sea level, gave the dog fox opportunities to plunge down, run up, run on the top, then skid down again.

  Coops, log jumps, even aligned pickle barrels offered jumps and more jumps. Alida counted fourteen and then the clever fellow dashed through a begabbering, furious flock of wild turkeys, some of whom took to the air; others stayed on the ground and hollered their heads off.

  The hounds, now in the middle of the turkeys, couldn’t fend them off and those turkeys can hurt you. So the turkeys hopped up and down; hounds ran to get through them.

  Dewey, a voice that carried, hollered, “Ware turkeys.”

  Freddie Thomas hollered back and the people, some with arms over their heads, just wanted to get out of there.

  “Jesus H. Christ. Dive-bombed by turkeys!” Sam exploded.

  Finally far enough away from the enraged birds, the people stopped for the hounds stopped.

  Betty and Tootie, who had seen everything, couldn’t help laughing and soon everyone in the field was laughing. Behind them turkey feathers could be seen settling to the ground.

  The scent evaporated. The dog fox had ducked into an old hay shed wherein he’d made a nice den, somehow ruining his scent. The turkeys helped.

  Tedi Bancroft, who’d kept up the whole time, tears running from her eyes, blurted out, “I am eighty-five years old and I have never encountered anything like that!”

  Weevil rode up to Sister and asked, “Madam, is there a way back where we won’t encounter turkeys?”

  Laughing, too, Sister offered, “I’ll ride with you. This will take us longer but we should be unmolested.”

  “I could have been killed,” Giorgio wailed.

  “Oh, get over it, pretty boy.” Drago
n bumped him.

  The T’s, the P’s, and the youngest A’s, all fearful, huddled together as they walked through the highest meadows.

  Diana, voice consoling, said, “Next time we’ll kill a few. That should do it.”

  The hounds chattered about that, the youngsters started to relax, and Weevil sang to them, “Good hounds, brave hounds.” Then he called out each hound by name to tell him or her how courageous they were.

  Soon those chests were puffing out. Sister, riding next to him, watched with a light heart.

  * * *

  —

  That evening Sister, Betty, Tootie, and Weevil called on Shaker at the hospital. He would be released tomorrow. They painted a vivid picture of what would forever be known as the turkey hunt.

  Brightened him. “Oh, I wish I’d been with you.”

  “We do, too.” Betty sat on the edge of his bed. “Aren’t you glad the doctors didn’t put a heavy cast on your neck?”

  “Yeah, but this thing is a pain in the ass, or I should say a pain in the neck,” Shaker answered. “I can’t shave.”

  “You look so butch.” Sister teased him.

  “The hair on my neck itches,” Shaker replied. “I never thought of shaving my neck. I mean I just did it. I am not going to spend the next month without shaving.”

  “Ask the doctor,” Weevil sensibly said. “I can shave you if you can take off the neck brace. But if not, you’re going to look like, um, a Viking.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Shaker grimaced. “Well, how did you like carrying the horn?”

  Weevil blew out air. “I was nervous. Well, I was really nervous, but then Sister told me what Fred Duncan always said and I looked down at those hounds, they looked up at me, and I thought, ‘Just do it.’ Shaker, the hounds were terrific. I wasn’t sure when they lingered on the farm road leading up to the higher meadows and the woods, but they sorted it out and all I needed to do was keep up.”

  “Best feeling in the world, isn’t it?”

  Weevil grinned. “You’ll be back out soon.”

  “Not this season. Do I want to flip the bird at the doctors? Sure. But I want to be hunting when I am ancient, so old you have to lift me up and lift me down.” He smiled at the thought. “So I’d better do what they say.”

  “We miss you.” Tootie, never much of a talker, meant that.

  A knock on Shaker’s door was followed by him calling out, “Come in.”

  Skiff stepped in, saw the group, smiled. “A party.”

  Shaker sat up a little straighter as she approached. Sister knew him well, perhaps better than he knew himself. He was in love with her and that love would heal him faster than any medicine. She wondered when Shaker would realize that his life was starting all over again.

  Sister’s cellphone rang. It was Ben Sidell.

  “Excuse me. It’s the sheriff.” She walked outside the room as Betty, Weevil, and Tootie gave Skiff and Shaker a blow-by-blow description of the hunt.

  “Any luck?” Sister asked.

  “Yes, but not what we’d hoped. Do you know the Middleburg Tack Exchange?”

  “Sure. Mrs. Motion owns it. Very, very good used stuff. Whatever does that have to do with anything?”

  “I sent out descriptions of the missing man, clothing last worn, the usual. Well, driving back from today’s search I get a phone call and the lady spoke with a sonorous English accent.”

  “Mrs. Motion.”

  “To make a long story short, she had a pair of used boots, a man’s nine and a half, formal with cuff, Maxwells.”

  “Boy, are they expensive.”

  “The name inscribed inside is Luckham.”

  “What!” Sister put her hand to the wall.

  “I asked when they came in. She said she wasn’t in the shop but they were left outside the door in a fabric shopping bag. A note run off a computer asked her to sell them and send the money to Mrs. Liz Luckham. The address is a house in The Fan in Richmond.”

  “That’s impossible. Even if Liz Luckham has decided to sell his goods, she wouldn’t do it now and she’s probably praying, hoping against hope that he’s still alive.”

  Ben, fatigue in his voice, told her, “I called Mrs. Luckham. I described the boots. I did my best to explain all that Mrs. Motion had told me. Liz said the boots sounded like Gregory’s but she’s not the one who left them at the shop. I told her I’d have Mrs. Motion send a photo to her phone. But it certainly sounds like these are Luckham’s boots.”

  “You all will run fingerprints, of course.”

  “Of course, but this is either cheeky or odd, I mean odd, someone can’t stand to see a pair of Maxwells go to waste.”

  A long pause followed that. “I see what you mean.”

  “You know Mrs. Motion. Could she be enraged about the pipeline?”

  “Ben, even if she were, she’s a highly intelligent, capable woman who must deal with the public. I tell you without hesitation that she would never engage in anything shall we say subterranean. She called you so she did the right thing once she knew who those boots belonged to. I expect she’s in a bit of shock.”

  “She said she called as she had read in the local paper about Gregory Luckham being missing and the boots, recently left, popped right into her mind.”

  “What’s a Middleburg paper doing writing about Gregory Luckham? I mean the Richmond Times-Dispatch, sure, but a local paper?”

  “A writer did a story on mysteries tied to foxhunting. Stuff about foxhunters saying they’ve encountered the Gray Ghost, Colonel Mosby. And the president of Soliden’s disappearance during a foxhunt was included.”

  Sister rubbed her forehead. “I suppose I’m glad to hear Colonel Mosby is still riding. A good cavalryman never dies.”

  “Should we wish for a ghost?” Ben said.

  “You know, I think we are surrounded by energies we don’t understand but Ben, I’m not worried about a ghost. I’m worried about a flesh-and-blood killer who knows Maxwell boots when he sees them.”

  CHAPTER 27

  The Richmond newspaper spread out on Dewey Milford’s leather-topped office desk contained a large photo of the picture taken with ground-penetrating radar at Old Paradise accompanied by an interview with Crawford Howard and Charlotte Abruza.

  Betty Franklin bent over to read the article. She’d stopped by to drop off extra fixture cards, which Dewey wanted to send to hunting friends in nearby states. “Looks like he did it.”

  “Sure does.” Dewey pointed to the rows of neatly placed bodies, well, you couldn’t see the bones but you could see the rectangles where the deceased, long ago, had been laid.

  “Crawford backed up what he said. He has temporarily halted the pipeline route. That doesn’t mean people will be buying or selling real estate. Not until this is clear.”

  “Don’t you wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t hired Charlotte Abruza? That’s a young woman who knows her business. First of all, Betty, there have to be bodies all over this state from before the English arrived and after. If we stop construction every time someone is found, nothing will ever get done. Not that I want to see Old Paradise torn up.”

  “I never thought of that.” Betty pointed to a small rectangle. “A child.”

  “So many didn’t make it.” Dewey sat down, motioning for Betty to sit. “Rest yourself.”

  She smiled. “I will just for a minute. This is my errand day but, Dewey, we hunted hard yesterday.”

  “And survived aerial warfare.” He burst out laughing. “Muster Meadow is such a special place.”

  “You know, most of our fixtures are.” She glanced back at the photo. “I guarantee tomorrow Soliden will issue a statement about considering moving the pipeline so it does not desecrate graves. They can do this to save face. There always were alternative pathways. And business will bounce back.”


  “True. This needs to be cleaned up, cleared up so people can get on with real estate decisions. Betty, you can’t believe how this pipeline issue has affected Realtors, construction companies, suppliers. Everyone is sitting on their hands.”

  “You’re not.”

  “The development in Green Springs, Louisa County, seems safe. So is the one on Old Lynchburg Road. Going well.”

  “I couldn’t help myself. Last fall before the snows I drove by. Boy, Dewey, those are some big, expensive homes.”

  “Louisa County is now within driving distance of Richmond. Richmond is coming our way and I predict a few of our easternmost fixtures may be impacted. They certainly will be for Keswick Hunt and even Farmington. We are all going to be pushed.”

  “Jefferson Hunt is in better shape in the respect it will take longer for people to consider our territory within commuting distance of Richmond.” Betty felt relief that Crawford’s plan had worked or was about to work.

  Dewey smiled. “True, but for all I know I will live to see us hunt the top ridge of the Blue Ridge Mountains.” He swiveled around in his chair, pointing to a huge map. “Jefferson is uniquely placed among Charlottesville, Staunton, and Lynchburg. And let’s not forget Waynesboro. That town has come to life.”

  Squinting at the map, Betty shrugged. “We’ll do the best we can. Sister and Walter have worked hard to get us new fixtures, well, the members have, as well. Everyone understands how quickly we can lose a fixture. Look what happened when Crawford first rented Old Paradise? He couldn’t wait to throw us off.”

  Dewey laughed. “And his raggle-taggle pack would leave him flat and come to us every time we hunted Chapel Cross. How many huntsmen did he cycle through? Three? Skiff will stick. She and Marty have helped him to see there’s nothing to be gained by crossing Sister.”

  “Ego,” Betty simply stated, then added, “But he’s somewhat come around. We have a joint hunt in the fall and one in the winter. If our pack follows a fox onto Old Paradise, he follows the centuries-old tradition of allowing the pack to follow the fox onto another hunt’s territory. He realized this benefit applies to him as well. Skiff has been over on Tattenhall Station.” Betty looked at Dewey, who had swiveled back. “So much time wasted on these things. I’ve been meaning to ask you, these big homes you build, I’m assuming our people don’t buy them.”