Homeward Hound

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Is it possible the body was wrapped in plastic, something like that, so no fibers or hair would come off? Even one strand of hair would do it,” Weevil asked.

  “It is. This is an intelligent person,” Ben replied. “Well, I’ll take this back. Who picked it up?”

  “Dragon. So there might be his tooth marks but I couldn’t see any chewing marks. I don’t think any other animal found it,” Sister said.

  Ben peered closely at the crop. “Cost about four hundred dollars new?”

  “Yes, the two silver collars make it expensive. An antique one would be expensive, as well. All the fine braiding on the shaft adds to the cost,” Sister added.

  “Don’t forget the kangaroo thong and the cracker,” Weevil noted. “All put together, this is worth about one thousand dollars. That’s if it’s a staff thong.” He looked again. “This one’s shorter. Would cost maybe three hundred just for the shorter thong. Must have upset him to part with it, so about seven hundred dollars.”

  “Arrogant. Didn’t think we’d notice and you know what, we didn’t. Then he thought better of it,” Betty replied.

  “Well, we don’t go up and inspect people’s gear,” Sister responded. “It’s the arrogant part that scares me.”

  What also disturbed her was she was observant and logical. She could usually figure things out. Granted, she was not used to solving murders regularly, but still. She felt stupid. A ripple of fear coursed through her. What she didn’t know could hurt her.

  CHAPTER 38

  Powdery snow rested on the ground. Two and a half inches would allow all creatures to easily move. The sky promised more flurries.

  Staff eagerly awaited everyone at the trailers to mount up since conditions favored long runs once scent was found. Given those conditions, the fact that the season would be over in five weeks plus morbid curiosity, anyone who was upright hunted today at Tattenhall Station.

  “They take too long,” Aztec complained.

  Outlaw, next to him, snorted. “Want to take bets on who comes off today?”

  “No.” Aztec felt the reins loose on his neck. “It’s amazing some of them stay on. Look at how a few of them have put on weight. If they go off they’ll never get back up.”

  “Christmas. They stuff themselves like pigs. Not all of them but a few. Then spring draws near and they start these awful diets.”

  “Luckily, Sister stays the same.” Aztec looked around. “What are they doing back there?”

  “Putting on spurs,” Outlaw replied. “Makes them think they have control. Hey, if I want to go, I’ll go. If not, you can’t make me. Of course, I love Betty. She never asks me to do anything foolish.”

  “Same here but sometimes things happen. Like Showboat locking up. He’s a good horse. He likes Shaker. The smell just locked him up.”

  Outlaw pawed the snow. “Dead stuff. I’m not saying I like that smell but dead human stuff smells different.”

  Aztec considered this. “Maybe so, but here’s the thing. If it’s dead, it isn’t going to hurt you. I’d be a lot more frightened of a mountain lion.”

  Outlaw stopped pawing, started to agree with his friend, then sighed with relief. “Thank God. They’re all mounted.”

  “Good day. Just feels right.” Aztec moved forward as Sister pressed lightly with her leg.

  “Hope so.” Outlaw obeyed Betty’s instructions. “We can compare notes back at the trailers.”

  Weevil headed for Old Paradise as Crawford, riding up front with Sister, had agreed to a joint meet. He needed to get his hounds out. They hunted well with Jefferson Hounds.

  Skiff rode next to Weevil, who carried the horn for both packs. He offered this honor to her but she thought hunting with this large a field would be useful for him.

  Shaker, in the car with Yvonne and Aunt Daniella, kept up a running commentary that the ladies vowed never to repeat.

  Sam agreed to whip-in, which he usually did for Skiff. He took Weevil’s former position as tail whip. He could have stood on ceremony, rode with Tootie or Betty—he was entitled—but he wanted to make sure the pack would hold together.

  The first jump in Crawford’s fence line, all new stone fencing, was easily cleared. The jump was the same height as the exorbitantly expensive stone fence, except the stone top was six inches lower. On this depression was laid a log. If a horse rubbed the jump, their hooves wouldn’t touch stone but wood, which was just a bit more forgiving.

  “I’ll stay away from the buildings if I can,” Weevil told Skiff.

  “Good idea. We’ve got a fox in the old stable. There are others under some of the outbuildings. If we hit a line it’s possible we’ll wind up at the outbuildings, but no reason to start there.”

  He nodded, put his horn to his lips, and blew “Lieu in” as well as saying it.

  Hounds eagerly rushed to a small thicket in a tight roll of the land near the road. Weevil’s idea was to head south, then, after covering all of Old Paradise, to move west to the woods’ edge.

  No need, for hounds found the scent immediately. Snow like talcum powder flew off horses’ hooves. The ground underneath remained frozen although the mercury was to climb into the low forties, so the firmness probably wouldn’t last long.

  Running hard, hounds hooked left, some jumped over a roll jump while others leapt over the stone fence. Once the work of the building restoration was complete, Crawford intended to return to stone fencing, creating stone fences everywhere. Now the stone was at the road’s edge where everyone could see it. He wanted everything in stone, whether a border fence or a small paddock. It would be impressive, beautiful, and cost a fortune. This jump, three feet high, was deceptive, because it was wide, a bracing two feet wide. The horse had to have a bit of scope and boldness to go over this jump. Few had encountered anything like it. Crawford enjoyed creating various jumps.

  Aztec saw the wideness, took off just a hair early and big. Sister rode it out. She could have forced him to take off at the spot she thought best, but she truly trusted him so if he took off big, okay.

  As luck would have it, the hunted fox had doubled back, so no sooner was Sister over than the two packs turned, heading straight for her. She held up on one side of the fence, as did the field on the other side. Weevil jumped over, then Sam. Sister turned, following him. Aztec picked the right spot. No need to leave early for he now knew this somewhat unusual, new jump.

  Once over, Sister effortlessly breezed past the standing field. They turned, falling in behind her, with Tedi and Edward in her pocket, Kasmir and Alida behind them, Ronnie and Dewey and on down the line of First Flight. People placed themselves according to status, not that that was said, their ability and the ability of their horse. Riding tail, Walter again assumed those duties.

  Sam, just ahead of Sister, asked for more speed. Sister did likewise for the pack was pulling away. The fox was heading for the outbuilding, visible in the distance.

  Crawford, a decent rider but not the strongest, began to fade back a bit. Gray moved up alongside him.

  All of a sudden, hounds stopped. They cast themselves, skidding down into a small ravine that opened up on flatter meadows.

  In the crevice, the deeper snow slowed them down. Thor, a big Dumfriesshire hound, called out. “Stay in the crevice. I know this fox. He’ll climb out toward the north.”

  Sister, on the edge, followed. No point in trapping yourself and others in this fold of the land.

  Sure enough, the fox had exited heading north toward the chapel crossroads that lay three and a half miles down the road from this spot. The field was running on the snow-covered pastures. Sister kept her eyes on the pack. This pattern, different, announced a new fox, perhaps a visiting fox. Anything goes.

  A light breeze swept down the side of the mountains, enough to make the tree branches sway. Hounds stood out against the snow. Crawford’s were black a
nd tan whereas most of hers were tricolor. Weevil and Skiff hung right behind them. Betty, far on the right, was already heading for a jump in the fence line that would put her on Chapel Road. Tootie on the left made for the driveway into the main buildings. She’d need to turn down the road, but she would be in a good position if the fox turned toward the mountains.

  A tidy coop beckoned. Hounds soared over it, some simply jumping the stone fence. Then Weevil, then Skiff, a slight gap, Sam on Trocadero smoothly took the fence. Sister, in her eagerness, had drawn a bit close to Sam. She rated Aztec, pissed him off, then when Sam was clear and ahead she urged him over. She could hear the field behind her.

  Hounds, up ahead, ran right in the middle of the road, crossed into the churchyard. The entire pack was behind the church screaming while Adolfo Vega cleaned off the steps up to the church for service tomorrow. He leaned on his snow shovel to watch.

  Sister paused for a moment. She couldn’t lead the field over the front of the church. The ground, still somewhat hard, was dicey enough. If there were any soft spots, she’d tear it up. So she slowed, trotted all the way around the main building, white, so simple, so beautiful. The gold cross gleamed from the blue steeple. Our forefathers exhibited a marvelous and restrained aesthetic sense. Much as she shared that sense, she wanted to get with her hounds, so she squeezed Aztec to trot faster and she looped around all the buildings, trying to keep where she thought the edge of the grass would be. Finally, she emerged at the graveyard, hound at every tombstone or so it seemed. Weevil and Skiff, off to the side, watched.

  The two huntsmen couldn’t go into the graveyard, nor could Sister. There was enough snow to cover the flagstones. One step on that could be ugly thanks to slippery snow. Worse, the horse’s weight could crack the stones, many dating back to the 1820s. The standing tombstones outlined in snow looked either peaceful or mournful, depending on one’s temperament.

  Shaker’s temperament was not peaceful. Sitting in the backseat, for no one would possibly displace Aunt Daniella, he was fulminating.

  “That fox will circle. I’m telling you. Those two damn kids better head for the road.”

  “You know this fox?” Aunt Daniella inquired.

  “Yes and no. But the fox, no matter who he is, and it has to be a male as it’s breeding season, is smart enough to use these tombstones, so I’m thinking he’s local enough to baffle the hounds. He’s a red, running straight for the most part. A gray would have turned by now.”

  Neither of the ladies would refute the color of the fox nor the animal’s intelligence.

  “There’s one of our hounds heading out,” Yvonne excitedly said.

  “Old Asa. He’s dipped in gold.” Shaker sat on the edge of the seat.

  One by one, the Jefferson Hounds moved out of the cemetery as the Crawford pack began to mingle with them.

  Sister and Crawford sat still. No one knew what would happen next, but as if hearing Shaker, Weevil and Skiff had ridden out to the road. Hounds milled about, then a deep roar by Balzac, Crawford’s hound, sent them all back to the crossroads.

  Crawford, with pride, looked at Sister. “Balzac. A hunting man, you know.”

  “Yes, I do.” Sister smiled for the hound was good. “You’ve named this hound well.”

  The two of them turned, fell in behind Sam, and reached the crossroads. Hounds ran right down the middle of the road. Fortunately, there was little traffic out here, but no one wanted to fly on a macadam road covered with snow. Ben Sidell, back with Bobby Franklin, thanked the angels for his horse, Nonni, sure-footed and smart. She stopped for a split second, turned her nose toward the mountain, and Ben, out of the corner of his eye, saw the streak of red shifting through a narrow covert.

  Counting to twenty, he then called out loudly, “Tallyho.” His hat, in his hand, arm pointed in the direction he had seen the fox, told the huntsman the direction in which their quarry was running.

  Second Flight often sees the fox, so Weevil and Skiff, hearing the cry, immediately ramped up the speed heading in the direction of Ben’s outstretched arm.

  Hounds screamed. Horses were full throttle. So was the fox, realizing he had to get out of there.

  Across the snow-covered pastures they all flew, a scene that could have been from prior centuries. Dots of scarlet here and there, tails flying on the weazlebellys, a few hats already swaying on the hat cord behind the ladies wearing derbies. Most people wore hunt caps securely shoved down or even secured with a chin strap. But the die-hards wore their gorgeous shining top hats or reinforced derbies, which usually were quite secure. Derbies banged behind backs. They were all moving far too fast to pull up a derby. Who cared? The pace was too good.

  The screaming raised the hair on the back of people’s necks. You could tell people about the feeling, but until they experienced it themselves they never quite believed it. Your blood was up, as was your horse’s.

  For over three and a half miles, those familiar miles, the pack charged hard. The fox made straight for the restored stable, ducked into a hole, as there was a fox who lived there. He stuck right there, deep down as Earl, the proprietor, bitched and moaned.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Breathing hard, the medium-sized red, Mr. Nash, replied, “Saving my ass.”

  The stable fox heard the entire pack, he’d heard them anyway, moved into the deep part of his den, confronted the intruder. “You can’t underestimate those hounds. They know the territory and they have good noses. What did you think you were doing?”

  Mr. Nash followed Earl as he led him through his extensive underground network to come out in a corner of the tack room behind a tack trunk. “This is something.”

  “Better yet, the place is full of workmen and they leave food. Good food. No one thinks to look in the tack room. They know I have a den back in one of the stalls. Every now and then someone fills it up with sawdust and dirt. I just clean it out but I have a lot of ways in and out. But you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for a girlfriend. I live up at Close Shave. It’s nice enough but nothing like this.”

  Earl sat on a plush lamb’s fleece saddle pad. “It is impressive. But girls, most of the girls are taken but there’s a young one over at Mud Fence. Still close to her parents’ den but you could see if she’s interested. My experience is the young girls wait a year. They often stick close to home and help with the next litter but you never know.”

  “You’re not interested?” Mr. Nash was curious.

  “Not this year.” Earl listened to the two huntsmen speak to their hounds. “Heading off. Good. Girls, yes, well, I find vixens wonderful, of course, but then they have the babies and you exhaust yourself feeding the little buggers. Taking a year off.”

  As Mr. Nash had yet to become a father, he remained silent about that. He cocked his head, hearing the field move off now.

  Earl advised. “Don’t pop out yet. Diana, one of the Jefferson Hounds, is really smart. She could double back very quickly and check again. The huntsman trusts her, so she won’t be pushed back into the pack. Of course, now there’s a new huntsman. Young.”

  “Gris told me the regular fellow hit his head over a human hand.”

  “Ah yes, Gris, the town crier,” remarked Earl, who could gossip with the best of them. “So you have traveled as far as Chapel Cross before today?”

  “Just.”

  “You know what amuses me? Heard there was so much fuss over that human hand, another one was found in the Carriage barn. So what’s a human part? We can be splayed out on the roadway. Doesn’t seem to bother them a bit.”

  Mr. Nash agreed. “They are strange creatures.”

  As these two became better acquainted, Weevil and Skiff decided to move across the road to Beveridge Hundred, drawing along the way.

  A short burst pulled them through the ed
ge of Old Paradise as light snow began to fall. Given their workout no one felt the cold right then, plus most people watched the weather report so they wore their thermal underwear, some layers of silk for others and Sister’s favorite trick, wearing an old white cashmere turtleneck over which she tied her stock tie. A thermal shirt, then the ancient cashmere, toasty warm. Her feet and hands, though, tingled with the cold. As Aztec, enlivened, surged forward, she felt that telltale ache in her toes. No matter, the day was too good.

  The barn owl at Beveridge Hundred, ears very keen, heard the distant singing of the hounds. At a foot and a half she could take care of herself, not that she worried about hounds hunting her. She liked the hayloft in the tidy small barn, never bothering to build a nest. She was happy on the wood. Given her feathers she stayed warm. One of the reasons she liked Beveridge Hundred was its quiet. The older people rarely walked out to the barn anymore and certainly not in winter. Enough mice kept her full but she especially liked hunting the cemetery at the chapel, full of mice. She thought if they were Christian mice she was sending them to the great mouse in the sky. Why mice liked cemeteries she didn’t know, but she took advantage of it. She also liked the stable because she could visit with Sarge, the young fox. He seemed a little naive but he was young. She enjoyed sharing her wisdom of which she thought she had quite a lot.

  She flew up to walk along a crossbeam where she could peer out the small louvered slats at the peak of the roof. She didn’t see the fox or any fox, but she could see the entire two packs hunting as one heading right for Beveridge Hundred. She looked to the side, she looked down, nothing to entice those miserable hounds. And the doors were closed. Good.

  Hounds rushed up to the stable, circled it once, twice. The fox must have done that to throw them off for no den existed in the stable. Then they took off, turning back north in the direction of Tattenhall Station. The people on horseback waited for a moment at the stable. Then they, too, took off.

  The owl observed First Flight go, followed by Second Flight. One man from First Flight hung back.