Homeward Hound

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Dewey, problem?” Bobby Franklin asked.

  “Thought I’d answer Nature’s call behind the stable.” Dewey smiled as he dismounted.

  The others moved off, picking up speed as hounds opened.

  Dewey, however, did not answer Nature’s call. He carefully walked around the stable, peering at the ground. The ground protected by the overhang was not covered in snow. The falling snow was light.

  He then tied Bosco to the railing by an old water trough, hurrying over to Yvonne’s cottage dependency. He bent over, peering into the bottom of the doghouse, rose, brushed off his knees, hurried back to Bosco, mounted up, and rode off.

  Crawling down the state road, Shaker noticed Dewey trying to catch up, as did Yvonne and Daniella.

  “Dewey’s always been helpful. When Mercer was alive they’d talk about Thoroughbred syndicates and Dewey said he’d try it with real estate. Certainly worked,” Aunt Daniella remarked.

  “Syndicates can be tricky,” Yvonne added. “Victor bought the first television stations with syndicates. We managed with difficulty to eventually buy out the other partners, but what a bitch, I can tell you. I worked the charm offensive overtime.”

  “Ah, took you two minutes.” Shaker teased her.

  “He still calling? Your ex?” Yvonne’s eyebrows lifted up.

  “Not me. He calls Tootie. My prediction is Victor’s lost a lot of money. This will take time. Give it another six months or a year. Then he’ll call me pretending the divorce was a mistake. I haven’t lost money.”

  “That’s good news.” The old lady smiled.

  “Now what are they doing?” Shaker half stood up.

  “Sit down,” Yvonne commanded. “If I have to hit the brakes hard, I’ll hurt your neck.”

  “Damn my neck. I am so sick of this.” Shaker cursed. “But look at the pack. A tight circle. I want to get out and look for tracks.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” Aunt Daniella put her foot down. “Sister would have our hides if we let you do that.”

  “There have to be tracks but we haven’t seen anything. To hear a roar like that, I expect this scent is fresh.” He looked out the window. “Then again, conditions are really, really good. It might be twenty minutes old but no more than that. I’ve told Skiff to always look for tracks.”

  “She is.” Yvonne stuck up for Skiff, who was looking down.

  “Dewey better stop. If that fox shot back straight, Dewey will be in the middle of it. I’d cuss him like a dog. I don’t think Weevil will.”

  “Dewey knows hunting, doesn’t he?” Yvonne asked.

  “Oh he does, but not as much as he thinks he does. Most people in the field, even if they’ve hunted for years, don’t know but so much.” Shaker sniffed. “Never look at hound bloodlines either.”

  “Well now, Shaker, that’s unfair. For most of them that would be like reading Greek.” Yvonne stuck up for the field. “What you do takes study, time, and I can’t imagine how many packs of hounds you have studied or hunted behind. Most people don’t have that kind of time or the eye. Then again, Shaker, this is your profession.”

  That shut him up for a bit.

  Aunt Daniella smiled. “Oh, he has pulled up.”

  Dewey indeed stood stock-still and Bosco wasn’t happy about it.

  “Dewey’s done well, hasn’t he?” Yvonne knew a bit of people’s histories but only so much.

  “He has. There are quite a few people in the hunt and I’ve known many of them since they were children who really didn’t come from much, but I tell you what, they all went to college and made something of themselves. That’s why I was so upset, upset hell, devastated when Sam blew Harvard.”

  A silence followed this as both Shaker and Yvonne knew the story and both felt and said that Sam had turned his life around. Was he going back to Harvard in his sixties? No, but he lived a useful life. Maybe even a better life than if he had graduated. Who is to say?

  Aunt Daniella broke her own silence. “I know. I can’t let it go. I should. If my sister were here we could talk it through. Oh, if you could have only known him as a little boy. I’d call him my milkshake boy because he was the color of a milkshake.” She took a breath. “Odd but both my sister and myself had sons who were a tad darker than we were.”

  “Mattered then.” Yvonne stopped as the field was circling and she didn’t know what they would do next.

  “Matters now,” Aunt Daniella replied.

  “Do you really think it does?” Shaker asked in all innocence.

  “Maybe not as much, but it still helps to be light. Momma used to say the whiter we looked, the easier life would be.”

  “Aunt Daniella, you could have been as black as a true Ethiopian and you would have conquered. Those fabulous cheekbones, your sexual allure. I mean here you are in your nineties and men still turn their heads.” Yvonne praised her.

  “Well”—then Daniella laughed—“it’s not see what you get, it’s make what you get worth seeing.”

  Shaker laughed as did Yvonne. “Seeing what you get. They’ve turned again. Back to Chapel Cross.”

  First Flight trotted but slowly, for scent had become spotty. Second Flight, behind, had grown larger as some people from First Flight dropped back, for the hunt had been tiring. Dewey wended his way through Second Flight until immediately behind Bobby Franklin.

  “May I go forward to First Flight?”

  “Of course.”

  Dewey picked up a trot, Bosco sure-footed on the falling snow, which was becoming slippery.

  Hounds slowly worked in the direction of the old train station. Balzac, next to Tatoo, stopped.

  “What?” Tatoo asked.

  “He’s turned but it’s faint.” Balzac lifted his head. “Trudy, check this out.” Then he informed Tatoo, “She has a bit of a cold nose.”

  “Ah.” Tatoo understood, for a cold nose could pick up faint scent, which was only a good thing if other hounds could just catch it.

  Otherwise the cold-nosed hound would open and not be honored, a frustrating outcome for all.

  Trudy put her nose down. “It’s him but he’s fading. Curious.”

  If this hunt had gone by the textbooks, the line should have been heating up. This fox either possessed mojo or had walked across something to foul his scent.

  “He’s turned,” Trudy called out as her houndmates ran to her.

  Crawford’s hounds talked among themselves so Jefferson Hunt Hounds joined them as Weevil and Skiff watched.

  Walking, the pack continued moving westward across the large pasture, trees dotting the land. They reached the road, Crawford’s land across it, in time to see a herd of deer gracefully lope toward the Carriage House in the far distance. Hounds paid no attention.

  Sister pulled up as hounds stopped.

  “Come on, good hounds. You can do it.” Weevil encouraged them.

  Banjo, another of Crawford’s B litter, turned south alongside the road. He poked around as did his friends for twenty yards, then they opened at once.

  Flying. It was 0 to 60 faster than a 911 Turbo.

  Ronnie, taking a swig from his flask, nearly dropped his flask, then nearly dropped himself. Dewey on Bosco moved alongside him, grabbed the flask from his hand.

  “You’ll thank me for this.” Dewey secreted the flask in his coat between the first and the second button.

  “Took you long enough to get back.”

  “I lingered.”

  “Well, we aren’t lingering now.”

  Those left in First Flight hugged the fence line on Kasmir’s side for the fox seemed to have run alongside of it.

  Five minutes, ten minutes, more people began to falter. Sister and Aztec stayed behind the hounds. Kasmir and Alida, Sam, Gray, Freddie, the tough riders on hunting-fit horses hung in there, but others, due to exha
ustion or age, slowed a bit. The fox did not.

  They wound up in woods again, the tree branches brushed, dumping snow on them, especially the firs.

  Yvonne turned around in the middle of the road. No traffic so that was easy. Shaker, nose pressed against the windowpane, watched for a flash of red.

  Then hounds lost again. Everyone stood, grateful for the break. The snow fell a bit heavier, the sound of the flakes on the pine trees distinct. Snow found its way down coat collars, too.

  Sister, alert, trusted her instincts, which told her the fox would return to Beveridge Hundred where he had more choices than being in the middle of a pasture or even crossing over to Old Paradise. Buildings and outbuildings offered escapes as well as scent spoilers, plus this was closer than Old Paradise.

  The soft rattle of light wind in the tree branches, the faint patter of the snow filled Sister’s senses. Hounds worked to find scent. Standing there, waiting, one was reminded of how ravishing Nature is in her changing wardrobe.

  Dreamboat’s stern moved. He’d come back out on the narrow path as the other hounds wound around tree trunks, poked noses into anything resembling a bolt hole. An angry click notified Pookah that one of those small holes in the tree trunk was occupied.

  “Crabby.” The hound stepped back.

  Pickens, next to his littermate, smiled, kept his nose down, then heard Dreamboat.

  “Here,” the reliable hound called out as the others moved to him.

  Weevil, trusting Dreamboat, on Shaker’s Kilowatt today, watched with rising anticipation. Tootie, ahead but waiting, also listened, as did Betty on the other side. Although easier to see in the woods during winter, the large number of conifers meant there were places where you couldn’t see. There was even a stand of large blue spruces, untouched for nearly a century, the snow intensifying their color.

  Hounds milled about, a large circle both on and off the path.

  “Let’s go.” Zorro found where the line was still good.

  Hounds took off. Humans, full of breath thanks to the respite, followed them.

  Scent held; although it faded in and out, it still held. Hounds moved along, trotting. No point running or one would overrun the line. The older hounds knew this and the younger ones had learned it through cubbing in the fall.

  The wind picked up. Not strong but about ten miles an hour. Enough to make keeping one’s nose on the line an act of concentration. Wind can blow scent. Hounds make up for this by alertness. A stiff wind, though, creates problems. That’s when the huntsman has to figure out where the line might be, assuming it’s still operable.

  Both Weevil and Skiff moved closer, anticipating stronger wind. One never knew this close to the mountains and one never knew about wind devils either.

  Hounds steadily pushed. Cry grew louder. The pace picked up. They worked beautifully. Staff was thrilled. The field was happy to be moving on for the wind was starting to cut. A few realized what outstanding hound work this was. So many in the flights couldn’t see what hounds were doing. And even then many didn’t understand the conditions under which hounds tried for them.

  A slow gallop brought them closer and closer to Beveridge Hundred. A few outbuildings promised refuge, or so the huntsmen hoped, but no, fox kept going. But where?

  Hounds barreled past the outbuildings. Millie, sitting at the window, saw them. She managed a bark.

  Hounds looked up as they passed the old dog sitting in her window seat. She emitted another bark. Hounds filed past the house in a schoolyard line, noses down. Weevil and Skiff behind them stepped carefully. Shrubs close to the house sat amidst buried bulbs. One could just see the edging on those gardens.

  The field, forty yards back at this point, also walked carefully.

  Hounds trotted slowly. The line was holding but weaving in and out. Hounds stopped every now and then to check. The fox circled the small barn but did not go into the small dug entrance at the end. Hounds then crossed over the farm road, walked behind the tidy garage for the dependency. Then they headed straight for Yvonne’s house and the doghouse. He’d been here, too. Yvonne, waiting at the end of the driveway, didn’t want to get in the way. No one knew where this fellow was heading and she thought best to sit on the road.

  “You got a fox there?” Shaker asked.

  “A visiting fox. I don’t think one lives by the houses,” she answered.

  “But foxes are there?”

  “I see them. A gray and then a small red who visits me almost every day.”

  “H-m-m.” Shaker rubbed his chin, wishing he could shave.

  Hounds walked back to the small stable, stopped again.

  “Fan out. He came back. He has to have moved off from here. He’s far enough ahead of us he has time to,” Diana paused. “Found it.”

  She opened, whipped around, going straight out the driveway. Hounds crossed in front of Yvonne, Aunt Daniella, and Shaker. Then Weevil, Skiff, and Sam followed. After that it was the two flights and just when Yvonne was ready to take her foot off the brake they all turned, ran in front of her again, turned and headed west again.

  “I’m dizzy.” Yvonne laughed.

  “Clever boy, this fox.” Shaker would have nodded if he could. “Yvonne, sit tight for a little bit. I’ll give you even odds that he’ll turn and if he does, this time we might view.”

  Ronnie, back at the small stable, had dismounted when the field took off. It was his turn to answer Nature’s call. Dewey volunteered to hold his horse. If hounds hit big, Pokerface would have left Ronnie flat. To hell with the human, hounds are in full chorus.

  “Thank God for bushes.” Ronnie sighed as he relieved himself. “You know, Dewey, I’m surprised more foxhunters don’t get bladder infections.”

  “Bet we do and we don’t tell. Come on, hurry up.”

  “Wait a minute.” Ronnie bent down to check a gleam under a tight boxwood.

  The Van Dorns, decades ago, planted English boxwoods everywhere thinking the waxy green would show to good effect.

  “Ronnie, hounds are opening.”

  “I found something. Hold your horses.”

  “I’m holding your horse, dammit,” Dewey fired back.

  Ronnie, quiet, slipped the cigarette case he had found in the boxwoods into his coat pocket. He mounted up.

  “Let’s go.” Dewey squeezed Bosco and blew out of there.

  Ronnie followed, both men pulling up as they saw Yvonne’s car. She waved them on.

  A jump, not far, allowed them to get over into the southernmost part of Old Paradise. Hounds bellowed now, deep tones, light baritones, basso profundos, a tenor here and there, and a squeal or two from a youngster. Even the female hounds sang out with full, deep voices. For the foxhunters this was as beautiful as Bach’s Mass in B Minor.

  They galloped, snow stinging a little as it hit faces. Old Paradise, enormous with many open pastures as well as the now-discovered graves hidden in woods, was a foxhunter’s dream. On and on they ran, people falling back. Staff thanking the Lord for fit Thoroughbreds underneath them.

  This same prayer was uttered by field members. A few crossbreds hung in there, perfectly conditioned. But on long, hard runs and over time, the Thoroughbred usually had the advantage. The animal was bred to run. A Thoroughbred gave you everything they had. Other horses, smarter perhaps, did not.

  Hounds, flat out, covered those miles from the jump to the Carriage House in under twenty minutes. Twenty minutes over uneven ground, patchy footing, a steady wind blowing just enough snow in their eyes to make them squint. Same with the horses and humans.

  Those miles on the flat would have been covered faster. In this territory, staff put on the afterburners, snow and mud flying underfoot, rating one’s horse to motor down a tricky swale here and there, blowing across small streams for the land was well watered.

  Finally, hounds st
opped right at the Carriage House. A den entrance by the southeast corner showed where he had ducked in. This fellow, new, had claimed the Carriage House. Hounds dug at the den.

  Skiff jumped off, throwing her reins over her horse’s neck. As she knew this place better than Weevil, she took over.

  She blew “Gone to Ground,” praised and petted each hound as Weevil stood by her horse. No need to reach for the reins, the animal was well trained, enjoying the horn notes as much as everyone else including the fox. No more running today.

  Dewey, next to Ronnie, at the rear of First Flight, reached into his coat, handing Ronnie back his flask filled with Kentucky bourbon. Before completely handing it over, Dewey took a sip.

  “Not Maker’s Mark. Umm, you do this. You put in a different bourbon each hunt and if we take a sip we have to identify it. I’ll take another. Ah. Woodford Reserve.”

  Ronnie relieved Dewey of the flask, slipping it in its leather holder on the right front of his saddle. “Is this what you were looking for?” He reached into his coat, pulled out a gold cigarette case, handing it to Dewey with the bold roman initials on the front: G.E.L.

  Dewey allowed Ronnie to drop the expensive, masculine cold case in his hand.

  Ronnie continued. “You didn’t really need to go to the bathroom when you stopped. Why did you do it, Dewey? I can’t understand. What was the danger to you? How could you kill someone?”

  Dewey stared at Ronnie, put the case in his pocket, then turned Bosco toward the buildings, toward the mountains behind.

  “Stop him,” Ronnie yelled.

  Sister, seeing that Dewey was going to pass her, forbidden on the hunt field anyway, moved out to block him. He pushed by her and tried to backhand her as he picked up a gallop.

  Tootie, in the clear on the left, saw this. She saw Dewey try to hit Sister and went straight for him. The hounds were fine. She wasn’t thinking about them.

  Dewey, now pursued, looked back. He reached farther into his coat where he was wearing a gun and holster well hidden. He pulled out the pistol and fired at Tootie. Missed.

  Ben Sidell, in Second Flight, hearing a shot, immediately moved out of the pack to see if he could see what happened. He did. He called HQ for backup.