Whiskers in the Dark

by Rita Mae Brown

  Moses and Sam had been followed by another cart, one with a canvas top stretched over four supports. This had canvas sides, too, so the three men could sleep inside, Moses, Sam, and the other driver. It was of ingenious construction.

  Ard carefully studied this. He would draw it later, presenting it to Mr. Finney as his own idea. Ralston watched Ard watching. He realized if he worked with this fellow, helped him along, he, too, might benefit.

  Moses, swaying in the makeshift carriage, would have two days to wonder why Ralston ran away from Cloverfields and how he wound up at Royal Oak. He was happy to hear about his father. It had never occurred to him that his path would cross Ralston’s now or in the future.

  31

  April 27, 2018

  Friday

  “I feel like I should sing like a canary.” Harry, reins in her hands, swayed as the cart pulled along, one wonderful mule doing the honors.

  Arlene, as the director, watched every competitor. She would get closer than the spectators. She didn’t want engine noise to disturb the bassets. Also, the smell of gasoline, depending on the weather, offended her and them.

  The weather was a light rain, cool, perfect for hunting.

  The first draw at 7:30 A.M. was Rachel Cain with her Reedy Creek Bassets. Using three whippers-in, one on each side of her and one behind, she cast into the wind.

  A huntsman prefers casting into the wind, for the game’s scent will blow into their nostrils. Casting with the wind at their tails does the opposite. However, this being Virginia, the wind could and did change. A huntsman needed to be alert and calm. No point shifting every time the wind did. One needed to watch and make a judgment. Often one’s hounds made the judgment for you.

  Rachel’s four girls hunted like stars. Noses down, fierce concentration, plus they got a good draw, they opened within five minutes of being cast. Arlene, letting Harry hold the reins so she could concentrate, used binoculars. Being the director, in case of a dispute or confusion between judges, she made the decision. Decisions came naturally to her. The Army taught her to lead and she did.

  The spectators, veterans, some mobile, others more compromised, wore light raincoats; some pulled rain caps low on their heads. As many of these people had hunted before service, most of them knew what was going on. A few, new to the game, had interpreters, and a few of those interpreters were handsome or pretty, working with a serviceman or -woman. Happy people.

  The deep, resonant voices of Rachel’s two couples ricocheted off the woods. They slowly worked their way west of the Institute building, then hooked north, picking up speed as they trotted.

  Clare and Susan, also in the canary-colored cart, occasionally wiped down Arlene’s binoculars. They kept the coolers between their feet. No telling what would happen out there, so a bottle of water or cola might be necessary.

  “Tallyho,” Arlene quietly called out, pointing in the direction where the rabbit broke out.

  The three other women watched as the rabbit, fast and evasive, quickly disappeared into dense underbrush.

  Rachel, running now, reached the underbrush. Those basset tails moved like windshield wipers as their huntsman and best friend encouraged them.

  “Oops.” Clare giggled, pointing beyond the underbrush.

  “That devil.” Susan smiled, for the rabbit burst from cover, hightailed it to what had to be his or her den, because before you could say “Jack Rabbit,” all that could be viewed was a white tail popping down into a little den.

  The bassets patiently worked, moving all around the underbrush. They hunted well together and with drive. They were sisters and when one opened, the other put her nose down to open, too. Reaching the place where the rabbit had disappeared, they marked the den but couldn’t flush out the rabbit.

  Harry’s watch beeped. She wore one of those watches that gives the wearer’s steps, their heartbeat, stairs, the time, even worked as a stopwatch.

  Hearing the beep, Arlene put her grandfather’s big cow horn to her lips, blowing deep, mournful notes that they probably heard all the way to Middleburg.

  Rachel called her bassets to her, the whippers-in quickly on either side and the third whipper-in bringing up the rear.

  “That was a damn good run,” Clare said low.

  “Well, we’ll have a long day, but I would be surprised if the judges didn’t give Reedy Creek Bassets a high score. Rachel has a nice touch.” Arlene sat down on the hard seat. “This wasn’t built for comfort.”

  “We should have brought pillows,” Clare remarked.

  “At least we don’t carry around a lot of padding back there.” Susan laughed as Harry turned the mule, Madam, back toward the Institute, where they would go out with the second team, this one from North Carolina.

  The two American Kennel Club judges walked together, discussing the run. They’d be pooped by the end of the day. This wasn’t a job for sissies.

  “Clare, Jason gave me a long story about this yellow cart. Said the original was built in 1790 by Studebaker and it is indestructible,” Harry said. “This is a replica. The original is in the Studebaker Museum.”

  “True. You know how he was about automotive history. It was built in York County, Pennsylvania, but I guess the son or grandson of the Studebaker who built this moved to Ohio, then the western territory, to build carts and, in good time, the cars.”

  “Isn’t the history of this nation something?” Susan enthused. “Even pottery has a story.”

  “Here they come.” Arlene focused on four dark-colored bassets.

  Harry waited for the team to pass her. The huntsman, a young man, which was always a good sign for the future, carried the horn. He was perfectly turned out, too.

  “Is that Milton Riddle’s son?” Clare wondered.

  “Is. He’s got a good draw, too, and I’m sure he heard how well Rachel’s girls hunted. His blood will be up.”

  So was that of his hounds, who hit right off the mark flying, truly flying up the hill toward the east as the rain intensified a bit.

  As the wind, slight from the east, blew right into those sensitive basset noses, Nattie Riddle ran like the devil to keep up. One of his whippers-in could match him, a young woman, Caitlin, but on his right side an older man fell behind.

  This age disparity played out in all forms of hunting with hounds. Hunting on foot, one needed to be strong. The older fellow was, but he’d lost his speed. Why use an older person? Because of what they knew. They’d seen it all and a word from a wise old hunter could save a huntsman many miseries.

  The older man, Jake Deloria, kept behind the pair. He couldn’t move up to the side, for they picked up more speed, stopped, lost scent, cast themselves before Nattie reached them.

  Clare muttered, “I’m not sure he has control of that pack.”

  Her words, prophetic, made Arlene, Harry, and Susan sit bolt upright. Sure enough, the hounds took off, flat out took off, and no amount of blowing or cracking a whip could bring them back.

  “Shall I try to follow?” Harry asked the director.

  “Yes. It’s rather hard to be discreet in this yellow cart,” Arlene wryly replied.

  Harry clucked to Madam.

  Hounds crested the hill, running straight as an arrow. Up ahead two rabbits ran together. Not all that common but not unusual either. No one saw them break cover so the hounds weren’t rioting, but they were not listening to their huntsman and this would cost points.

  “Madam, good girl.” Harry praised the mule, who watched with excitement and trotted with vigor.

  This continued for five minutes, which doesn’t seem like a long time, but when one’s fillings are being rattled by potholes, it is. And it promised to go on longer.

  “Harry, can you get closer? We have to stay on the road,” Arlene asked.

  “Sure.” Harry clucked and Madam showed some surprising spee
d herself.

  They reached a spot where the two rabbits had disappeared and the hounds ran in circles. Harry held up Madam while Arlene climbed down. Susan climbed down, knowing not to say anything about Arlene’s artificial leg. Arlene didn’t want help and she really didn’t need it.

  Being a huntsman herself, Arlene quietly walked toward the confused hounds. “Good hounds. Good hounds.”

  Susan knelt down, a posture most dogs find reassuring.

  Harry stayed in the cart, as she held the reins.

  “Maybe I should help.” Clare hopped out.

  “Do you have a leash?”

  “Under my sweater, around my waist,” Clare called over her shoulder.

  Approaching the two bassets, wondering whether to go to Susan or not, Clare also knelt down.

  “Good hounds,” Arlene soothingly said. “Come along.”

  The larger hound hesitated, then walked to Arlene, who bent down to pet her, sliding a finger under her collar.

  Clare quietly came up and snapped the leash on the collar. “I think, Arlene, if we walk back, the other one will follow.”

  “Let’s give him a minute. You’re probably right, but it’s better if he comes to us.”

  Susan, on all fours now, was almost at eye level with the basset, who decided this was okay and bounded up to her. She grabbed his collar.

  Hoisting him up, for she didn’t have a leash, she grunted. “My God, these hounds are heavy.”

  “Hold on a minute.” Arlene unbuckled her belt, handing it to Susan, who slipped it under the hound’s collar.

  “Good.”

  The three women slowly walked the hounds to the wagon just as Nattie, Jake, and Caitlin came into view.

  “I’m sorry to have put you out.” Nattie apologized to Arlene.

  “We’ve all been in this situation. Don’t worry about it.”

  The two whippers-in, leashes around their waists, put those on the bassets, handing back the belt and leash to Arlene and Clare. They walked, crestfallen, back toward the Institute.

  The rain, steady, made dampness seep into bones.

  “Give me a minute to see if Madam would like a drink when we get back,” Harry said.

  They passed spectators, umbrellas up now. Everyone wore mud boots, so that was a plus. No wet feet.

  However, every now and then a raindrop would slide down the back of Harry’s boot or down her collar. Being a country girl, she ignored it.

  The day, rain notwithstanding, proved exciting. At the end, Mary Reed’s Ashland Bassets won, with Rachel coming in a close second. A hairsbreadth separated them, but the reason Ashland won is that there wasn’t one check, not one.

  The dinner couldn’t have been better. Harry talked to everyone, being especially fascinated by the women wounded veterans. But the men, military service being part of manhood for centuries, truly were impressive. What touched her was that no one complained. No one.

  Once back at the cabin, fire going, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker having had a potty break and now in front of the fire with Ruffy, whom the humans couldn’t see, the two women replayed the day.

  “Supposed to rain tomorrow for the beagles, too.” Susan put her feet on a little stool, hoping to warm them.

  “As long as it isn’t heavy, it helps scent and really, this place is full of rabbits. I think they’ll have a booming day.”

  “Hope so.” Susan leaned her head on the chair’s back, looking up. “I forgot that Arlene has one of those space-age legs.”

  “She can run better than we can.” Harry nodded.

  “Yes, she can, but I think about that moment when the device blew up. I can’t imagine that, and here she is. Thank God for our medical corps.”

  “And technology. I can’t imagine it either, Susan. All these people here, each of them with a story of service. We’re pretty spoiled, you and I.”

  “That we are,” Susan agreed.

  “We’ll be in the canary cart again. I would think Madam would be embarrassed.”

  “If she isn’t, I am.” Susan laughed.

  Harry inhaled the lovely odor of the hardwood fire, thinking again that Jason’s killer had an intimate sense of the territory, which could be difficult.

  “I’m beginning to think Jason was a good actor. You don’t just get killed for being a nice guy.”

  “She’s got that right,” Ruffy said, ears sharp.

  “Let’s not dwell on it,” Susan advised.

  “I won’t. Let’s remember to find pillows for tomorrow.” Harry smiled, closing her eyes, bone weary but happy to be useful.

  32

  April 29, 2018

  Sunday

  Saturday’s runs pitted husband against wife as Mandy Bobbitt and Billy Bobbitt wound up with two fabulous hunts. Also right up there was Sherry Buttrick with four Farmington Beagles descended from her glorious Peanut. Overcast but no rain, the day delighted everyone. Arlene, being director, wanted to hunt her two hounds but turned the horn over to her first whipper-in, a young man, Lonnie Parrish, stationed at Quantico Marine Base, who fell in love with the sport at the base.

  Now Sunday was day two for the beaglers, as there were so many of them, and they were undeterred even though the light rain had returned. Clare drew a ten o’clock slot. Harry and Susan whipped-in to her. Arlene, binoculars at the ready, really needed to watch over everything, so Nattie Riddle drove Madam, Jake Deloria aboard. Although basset people, a hound man is a hound man, and both wanted to observe hound work. Sitting in the canary wagon gave an excellent vantage point.

  Clare walked her four Chesapeake Beagles up over the hill, for the day’s territory had to be different from the last two days’. Rabbits shouldn’t be overhunted and since the Institute covered 512 acres, the game could be fairly protected. One would be hunting fresh rabbit.

  Well, Clare certainly hit a fresh rabbit, and the bugger shot straight uphill, a fairly steep rise above a small but swift creek. Harry, on the right, had the presence of mind to vault the creek to begin the climb. Susan hung back slightly should the game turn, because if the rabbit did pull a one-eighty—and they had a bag of tricks—she’d be able to turn with it, keep up with the pack. But this rabbit harbored Mount Everest dreams, going ever upward. Harry, cool though it was, sweated. Susan knew she couldn’t catch up to be on the hounds’ left shoulders, so she sensibly climbed but conserved her energy.

  The rabbit hit the crest, the four beagles perhaps five or six minutes behind. They poured over, followed by Harry, determined to keep up. No human can keep up with canines at full tilt. She hung in there as she heard Clare reach the crest, whooping encouragement to hounds who needed none of it. A beagle possessed is in his or her own world.

  The high ground, wet, slowed Harry down, but not the light animals. She kept them in sight, only realizing as she reached the middle of the high meadow that it was where the cavalrymen had thundered on, to their regret. The rabbit did not stop to say a brief grace but zoomed over that meadow, the cottontail bobbling, eyes determined. Farmwork makes one strong but doesn’t necessarily give one great wind, and Harry’s lungs burned. Still, she kept up, as did Susan, closing slightly. Both women, in shape, decent runners, realized this run was very, very good. The rabbit hit the tree line of a northeastern woods, cut into it, and then swerved west. Hounds roared in, full cry, then silence.

  Harry could drop it down to a trot, for she saw the Chesapeake hounds casting about. They tried everything, but to no avail. Clare blew her horn, calling them back. She then walked along the wood’s edge, pushing them into the woods. She might have done better sticking to the edge, for rabbits are edge feeders. Then again, one never knew. After fifteen minutes she turned to recross the meadow and hunt downhill, but the timer watch on Nattie’s wrist went off and Arlene blew the horn.

  Madam flicked her ears. She wasn’t a big h
orn fan.

  Clare told her hounds how good they were and began walking back to the kennels at the Institute. Harry and Susan walked on either side of the proud beagles, tails upright.

  Arlene had Nattie drive her back to the top of the hill for the next hunt, which was Waldingfield Beagles.

  “I should have kept on the edge.” Clare kicked herself.

  “They put in a super run. And who knows where scent might be? You did a good job.” Harry praised her.

  “Clare, you’ve been hunting these hounds less than a month.” Susan put things in perspective.

  She brightened. “I think Jason would be proud.”

  “No doubt. I personally would like to have a word with that bunny. Nearly straight up. Hateful climb.”

  “Was.” Both Susan and Clare agreed.

  Reaching the kennels, Clare checked the hounds’ paws and refreshed their buckets of water, putting them in their tidy kennel. She also mixed up a kibble mash into which she threw what she swore were secret ingredients.

  Each small kennel sat separate from others, a good plan, and the fencing gave enough room for stretching legs, too. Everything at Aldie had been thought out for generations, literally, for the good of the hounds.

  Meanwhile, Dr. Arie Rijke, Amy Burke Walker, and her brother Alan Webb, survived one of the most incredible runs ever. Einstein and Yeovil, led by Empress and Voicemail, nosed about for ten minutes. Nothing. Dr. Rijke, carrying the horn, pushed them along.

  “Find your rabbit,” the huntsman said.

  Amy began to wonder because, of course, they’d all heard about Chesapeake Beagles’ run.

  Dr. Rijke, not one to fret, kept pushing his beagles. His wife, Suzanne Bishoff, Joe Giglia, and Bob Johnson, all able to attend the weekend, remained with the spectators. Often someone who knows the pack, and these three did, can be helpful as spectators, seeing what the huntsman and whippers-in can’t. Amy and Alan had an intuitive understanding of what the other sibling would do.