With a burst of speed, the hounds tried to close the gap, but the fox, who’d been hunting, meandered over fallen logs, lingered on stone walls waiting for mice. Once he heard the hounds he doubled back, slipped down the raceway embankment to run along the watercourse. Then he climbed out right at Wheeler Mill, paused to consider what an old man was doing in the back of a pickup truck. He sauntered behind the truck, stopped and sat to stare at Peter, then got up and walked into the mill, where he had a tidy little den with so many exits the hounds couldn’t trap him if they put a hound on each visible one. He even had exits running under mighty timber supports.
Peter bellowed for all he was worth, “Yip, yip yooo,” giv-ing the rebel yell instead of “holloa” or “tallyho.”
Within three minutes the hounds arrived at the truck, then plunged into the raceway, the creek, then back out, since the fox had zigzagged by the creek and then the raceway. It only took the hounds perhaps half a minute before they were all in the mill itself.
Shaker was a minute behind his hounds. He could see Douglas ahead parallel to the creek. He knew no hounds had veered off course.
He hopped off Showboat, his Thursday horse. Showboat calmly stood while Shaker gingerly walked across the low stone wall into the mill. Otherwise he’d have to ride around, and Shaker believed in getting to his hounds as quickly as possible, in this case to reward them for putting their quarry in his den.
Sister and the field galloped up as Shaker bent low to open the oak door into the bottom of the mill.
The hounds sang, “He’s in his den. He’s in his pen. We’ve got him cornered! Mighty hounds are we!”
Shaker blew triumphant notes on his horn; then he trebled them, which made the hounds dance all around the enormous mill wheels and the smooth areas where the kernels dropped to be bagged up. They leapt over one another, they dug at one of the den openings, they jumped straight up in the air so Shaker would notice them.
“I found the line first,” Dasher boasted. The black marking on his head came forward in a widow’s peak.
“I was first into the mill,” Diana, thrilled at her success, barked.
“We did well as a pack. The youngsters led the way.” Cora allowed herself great satisfaction.
“I still think if we’d crossed the raceway instead of moving alongside it we would have nabbed him,” Archie, brow furrowed, flews hanging loose, said.
“Archie, you worry too much.” Cora laughed at him.
“There is no perfect hunt, Cora. We can always improve.”
“You’re right, Arch.” She humored him.
Outside Sister Jane rode over to Peter. “Thanks for the view.”
“Granddad taught me that yell.” Peter felt young again despite his infirmities. “And I tell you, Janie, he walked right up here and stared at me. Insolent he was. Insolent and big, oh, a big fine red dog fox. I’ve seen him before. Fox everywhere this year but none so big as this boy.”
“You’re a good whip, Peter.”
“Tell you one thing, pretty girl, if there’s not foxhunting in heaven, I’m not going.” He laughed; his eyes sparkled.
She remembered him when he was younger, when his hair was pitch-black. Peter Wheeler was a handsome man to have in the field or in the bed.
“I hope you won’t be going any time soon even though I bet the foxes are grand. Foxes from the great runs in England during the nineteenth century. Now there’s a thought.”
He beamed at her. “When you were seventeen, I predicted you would be master someday. You had it even then, Jane.” He reached in the pocket of his flannel shirt for a cigar, a Macanudo for a mild early-morning smoke. “It’s an inborn thing. Can’t be taught. Can’t be bought.”
“Thank you.”
“And I’ll tell you something else. You’re still a fine-looking woman. I’m glad you didn’t dye your hair or tie up your face. Looks stupid and fake. Hate to see that on a woman. Silver hair makes you look distinguished. More like a master.” He chuckled. “And a word of advice—and that’s the great thing about being two years older than God—I can say whatever I damn well please. To hell with the rules, Janie, do as you please. Time’s a-wasting.” He laughed. “Go seduce some fellow half your age. You can, you know. Here comes Shaker. Like the cat that ate the canary. And look at those hounds, will you. Just as pleased with themselves as Shaker. My, how I’d love to be on the back of a horse.” He was so excited he stood up, energy racing through him.
The field buzzed behind the master, happy to have such a good beginning and happy to have a moment for gossip, pass the flask, take a few furtive puffs on a cigarette, and quickly grind it out on the bottom of a boot. The horses chatted, too.
Sister rode over to Shaker. “Well done.”
“Not bad. I’ll cast in the other direction, up toward the graveyard.”
“Fine.”
She turned back to her field, took her place in the front as Crawford edged up behind her. He dearly wanted to ride in the master’s pocket, the most coveted position in the field.
Czapaka murmured to Lafayette, “I’ll try not to bump you. He can’t hold me, you know, but I don’t want to go first. You’ve got more guts than I do. You go first.”
True, Lafayette did have to negotiate obstacles and terrain first, but Showboat was in front of him on those times when he could see him. That gave him a good idea of the footing. If Showboat and Shaker were out of sight, he used his judgment, which was solid. Lafayette took Sister Jane to the jump. She didn’t have to squeeze him over.
“If it gets too bad just dump him,” Lafayette advised. Being a thoroughbred, he had no tolerance for someone with bad hands.
They waved good-bye to Peter as they walked north. A yip now and then meant a faint, faint scent lingered, but they crept for about a half hour, arriving at the graveyard, headstones so old the writing had worn down to curves and straight lines. The years still read clear. Those resting within were Wheelers, Jacksons, and Japazaws, descended from an Indian leader of the last half of the seventeenth century, the first half of the eighteenth. It was always a source of pride and defiance among the Wheelers, Jacksons, and Japazaws that they claimed their blood. Many a settler denied sexual congress with the native peoples, much less married them.
Archie walked through the open wrought-iron gate, twelve feet high with a scroll at the top. “Half hour.”
Cora joined him. “Let’s make certain.”
They deliberately walked through the graveyard, feathers scattered behind a large monument. A bobwhite had provided a feast for their fox.
“There’s another one.” Archie sniffed a crossing scent. “About the same time.”
“Arch, I’ll go to the edge of the graveyard with this one and you go to the edge with the other. Let’s come back and compare. If we leave the graveyard, the whips will come in thinking we’ve split but I don’t know which line is better.”
“Okay.” Archie moved north.
Cora moved south, taking the pack with her before some young one got impatient, although Dragon’s disgrace seemed to have sunk in.
Within a few minutes the pack was at the southern edge of the graveyard, which opened onto a rolling fifty-acre pasture. Archie halted at the northern end, cut over about ten years ago. A border of mature trees had been left around the graveyard.
Cora called out, “It’s about the same. The scent.”
“Same here,” Archie replied. “But if we go into the cutover we have a better chance of staying with it. The scent will surely be dissipated on the pasture.” Archie knew the territory better than anyone.
“Come on, kids.” Cora swung the pack around. They fell in behind Archie, slipped through the wrought iron, and headed into the tangles.
The young ones had been trained to go into rough country during their hound walks but this was the real thing.
A lovely young bitch hesitated.
“Get your butt in there,” Archie growled. “You don’t want Shaker to push you in.”
She scoot
ed in.
Douglas up ahead viewed, letting out a holler.
Shaker didn’t bother his hounds. They were working well; they needed no encouragement. To speak to them would bring their heads up. Besides which the hounds could hear Douglas better than he could. They knew what it meant.
The field followed along a farm road. The brush, thick, inhibited horses going in after the hounds. They covered a lot of ground at a steady trot. The cutover acres gave way to a bog. The road, higher, got them through. Sister saw hounds on both sides of the bog, in a line, moving forward, working hard because there couldn’t have been much to go on in that mess. Once out of the bog they fanned out, picking up the scent on the moss at the bottom of a fiddle oak.
“Fading fast.” Cora urged the others, “Try to keep your head down more, youngsters, even though it will slow you down. It’s so easy to overrun the line in these conditions.”
Once out of the bog they entered a high meadow; a cool wind caught them on the spine of the meadow. The hounds dipped their heads under it, although Dasher would stick his nose up. True, he got wind of heavy scent, but it wasn’t fox.
“Don’t even think about it,” Archie snapped.
Dasher dropped his head obediently, even though the deer scent sorely vexed him.
Diana stopped at the highest point looking to the east. There, sunning herself on a rock, was a luxurious vixen, gray. She had little interest in the proceedings.
“Look.”
Archie stopped to see the fox. “She’s not the hunted fox. But oh, this is tempting.”
The pack came to a halt. Sister, too, saw the sunbathing vixen.
She paused, waiting for her hounds, and Crawford, the damned fool, bellowed, “Tallyho.”
This brought a chorus of tallyhos behind her. The hounds all brought their heads up. Shaker stopped; the hounds stopped, then turned. The gray fox, disgusted, shot off her rock. The hounds picked up the scent, red-hot, and ran full speed ahead.
Sister squeezed Lafayette. They roared over the meadow, cleared the four slip-rail fence into the next meadow, and approached a trick drop jump at the edge of that. The slope on the other side was mossy, which meant horses slipped. The drop wasn’t all that steep; it was the footing. Of course, the horses collected themselves in no time. It was the people that didn’t.
Sister gracefully leapt over, barely leaning back in the saddle. She stayed over Lafayette’s center of gravity regardless of the jump.
Crawford kicked Czapaka too hard. The horse had no intention of refusing but then over the jump Crawford looked down, panicked, and snatched the seventeen-hand fellow in the mouth, infuriating him. Czapaka skidded, Crawford hung up on his neck, and as the horse brought his hind end up under him, he let out a serious buck. Crawford was launched into space. Having relieved himself of the lump on his back, Czapaka turned around and jumped back over the jump, which brought Walter Lungrun to grief as he was approaching the jump. On the other side Czapaka galloped back toward the trailers, which in his estimation were three miles back.
Walter and Crawford picked themselves up simultaneously on both sides of the jump.
“Goddamn him! Goddamn that brute,” Crawford screeched as the field receded from view.
Ralph cleared the jump, having ascertained that Walter was fine. “Crawford, you in one piece?”
“Yes, goddammit!”
“Know your way back to the trailer?”
“Yes, goddammit.” Crawford was linguistically stuck.
Walter’s horse, an old hunter named Clemson, wise in the ways of the sport, stood still. It was neither his fault nor Walter’s that they parted company. Czapaka, crazed with freedom, crashed into them on their approach. Walter was already in his two-point position and the big Holsteiner knocked Clemson, a 16.1-hand appendix quarter horse, nearly off his feet.
Walter, not the best rider, was nonetheless a caring one. He checked Clemson’s legs, walked him, reins over his head, to make sure the old fellow wasn’t banged up.
“I’m fine. I can’t abide warm-bloods. Dumb-bloods!” Clemson said.
Walter patted him on the neck, then swung up into the saddle. A hair under six feet, Walter looked much taller because of his terrific build. He slipped his feet in the stirrups.
“Ready?” Clemson asked, and was squeezed lightly in return.
They cleared the upright in good order as a still-cursing Crawford walked down to the eight-foot gate and struggled with the rusted chain and latch. This brought forth a torrent of verbal abuse.
Walter hid his laughter and trotted to catch up. He saw no reason to fly like a bat out of hell, since he could hear hoofbeats ahead.
Just as Walter found the group, Fontaine and the hilltoppers found Crawford, walking across the high meadow.
“It’s a glorious morning for a walk, Mr. Howard.”
“Shut up, Fontaine.”
“All in a day’s sport.”
“I’ll see your ass on the ground before the season’s over.” Crawford slapped his own thigh with his crop.
“Ah well, your ass is there now and buddy, there’s so much of it.” Fontaine laughed, riding on. The hilltoppers followed, suppressing giggles.
It never occurred to Crawford that not one of the hilltoppers asked if he was all right.
By the time he reached the trailers his feet hurt as much as his pride. Czapaka stood at the trailer as though an angel of reason. If Peter Wheeler weren’t still on the truck bed, Crawford would have taken the crop to Czapaka. Which wouldn’t have been a good idea no matter the horse but most especially Czapaka, who never forgot and never forgave.
“Horse’s all a lather,” Peter called out.
“Yes, he was a bad boy.” Crawford tried to be sociable. He was glad that Martha worked Thursdays. He would have hated to have her see his debacle. Fontaine would tell her in lurid detail the minute he got back to the office.
He loaded up his horse and drove off, waving good-bye to Peter.
When Crawford drove out, Sister Jane and the field had pulled up two meadows beyond the high meadow. The fox disappeared. No den was in sight. No stream to wash away scent. Not even cow patties to foul scent.
The hounds worked the ground but they couldn’t find even a sliver of hope.
“Let’s call it a day,” Sister advised Shaker, who was standing beside her.
“Cagey devil.”
“Related to my reds. Must be. They’re too smart to be foreign foxes.”
She did recognize foxes. She made scent stations, kept track of litters in the spring, threw out dead chickens given her by farmers. The chickens were shot full of wormer, which helped to keep the parasite loads down.
Sister was proud of her healthy foxes.
As they turned back for the trailers, Shaker blew in Douglas and Betty Franklin. The morning proved better than he thought it would. He was happy. Sister was happy. The hounds were happy. Only Crawford was unhappy, and that was his own damn fault.
Once at the trailers, the hounds loaded, Betty broke out her hamper basket, as did other members. These impromptu breakfasts, sitting on the ground, delighted everyone.
Hunting port made the rounds, as well as iced tea. Sister kept a cooler full of soft drinks in her trailer.
After she’d made sure the hounds and horses were fine, she sat down, leaning against Betty’s trailer.
“I ought to get you a director’s chair.” Betty handed her a saddle pad to sit on.
“I ought to get one myself. Too many things to do,” Sister replied.
“Dr. Lungrun, come on over here and feed your face.” Betty waved him over and he gratefully accepted.
Everyone talked, laughed about Crawford, asked questions of Walter, praised the hounds.
“Tabor Lungrun?” Bobby Franklin asked him.
“My father.”
“Ah. We’re glad to have you with us and hope you’ll come back out.”
“Dr. Lungrun, join us.”
He smiled at Sister Jane, finding h
er the most beautiful older woman he had ever seen. “I need two sponsors, do I not?”
“I can’t sponsor you because I’m the master.”
Bobby held out his hand and shook Walter’s. “I’d be happy to sponsor you, Doctor. My pleasure.”
Fontaine, quick to curry favor with Sister Jane, held out his glass. “Me, too. Your father was a good man ruined by a not so good one. We’d be pleased to have a Lungrun in the fold.”
The only reason Fontaine brought up that unhappy episode was so that no one would forget it. Small worry. No one in Virginia ever forgot anything. Misdeeds from 1626 were recounted with as much relish as if they’d happened yesterday. But Fontaine, who knew better than to point out another man’s misery, also wanted that joint-mastership. Since it was Crawford Howard who’d destroyed Walter’s father in what Crawford said was a bad business deal and others said was calculated greed, Fontaine wanted everyone to remember right that moment.
“I’d be happy to ride with Jefferson Hunt.” Walter bowed his head a moment. “Mrs. Arnold, I apologize for calling you after nine-thirty. I’ve been informed that you go to bed early.”
“Beauty sleep,” Betty teased her.
“Then I need to be comatose.” Sister laughed at herself.
“Hear. Hear. A beautiful woman need not disparage herself.” Fontaine held up his glass and the men drank to the master, who rather enjoyed it.
As the group broke up, Douglas sought out Betty.
“Mrs. Franklin, I thought Cody was hunting today?”
She liked Douglas and often wondered why he bothered with Cody, who treated all men badly. “Douglas, both of my girls are in a drug rehab program. They must stay at the hospital for a week and then they’ll be back with us but still part of the program on an outpatient basis.”
Bobby, in the trailer tack room, stuck his head out the door. “Betty, people don’t have to know that.”
“They know already. About drugs. We were the last to know.” She turned to Douglas. “Because we didn’t want to know, I’m afraid. Anyway, they’re both doing something about it.”
“Is Cody allowed to see people?”
“Not this first week. After that, as I said, she’ll be out. You knew. I mean you knew about the drugs?”
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