Outfoxed

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Until tomorrow, then.” Inky headed toward the den.

  CHAPTER 64

  Foxhunters adore Thanksgiving hunt. The light-to-medium frosts of the night before promise a silvery morning, scent sticking to the ground. Low gray clouds hold hope of long, long runs but even if the day dawns bright and clear as a baby’s smile, the cool temperatures and the late November frost ensure a bit of a good run no matter what.

  Hunters prepare their dinner the night before, as much of it as they can. If no one is home to watch the turkey, then the oven isn’t turned on until the horses are turned out. Traditionally, foxhunters eat Thanksgiving dinner in the early evening. This most American of holidays, the most uncommercial of holidays, rings out with toasts to high fences, good hounds, great runs, and much laughter over who parted company from their horse.

  Since Thanksgiving is a High Holy Day, horses must be braided. Those who played football, those whose jammed fingers invited pain, those upon whom arthritis visited, cursed as they wrapped the tiny braids with even tinier rubber bands, weaving yarn on those same braids.

  Doug, as first whipper-in, was responsible for braiding staff horses. A quiet man, he couldn’t help but boast about his tight braids. Doug’s idea of a boast was to say, “They stay put.”

  Lafayette, Rickyroo, and Gunpowder, for Shaker would be riding Fontaine’s big gray, gleamed so brightly that Sister laughingly suggested she needed sunglasses just to mount her horse.

  Hounds, always excited before a hunt, sensed the additional emotions of a star hunt.

  Dragon bragged, “I got a fox for opening hunt. I’ll get one for Thanksgiving.”

  Dasher sniffed at his brother. “You picked up a shot fox. I’d hardly brag about that.”

  Dragon turned his back on him.

  Shaker backed the hound van into the draw run. Double sliding gates ensured that he could back in, then roll the gates to each side of the van. Shaker, an organized man, left little to chance. He prided himself on never being late to a hunt.

  Since the first cast would be at Whiskey Ridge he had only to pull out of the farm and turn right as the state road curled around Hangman’s Ridge. Two miles later, at the end of the long low land between the two ridges, he’d turn left and go to the back side of Whiskey Ridge. He particularly liked to cast at the base of the ridge or at the abandoned tobacco shed but the field liked a pretty view, so they generally started at the top, working their way down in no time. Often the fox would cross the road, a lightly traveled road, but any road strikes fear into the heart of a huntsman. He was careful to post a whip on the road to ask cars to slow down if hounds were running in that direction. Once across the road it was anybody’s guess. But then foxes, being the marvelous creatures that they are, could just as easily bolt down the other side of the ridge, heading for the flattish lands even farther east. Whereas the land between Hangman’s Ridge and Whiskey Ridge was rich and traversed by a strong creek, the lands to the east of Whiskey Ridge rolled into the Hessian River, named for the mercenaries of King George who bivouacked there during the Revolutionary War. This river eventually fed into the James River.

  Jefferson Hunt territory proved a test of hounds and staff. The soils changed dramatically from the riverbeds to the rock outcroppings. Rich fertile valleys gave way to flinty soils. Lovely galloping country spiraled down into ravines or up into those same rock outcroppings. Every good hunt breeds hounds specifically for their territory.

  A place where the land is flat or rolling, good soils, can use fast hounds with good noses. A wide-open place, like Nevada, needs hounds with blazing speed. Hounds don’t need to hunt as closely together as they would back east.

  The Jefferson territory demanded an all-round hound, a bit like the German shorthaired pointer, which is an all-round hunting dog. The Jefferson hound needed great nose, great drive, and great cry because light voices would be lost in the heavy forests. Speed was not essential. So the hounds were big, strong-boned, quite impressive, and fast enough to hurtle through the flatlands but not blindingly fast like the packs at Middleburg Hunt, Piedmont Hunt, and Orange County Hunt. Jefferson Hunt hounds were a balanced mix of crossbred and American hounds. Sister kept four Penn-Marydel hounds for those days when scent was abominable. The Penn-Marydels never, ever failed her. Being Virginia-born and -bred, Sister Jane loved a big hound. She thought of the Penn-Marydel as a Maryland or Pennsylvania hound and like any Virginian she felt keen competitiveness with those states but most especially Maryland. This hunting rivalry stretched back before the Revolutionary War, each state straining to outdo the other, thereby ensuring that the New World would develop fantastic hounds.

  But in her heart of hearts, Sister knew the Penn-Marydel was a fine hound. The ears were set lower on the head. While they had speed, they kept their noses to the ground longer, which might make them seem slow but the other side of the coin was that a fast pack could overrun the line. So she kept two couple and was glad to have them but if a person asked what kind of hounds she hunted, she replied, “American and crossbred.” The crossbred was a mix of American and English blood.

  Hounds panted inside the van, not from heat but from anticipation.

  Shaker shut the back door, rolled back the sliding doors, drove the van out, stopped it, rolled the gates back shut. Ahead of him, Doug waited with the small horse van. Sister, in her best habit, her shadbelly, sat next to him.

  Thanksgiving brought out the best in everyone. It had none of the jitters of opening hunt. By now, staff knew how the pack was working or not working, as the case may be. Plus, at the end of the hunt, there was that glorious dinner with one’s family and friends crowded around the table. Mince pie. The very words could send Sister into a swoon.

  Every time she thought of her trap, her heart pounded. Would it work? She didn’t know what she would do if she did catch the killer. She had substituted her .38 for her .22 loaded with ratshot. The holster hung on the right rear side of her saddle. No one would know she’d switched guns.

  Shaker flashed his lights behind them, indicating he was ready.

  “You don’t mind that I put Keepsake on for Cody?”

  “No. He needs the work and she’s the best for it. If he can whip, he’s more valuable. He can do everything but lead the field. Sorrel might be able to get more money.”

  “I thought she donated both horses to the hunt.”

  “She did but I’m waiting to see what her financial condition is—I’ll sell the horses to help if she needs it.” The van pulled out of the farm road onto the state road. “I heard that Crawford made an offer on the business. Nerve.”

  “Especially if he killed Fontaine,” Doug replied.

  “Do you think he did?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Other trailers and vans rumbled along ahead of them. Doug checked the rearview mirror; more were coming up behind. In the distance in the opposite direction, trailers were turning onto the Whiskey Ridge Road.

  “Going to be a hell of a turnout.” He grinned.

  “Oh yeah, they’re waiting for another murder. Probably hoping it’s me because I’ll be in front and everyone will get a good viewing. I wonder if they’ll tallyho?” she sang out.

  “How about ‘Gone to ground’?”

  They both howled with laughter, a bad situation bringing out the best in them.

  Doug flicked on his left turn signal, waited for the Franklins to turn in from the opposite direction.

  “You know what crosses my mind? Odd. Remember when we saw the Reaper or the Angel of Death or whatever it was?” Doug nodded that he remembered. “You were on the other side of Hangman’s Ridge, picking up hounds. Well, I wonder if Fontaine saw it, too. I wonder where he was.”

  “He did. Maybe.” Doug’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t thought of that. I saw him drive by. That is too weird.”

  “Do you think we’re next or can you see Death and he doesn’t take you?”

  “You’re giving me goose bumps.”

  “If I
had any sense, I’d be afraid but I’m not. I’m more afraid of how I will face death than I am of death itself but I’ll fight. Not ready to go. I don’t know what the hell we saw that sunset. Plus there’s a black fox out there—as shiny as coal.” She surveyed the sea of trailers and vans as they cruised into the meadow at the base of Whiskey Ridge. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

  “Think of the cap fees,” he gleefully remarked, since those people visiting the hunt had to pay a fifty-dollar fee to go out.

  The cap fees helped defray the hound costs, which averaged about eighteen to twenty thousand dollars a year.

  As Doug cut the motor and they disembarked, people doffed their hats, calling out, “Good morning, Master.”

  As tradition dictated, the master nodded in return or, if carrying her whip, would hold it high.

  “Doug, I need to touch base with Shaker for one minute. Be right back. Oh, your stock tie pin is crooked. Get Cody to fix it for you.” She noticed Cody walking over to help Doug unload the horses.

  “Morning, Master.”

  “Morning, Cody.” Sister hurried to Shaker, who parked a bit off from the crowd.

  “I count one hundred and eleven rigs.” Shaker bent over to rub an old towel on his boots.

  “I keep telling you, the secret is to use panty hose. Better shine.”

  “I’m not going into a drugstore to buy panty hose.”

  “That’s right,” Sister mocked him. “Someone will think you’re a drag queen and you’d be so pretty, too.”

  “Yes, Master.” He bowed in mock obedience.

  “Shaker, I want you to do something today. Should the pack split, stay with the larger body even if the smaller is in better cry.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Better not split.”

  “Not if the whips are on. Doug up front, of course. Betty on the left. How about Cody on the right. I’m keeping Jennifer in the field. The Franklins have to just get through this as best they can. Or more to the point, Jennifer has to face it down.”

  “Makes me glad I never had children,” Shaker grumbled.

  “Don’t say that, brother. Children are a gift from God even when you’d like to brain them,” Sister quietly but emphatically told him.

  “I’m sorry.” He had forgotten that Walter Lungrun was Raymond’s natural son. Relationships baffled Shaker. Walter’s parentage made him think of Ray Junior. He’d known Junior and liked the boy. He liked the father less. He knew about Walter because once in a confessional moment, a tortured moment after Junior’s death, Ray sobbed out the whole story. Shaker didn’t think Walter knew who his real father was and he was certain Sister knew nothing about her husband’s affair and subsequent child. He wondered if she would find out. He felt he could never tell her. She’d lived this long without knowing. Why disturb her?

  She put her arm around his neck. “Don’t worry about it. I remember the good times. Like the Thanksgiving hunt when Junior was ten and he viewed. He stood in his stirrups and was so excited he couldn’t speak. His pony took off and he fell flat on his back, got up, and finally said, “Holloa.”

  “Tough little brat. Like his momma.” He watched Crawford pull in with his brand-new Dodge dually pulling his brand-new aluminum four-horse trailer with every convenience known to man or beast. “Can’t believe that man is showing his face.”

  “Better his face than his ass.”

  Staff, mounted, surrounded the hounds. Sister rode through the trailers, welcoming people. Her presence made them move along a bit faster. Georgia Vann had forgotten her hair net. She bounded from trailer to trailer until she found a woman carrying an extra.

  Finally, everyone was up.

  Lafayette remarked to Oreo, carrying Bobby, “On time. A bleeding miracle.”

  “O-o-o,” Oreo grunted. “He’s put on more weight.”

  “Might want to loosen your horse’s girth,” a rider said.

  “Might want to loosen his,” Betty called out as she sat by the hounds.

  “I want everyone to know that I’m above all this,” Bobby joked, glad that people were willing to let his daughters work out their own problems. He felt a little extrasensitive today so the joking made him feel better. People weren’t laughing behind his back but he noticed that few would talk to Crawford or stand near him as Sister addressed them.

  “Happy Thanksgiving. Thank you all for coming out and we hope the foxes will come out also. As you know, we lost a faithful supporter, a generous man, and one of my best friends. I hope Peter Wheeler, young again and strong, is mounted on Benny, his big chestnut, and they’re both looking down at us, wishing us well.” She paused a moment. “Huntsman.”

  His cap in his hand, he nodded to the master. Putting his cap on his head, he asked the hounds, “Ready, children?”

  “Yes!” they spoke in unison.

  “Come along, then.” He quietly encouraged them, turning his horse toward the top of Whiskey Ridge for the scenic first cast.

  “Jennifer.” Sister motioned for the girl to ride up. “Keep an eye on Crawford, will you? Talk to me after the hunt.”

  “Yes, Master.” Jennifer pulled back, waiting for a few first-flight members to pass her. Then she fell in behind Crawford and Martha. She wasn’t sure what Sister wanted but she was pleased to be given a special mission. At least Sister liked her and trusted her with responsibility.

  The top of Whiskey Ridge was rounder then Hangman’s Ridge off in the distance, the giant black oak stark against the silvery rising mists. The sides of Whiskey Ridge feathered and softened down to the creek bed, a small valley on the west side. The grade was even smoother on the east side; the Hessian River was visible across the rolling terrain, a cauldron of mist hanging over the snaking river.

  Frost silvered each blade of grass, each leaf, the exposed roots of the old trees.

  Shaker, voice low but filled with excitement, leaned down. “He’s out there. Get ’im. Get ’im.”

  “Yay!” The hounds dashed away from the huntsman. Noses to the ground, sterns upright, they wanted a smashing Thanksgiving hunt.

  Down on the east side of the ridge Uncle Yancy picked up a trot. He heard hounds above him and felt no need to provide them with a chase. He recalled seeing Patsy out before dawn, so just to be sure he swerved from a direct path to his den, crossed Patsy’s scent, and then scampered the half mile to his cozy home.

  Up on the ridge Sister hung back about fifty yards from her hounds. Since she wasn’t sure what direction they’d finally take she sat tight.

  Dasher’s tail looked like a clock pendulum, back and forth. Finally, he spoke. “Check this out.”

  Cora and Diana came over. “Faint but good. Let’s see where it leads.”

  Within minutes the hounds coursed down the eastern slope of the ridge, reached the grassy bottom streaking across the well-maintained hay fields, a beautiful sight for the field to behold, since the pack was running well together, Cora in the lead, Diana securely in the middle.

  Although the grade was gentle, one rider, frantically clutching her martingale, flipped ass over teakettle when the martingale snapped. Georgia Vann, on mop-up duty, stopped to make certain the lady was breathing.

  “All right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to push on?”

  “I think I’ll go back to the trailer. I hate to ride without a martingale.” She led her horse back up the hill and the poor fellow was severely disappointed—all his friends galloping toward the Hessian River in the distance.

  At the end of the expansive hay field, a narrow row of trees bordering a sunken farm road presented an interesting obstacle. The old stone fence on the other side of the towering lindens was only two and a half feet high but the drop on the other side would scare the bejesus out of a few people.

  “Yee-haw!” Lafayette snorted, sailing over. He loved a drop jump because he was in the air so long. Horse hang time was how he thought of it.

  Sister kept her center of gravity right over Lafayette’s center
. They landed in the soft earth of the lane, then scrambled up the small embankment on the other side into a field planted with winter wheat. She skirted the field, hearing the screams behind her of those who made the drop and those who didn’t. She turned her head just in time to see Lottie Fisher pop out of her tack and wind up hugging her horse’s neck. It was funny although at that precise moment Lottie didn’t think so.

  The hounds moved faster now as scent became stronger. They reached the place where Uncle Yancy had crossed Patsy’s scent. Milling about for a few minutes Dragon bellowed.

  Not trusting him, Cora hurried next to him before he could take off. She put her nose down. “It’s good. Let’s go.”

  They turned at a right angle, heading northeast now into the pine plantation owned by the Fishers. Paths were wide, easy to maneuver. At the end of the twenty-year-old loblolly pines, they hopped over an upright in an old fence line. Sister had built that jump with Ray Senior using sturdy locust trees felled in a storm. Fifteen years later the jump stood strong.

  Everyone made it over the upright. Three strides from that another jump faced them as they moved into a cornfield, stalks uncut. This simple jump of truck tires suspended on a cable gave half the field a problem and they had to wait for Bobby Franklin and the hilltoppers to go through the gate. Once through they bade Bobby good-bye, hurrying to catch up with the field, now at the far end of the cornfield, pushing into a second cornfield separated by an expensive, impressive zigzag or snake fence. Sister and Lafayette arched over the point where two sides crossed together. They landed smack in the standing corn. She ran down a row, hounds in front of her and to the side of her now in full cry. They’d picked up Patsy. She was running about a quarter of a mile ahead and being shadowed by St. Just. St. Just, unbeknownst to him, was being shadowed by Athena.

  At the end of this cornfield a fence bordered a rocky creek. It, too, was a zigzag. Sister jumped that and one stride later clattered across the creek with inviting low banks. On the other side the hounds turned west. They ran, then lost the scent.