Furmidable Foes

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Well, Martin, they aren’t stolen exactly, but Royal Oak is tight, well run. Don’t think anyone would turn on anyone else.”

  “You’re right. My mind’s running ahead. Mostly, I’m glad we didn’t need to keep fishing throughout Maryland and wind up in Philadelphia.” Shank grunted.

  “Yes, but they’re thirsty there, too.”

  “Ha!”

  “We have a way back onto the farm. To buy a wagon.” Martin put the reins in one hand, placing the other in his pocket. “But that doesn’t help us grab those two. The third isn’t Mrs. Holloway’s. I still think we should sell him.”

  “We might not be able to take them all at once. The two fellows are young. They’ll be quick. They don’t look that strong but they will be quick.” Shank studied his quarry as would any hunter.

  “True.”

  “Martin, look up.” Shank grimaced.

  Martin did as a twirling snowflake lazed down onto the mare’s mane. “We’re not far, thank heaven.”

  “No. Not a bad little barn the inn has, but I’m thinking about the roads. Be good if we could bag our quarry while people are occupied with their dinners and celebrations. Not too many would be in our way. If we can find out the Royal Oak schedule, that will help.”

  Martin nodded, clucked as the mare increased her trot. She didn’t want to be out in the snow in her traces either. “We’ve got rope, gags. We need to cut out each fellow, then grab him.”

  Shank said, “Well, if we can lure them off the farm, ought to be easy. It’s the girl I’m worried about. Be hard to get at her. She’s not going to be working outside.”

  “Oh now, Shank, where there’s a will there’s a way.”

  19

  December 21, 1787

  Friday

  Soft light filtered into the mare barn on this winter solstice. While this was the shortest day of the year, the light shone with a unique soft quality.

  Ralston finished up feeding the horses a warm bran mash, put out hay, checked each mare. The midday bell would ring soon for everyone to eat. He was hungry today.

  Sulli, having finished the corn bread, put out the old plates, ran a bit ahead of schedule. Miss Frances hummed while she worked. Sulli kept her apron on but reached for her heavy shawl.

  “Miss Frances, let me bring in more wood.”

  Eyes darted to the pile as she stirred a big pot of porridge. “Is a little low. Go on.”

  Sulli dashed out of the common kitchen, running toward the mare barn. “Ralston.”

  Hearing her voice, he stepped out of a stall. “Sulli.”

  No time to talk, they fell on each other.

  “I miss you so much. He watches me like a hawk. Ralston, I can’t stand it.”

  Kissing her, holding her, pressing his body against hers, he said, “I can’t either.”

  Without any warning William ran inside and grabbed Ralston, throwing him on the floor.

  Ralston crawled fast on all fours to the whips, reaching for one as William reached him. Nimbly hopping to his feet, Ralston swung, catching William full in the face.

  Enraged, William looked for a heavier tool, backing up, arm over his face.

  Sulli wanted to scream but caught herself. Bringing the other men would make this worse. She knew enough to let men settle their own problems, even if she was the problem. Turning, she ran back toward the kitchen, having the presence of mind to pick up hardwood logs.

  Miss Frances turned as Sulli placed the logs next to the fireplace.

  “Your husband came in here. Told him you were at the woodpile. Dipsy let him off a few minutes early. A first.” Miss Frances chuckled to herself, not thinking much of Sulli’s flushed face.

  Back in the mare’s barn, the two slammed each other with fists, feet. Ralston tripped William as the taller man lunged for him. Then he kicked him while he was down.

  Nimble, like Ralston, although bigger, William scrambled onto his feet and ran toward the end of the barn where a pitchfork with thin sharp tines stuck in a small hay pile. Pivoting the instant he had that pitchfork in his hand, he advanced on Ralston.

  The smaller man stood his ground, figuring he could duck the thrusts. He underestimated William’s reflexes and his own.

  The tines of the pitchfork ripped into his old work coat. William kept thrusting, finally tearing the cloth to pieces while Ralston dodged. William then swung the pitchfork at shoulder height, catching Ralston on the side of the head.

  Ralston went down. William became a blur.

  Hurt though he was, he tried to get up, but William kicked him under the gut and, as he tottered, slammed his foot into his side. Ralston went down again.

  William kicked him in the head, then rammed the pitchfork into his back, close to his side, with all his strength. Ralston lay pinned on the floor, the pitchfork standing straight up in his back, his coat shredded.

  William dusted off his hands. He put his hands in the cold water, washed his face, squared his shoulders, then walked to the common feeding room.

  Looking a bit worse for wear, he sat down and said nothing. Neither did anyone else. Occasionally men fought each other or injured themselves on the job. Then he walked to the kitchen.

  Sulli avoided him, which Miss Frances did notice.

  Martin and Shank appeared at the kitchen door, stepping inside, knowing the workers would be there. “Dipsy, sorry to bother you. We can come back.”

  “Sit down. Take a load off your feet. Sulli, put down more plates,” Miss Frances ordered.

  As the two ate Miss Frances’s hot food, they spoke to Dipsy loud enough so others could hear.

  “We’ve been thinking about the wagon you built,” Martin started. “We think it would hold up. We cover many miles. Rough.”

  “Mr. Finney doesn’t tolerate half-assed work,” Dipsy replied to a few nods from the other men. “I’ve got one nearly finished, too.”

  “No need to go off the farm, but would you mind hitching up the sold wagon? You could use our horse, and we could drive it here. Get a feel, you know? Our hind ends sit a long, long time.”

  The other men laughed while William deliberately avoided looking at Sulli, whom he wanted to throttle. In time.

  “I was hoping you’d ride along with us, Dipsy. Point out a few things.”

  “Of course.”

  As they finished up, Martin reached in his pocket to pay Miss Frances for the food. She waved him off.

  Outside, the men walked toward the work shed. Once inside, they noticed wheels, axles, boards, parts for future wagons.

  “William. Come on. Help me hitch up the horse,” Dipsy yelled.

  “We can do that.” Shank had known Dipsy would insist on William. Dipsy had called on William to accompany him. That meant the young man had worked with him. He did want this to go smoothly and William knew the wagon, knew the harness. A fast hitch impresses.

  Martin took their horse, Penny, by the bridle. Once at the shed, Dipsy quickly wiped down the cart while the salesmen, his idea, unhitched their mare and William guided her to the traces. William and Dipsy tricked her out in no time, as Shank closely observed.

  Dipsy held out his hand and Martin took it, stepping up.

  “Dipsy, come along with us,” Martin said.

  “You know this farm. We don’t.” Shank smiled.

  Dipsy nodded, then ordered William, “Sit in the back, boy.”

  The four walked along the main road, passed the stables and the barns, down to the main entrance. Martin gently stopped the mare, turned the wagon around.

  “Ah.” Martin appreciated the turning radius as well as the obedience of his mare.

  “Pick up the pace,” Dipsy suggested, so the group trotted up to the stables and barns again.

  “Go around the back. A couple of farm roads there. Rutted. You’ll see ho
w she handles.” Dipsy leaned against the backrest. “You know, if you like, I can pad the backrest on the other cart. Not much money at all. Got stuff lying all over this farm. Don’t have to buy a thing, only the labor. I can have it finished and painted by tomorrow.”

  William saw Sulli hurrying to the stable. He put his hand on the side of the wagon and swung over, sprinting toward her.

  “William!” Dipsy bellowed.

  “Pay him no mind,” Martin soothingly said. “That’s a pretty girl.”

  “Damn fool.” Dipsy cursed, knowing he’d let him have it after the two men left. Might even get Ard to fire him.

  The cart bounced along the bad farm roads but the wheels evidenced no strain.

  “You can turn around here.” Dipsy watched clouds lower.

  “That’s a long building there. A bunkhouse?” Shank asked.

  “Warm. Beds are decent. Plenty of blankets.”

  “Married men have other places?” Martin swayed in the seat.

  “Well, there aren’t too many of us that are married. Ard is. I am. Two of the younger fellows and William, the fool.”

  “Mr. Finney sure takes care of his people,” Martin approvingly murmured.

  “See those cabins there? Lots of space between them. If there’s a fight, you don’t hear too much.” Dipsy laughed. “The last one is William and Sulli’s. Fight all the damn time. Don’t know if you two men are married.” Both nodded they were. “Well, women have their sphere and men have theirs. Don’t step over that line. In either direction.”

  “Wise words.” Shank studied William’s cabin.

  Once back at the shed, Martin and Shank wanted to unhitch their mare. “Straightforward.”

  “Is,” Dipsy replied to Martin. “When day is done, the last thing you want to do is wrestle with your harness, which might be cold, wet. Heavy.”

  The two hitched their mare up to their old cart, shook hands with Dipsy. “You’ve sold us, Dipsy. How much to pad the backrest and how long will it take?”

  “I can do it in a day. I’ll stuff it with horsehair, too. Would you rather have a cowhide or thick wool?”

  “Cowhide. Water won’t destroy it,” Martin quickly responded. “Then we will come back day after tomorrow.” He handed Dipsy half the asking price. “Rest when we pick it up.”

  “I thank you. Mr. Finney will be pleased. What color would you like?”

  “A dark yellow if you have it, or green. And I hope Mr. Finney knows what a good man he has in you and shares some of this money.”

  “He’s a fair man. Five dollars for the backrest. You’ll be riding on a cloud.”

  They shook hands again. The two drove off while Dipsy returned to the shop. Not much tidying to do but he noticed William, hand under Sulli’s arm, propelling her to their cabin. He shook his head, walking to his own cabin, smoke curling out of the chimney.

  Ralston came to, crawled to the tack room. Struggling to his knees with the pitchfork still in his back, the tines sunk in maybe an inch. The old coat saved him. He pulled himself up, hugging the side of the door. Shuffling into the tack room, the little potbellied stove pouring out the heat, he tried to pull off his coat. Couldn’t do it. As the pitchfork stuck on the right side of his spine, low down, he grabbed the handle and yanked it out while he screamed. Then he sank in the sturdy wooden chair, older than he was. Shaking, he breathed hard. He didn’t think he could make it to the bunkhouse. He slowly turned sideways and got out of the chair, hand on the wall. Some horse blankets folded on the floor beckoned. He made it. Then he realized he needed to feed the fire so he crawled over to the potbellied stove, opened the door, carefully slid in round hardwood, closed the door. Shaking hard again, he crawled back to the blankets, opened one up, collapsed on it, and pulled the other one over him. His teeth chattered from pain, not cold.

  He would live. He knew he would live, and he would live to kill that son of a bitch.

  20

  June 6, 2019

  Thursday

  “That’s why I tried a horseshoe garden.” Mags stood in the open part of the horseshoe, clipped bluegrass filling it.

  At the round end Harry, Susan, Janice, and Pamela admired Mags’s design and hard work.

  “Edging it in English boxwood, that dark green with foxglove in front of that was a wonderful idea.” Harry praised her.

  “Boxwood stays green, too.” Pamela wore her garden shoes, a nice espadrille that helped cushion the ground.

  “Well, I wanted color contrast, hence the foxglove and the iris in front of them. Trying to organize the height. My spring garden is by the house, so I can see those snowdrops come up and the crocuses from the warmth of the kitchen. This I’d like to be late spring, some summer.” Mags expansively swept her arm over the large area, which showed off her magic engagement ring from way back when.

  “Love those salvias. You’ve really thought this through.” Susan complimented her.

  “Look at the robins over there. I’ll grab one.” Pewter dreamed on, for any robin could see that fat cat crawling through the grass.

  “You can’t kill a bird when visiting.” Mrs. Murphy knew Pewter couldn’t catch a bird, but she went along with the illusion.

  Pamela glanced from the horseshoe garden to the English yews, on each side of the garden entrance. A five-foot-high plant under each yew set off the trunks. Three-inch white flowers, impressive, hung down from toothed leaves like trumpets.

  “Your jimsonweed is spectacular.”

  “Oh, I can’t kill it so I decided to enjoy the flowers.” Mags shrugged.

  “You do need to be careful with jimson,” Susan warned.

  “Of course she is, Susan. The stuff grows all over the place. I don’t worry until the seed pods burst. There’s some way at the back of the pastures at home before you get into the walnut groves. Fenced off and far from the fence,” Harry advised. “Why am I telling you? You know.”

  “It can make you crazy.” Janice laughed.

  “Oh, Jan, you don’t need any help.” Mags teased her. “So you think this, some shade, mostly sun, will work?” Mags asked.

  “I don’t see why not. You have a good watering system. And I see roses about to bloom back up at the house. Roses really are tough.” Harry admired this flower.

  “How about the climbing roses on the pillars at Montpelier? I’ve studied the maps of Madison’s gardens. I expect Dolley had a lot to do with the planning.” Mags loved Montpelier.

  “Allyson Whalley would know.” Pamela named the curator of horticulture at the preserved home and grounds. “Or Clayton.”

  “Which reminds me. Pamela, congratulations,” Harry said to the elegant, older woman.

  “What did Pamela do?” Janice wondered.

  “Her work in the Piedmont Environmental Council put another one thousand twenty-four acres under permanent conservation easement.”

  “Pamela, why didn’t you say something?” Janice exclaimed, not realizing as she was not born and bred in these parts that you didn’t brag. It just wasn’t done.

  “Many of us worked to preserve the land. The agricultural resources alone are vital to our understanding of the times,” Pamela demurred. “The National Trust for Historic Preservation, a dynamic partner, worked with us. Everyone worked very hard and now Montpelier has almost two-thirds of the original property under protection.”

  “Remarkable.” Mags folded her hands together, diamonds again gleaming.

  “Did Kevin pick out that engagement ring?” Harry admired it.

  “He has always had good taste. Even when we were young.”

  “He married you.” Susan smiled. “Ned needs help. So I tell Harry what I want. She tells Fair, who tells Ned. Helps to have a best girl friend.”

  “We know,” Janice and Mags said in unison.

  “Took each of us working on ou
r husbands to get the start-up money for Bottoms Up.” Mags looked down at her ring. “Janice told Olaf who told Kevin I was considering selling my ring to get the cash.”

  “That got the first olive out of the jar.” Janice laughed. “And now Bottoms Up makes more than Kevin’s nursery.”

  “Not more than Olaf’s investment business,” Mags filled in. “I guess no one makes more money than those guys. Hey, before I forget, tell us about finding more bones. I swear, there are too many skeletons around here.”

  “And that isn’t counting what’s in people’s closets,” Pamela remarked.

  “I found the bones!” Pewter bellowed.

  “Pewter.” Harry looked crossly at her, then matter-of-factly described the discovery.

  “Susan and I share a timber tract. She owns it, I manage it. We climbed up the side of Taliaferro’s Mountain, the one immediately behind my farm. It’s overgrown. Anyway, a still was tucked up in a brambly area.”

  “Whatever for?” Janice innocently asked.

  “Looking inside, we saw the apparatus for making home liquor.” Harry shrugged. “This part of Virginia is famous for country waters, what Yankees call moonshine. Susan and I happened to stumble across a still.”

  “I found bones!” Pewter squalled.

  “Pewter.” Harry shook her finger in a determined face.

  Susan watched her dog, Owen, sit next to the gray cat while he curled his lip. “The skull and rib cage shook us a bit.”

  Mags’s eyebrows rose. “Small wonder.” She took a breath. “Those moonshiners will kill one another. I think the theft of the beer in our truck might be their work. Deflect attention.”

  Janice crossed her arms over her chest. “Like the authorities were getting too close? Get them off track?”

  “Works for everything else,” Mags cynically but truthfully noted.

  “No idea who the dead man was?” Pamela inquired.

  “Not yet,” Susan answered. “Might not be anyone from here. Ned says there is a network for moonshine and marijuana.”

  “They’ll make weed legal,” Mags predicted, “but never moonshine.”

  “Why?” Janice thought the whole thing foolish.