Fox Tracks

by Rita Mae Brown

“Rape?”

  “No one is saying that, including the victims, but our women were attacked publicly by the military in Cairo because they aren’t Muslim and don’t follow the dress customs of that faith. As for the Muslim Brotherhood, I fear them more than the military. I fear anyone eager to impose their religion upon another.”

  “Hmm.” Crawford smiled as his wife Marty came in with a silver tray holding tiny china cups, a small pot of espresso, delicate little plates—upon which rested curled orange peels, lemon peels, and both white and natural sugar cubes—and a large plate with chocolate swizzle sticks. “Thank you, darling.”

  Marty kissed him on the cheek, then said to Tariq, “I know we don’t make coffee like you get at home, but I think I’ve come close—and oh, would you like some clotted cream?”

  “Clotted cream?” Tariq’s eyebrows rose. “How I loved that when I studied in England. No, thank you. But with great good fortune, I will visit you in the spring with fresh strawberries.”

  She clapped her hands without making much noise. “And I’ll have the clotted cream. That’s perfect.” She then looked to her husband, whom she understood and loved despite all. “Anything else?”

  He reached up to run his hand down her forearm. “Not a thing.”

  She left the two men as her husband poured the coffee.

  Tariq nodded slightly as he took the proffered cup. “You are a fortunate man.”

  Crawford looked at his wife’s back as she moved down the hall. “One of the reasons I am where I am today is because I found her. I’m not exactly a warm and fuzzy guy. She makes up for it, and she rightly reprimands me for missing things about people.”

  Tariq smiled. “My mother’s version of that was to say nothing to my father but to throw up her hands, roll her eyes to heaven, and leave the room.”

  The two men laughed, then Crawford continued his interrogation. “For you and your people, it probably doesn’t matter who governs Egypt.”

  “Yes and no,” said Tariq. It wasn’t often that he discussed Egyptian politics, even these days with his country in such a tumult. “Coptic Christians will always be a minority. Holding office, getting government or military jobs will be difficult if not impossible. Intermarriage, especially in places that are”—he considered his next word—“unsophisticated can bring death to young women or men. Oh, yes”—he looked at a surprised Crawford—“there are still people like that. Honor killings.”

  “We don’t have honor killings in America, but we still have plenty of people that are narrow-minded.”

  “Perhaps all countries have extremists,” said Tariq.

  “Egypt baffles me. Like most Americans, I thought ridding yourself of Mubarak would solve the problem. It seems to have opened a very large can of worms.”

  “That is always the case with dictatorships. Look what happened to Yugoslavia after Tito died. All the Balkans in chaos.”

  “You’re right.” Crawford was beginning to appreciate this young man. “I suppose that’s another mess that will never be resolved.”

  “And again, religion is a part of it. I remember when the Muslims were killing the Christians. I was just a child, but my father told me it could happen in our country. He said that when the Muslims killed the Christians they cut off the two fingers of their right hands, the index and middle fingers. That image stuck with me.”

  “Why on earth would they do that?” Crawford was incredulous. “I mean I’ve heard of giving the finger but—”

  “Because when Catholics and other Christians make the sign of the cross they use those two fingers.”

  “So they do,” Crawford murmured.

  “As I grew up, I learned there had been barbarism enough on both sides, but as we are only ten percent of Egypt’s population, my father’s fears propelled me.”

  “Your father must be a rich man to send you to Harrow and Oxford.”

  “He was the first Egyptian to import semiconductors. My father is an engineer.”

  “And a businessman. And you?”

  “He sent me to get the best Western education possible. And then to consider—in the fullness of time, as he would say—is there hope for our people? If not, is there a way out?”

  “I see. So Congressman Rickman imperils more than your tranquillity.”

  “Yes. I’m at Custis Hall, a place I very much like, to learn more about America. There are plenty of well-educated Egyptians in your big cities but not many in the countryside of the South. I want to know what they think.”

  “In hopes of arousing us to help Coptic Christians in some fashion?”

  “That may be too much to hope for, but if I have a good understanding of America, perhaps I can help raise money to send back home.”

  “So you think your peoples’ circumstances in Egypt will get worse.”

  Tariq nibbled on a swizzle stick, measuring his words. “I pray they will not. But I fear deeply, especially if tensions explode in the Arab world with Israel. We are the leader of the Arab world. A war is not inconceivable and often, when such a situation occurs, people look for a scapegoat in their own country. In Egypt, the Coptic minority is made-to-order.”

  “I suppose you are. Why have you come to me?”

  “You are on the board of Custis Hall. You are powerful and rich. You know how to get things done. I ask your help in neutralizing Congressman Rickman. Can you stop him from saying such untrue things about me?”

  Crawford smiled broadly. He made a steeple out of his hands as he rested his elbows on his chest. “Let me take care of this, but I have a price.”

  “Yes?”

  “You no longer hunt with Sister Jane. You hunt with me.”

  Seeing Tariq’s surprise, Crawford added, “I never forget or forgive an insult.”

  “Yet you serve on the board of Custis Hall with her.”

  “I do, and we work well together for Custis Hall,” said Crawford, frowning. “We’re both practical and can put things aside, but I will get even with her. Everyone thinks of her as the Artemis of our time. I’m sick of it. Sick of watching people kiss her ass in Macy’s window.”

  “Macy’s window?” asked a puzzled Tariq.

  “An old expression about obsequious public display. Anyway, it will cut her if you hunt with me.”

  “I can but bring myself,” said Tariq. “Custis Hall has its own arrangements with Jefferson Hunt.”

  “I know that,” Crawford said, a hint of irritation in his voice.

  Tariq inclined his head slightly as if a small bow. “I will do as you ask.”

  “Dumfriesshire hounds,” Crawford boasted. “I have Dumfriesshire hounds.”

  “I know them well. I have hunted in England and Scotland, sir. Before the ban.”

  “I suppose you have.” He laughed loudly. “I hear more people in England hunt now with the ban than without.”

  “It is amusing and so very English. They love tradition—and the chase is thrilling, even if no blood is shed.”

  Crawford raised his voice. “Honey.”

  “Yes, dear,” his wife called from her sunroom.

  “Will you bring a fixture card?”

  Within a few minutes, Marty handed a fixture card to Crawford, who passed it to Tariq.

  “He will be hunting with us now,” Crawford informed his wife.

  She smiled. “How wonderful.”

  Tariq studied the fixture card, correctly printed on ivory stock, the ink a rich burgundy, two crossed foxtails at the top.

  “A fixture card properly given.” Crawford beamed.

  That same February 6, the day Jeb Stuart was born in 1833, Donny swung by the Gulf station. He found Art working in the garage on an old carburetor.

  “Wonder how many mechanics know what to do with a carburetor these days?” Donny asked.

  “Every one of them, if they have any sense.” Art stopped working, wiping his hands on a red rag.

  “Know what happened?”

  “No,” Art answered.

  “Thi
nk he shot his mouth off?”

  “How in hell would I know? Even when he was loaded, Carter knew what side his bread was buttered on.”

  “Well, he pissed off someone.”

  Art tried to hide his fear. “That doesn’t mean it has anything to do with business.”

  “You’ve got a handgun, right?” asked Donny.

  “Sure I do.”

  “Carry it. I’m carrying mine.”

  Art was about to say more, but then his father walked into the garage.

  “Hey there, Sweigart,” said Binky DuCharme.

  “Good to see you, Mr. DuCharme.”

  “I think it’s finally winter.”

  “Me, too.”

  “How’s business, apart from hauling with my boy?”

  “Not so good.” Donny shrugged. “People don’t want to spend money on landscaping or maintenance in a depression.”

  Binky nodded, his eyes a little watery. “But they have to spend it on car repairs. Business is booming here. Folks are hanging on to their old cars. Now, we aren’t sitting in high cotton, but it’s not bad.”

  “I can see that. The lot is full. Saw Betty Franklin’s old Bronco. The yellow jacket.” He laughed.

  “It is yellow.” Binky shook his head and laughed. “You can always see her coming. Luckily for Betty, it only needed a tune-up, new plugs, nothing major. The Franklins are really having hard times.”

  “Yes, they are. They’re good people.” Donny liked hunting with Betty and Bobby.

  “Ever think, Sweigart, that the real shits of this world make it big while the good guys finish last?”

  “Yeah, the thought has occurred to me.”

  Art piped up. “Well, Pop, I guess that means we’ll all finish last.”

  The old man folded his arms across his chest. “Who said you were a good guy?”

  “Me,” Art replied.

  Binky walked over to the tire rack ready to work. Art and Donny knew they couldn’t speak freely.

  Under his breath, Donny said, “Carry a .347 if you have one.”

  “That’s a lot of firepower.”

  “You never know when you might need it.”

  CHAPTER 19

  At Foxglove Farm, a small waterwheel designed by owner Cindy Chandler sent water from the upper pond to the lower pond. Even in winter, the delightful sound of the splash on the wheel, followed by the emergence of a stream of water from the pipe just above the lower pond, was refreshing. The ponds, though frozen, rarely froze six or seven inches thick, so the wheel could always pull up water. Only once in twelve years had the ponds frozen so thickly that one could safely skate across.

  As the crow flies, Foxglove lay eight miles true north of Roughneck Farm and the kennels. Soldier Road created an obstacle between the two farms. If one drove around from one to the other it added another three miles to the journey. Riding on horseback from Sister’s farm road, one could climb up to Hangman’s Ridge and come down the north side, well crossed by deer trails, traverse a large meadow, much of it trappy, cross Soldier Road, dropping down a well-graded bank (courtesy of the state of Virginia) and thence onto Foxglove’s southernmost fields, which Cindy did not use for pasture. Instead, these meadows exploded with wildflowers, which remained colorful until mid-November. Adding further aesthetic pleasure to the bucolic scene were the occasional huge old walnut, locust, or willow trees near the stream.

  Foxes liked the spot, too. The barns and outbuildings backed to the northwest, providing shelter for horses, two cows, and foxes scooping up dropped sweet feed.

  Clytemnestra and Orestes, her son, both frighteningly huge beef cattle, now luxuriated in their own living quarters, built extra large. Mother Clytemnestra, evil-tempered at times, moved faster than one supposed. Even the foxes gave this Large Marge a wide berth. She didn’t stray far from her cozy paddock in winter. All the gates were closed today, as it was Tuesday, a hunt day.

  The two bovines raised their heads as they heard the horn a mile away. They’d grown accustomed to fox hunts.

  Sister to the black fox, Inky, Georgia, a young gray, was running for her den at the schoolhouse. Georgia thought the building, built in the mid-1800s and lovingly preserved, was the best place ever. She knew how to get inside.

  On February 7, the temperature was 37°F at nine-thirty, but it was rising. For those on a hunt, this made for a good day for scent, especially where the sun struck the earth. In other spots, patches of snow still hugged northern slopes and creases in the land.

  Not terribly worried, Georgia ran along. She planned to scurry along the raised bank between the two ponds because that’s where some hounds always slipped into the water. It amused the fox and slowed down the horses, too.

  Today’s ground was a bit slippery. On Matador, Sister kept at a good trot, breaking into a gallop when conditions appeared more favorable. However, as she approached the fenced-in higher pastures, the hounds picked up speed, singing louder.

  Glancing behind her, she saw that everyone followed in good order. The Tuesday and Thursday crowds tended to be hard riders. As with any sport, Saturdays added many weekend warriors.

  A well-set, simple, three-foot-three-inch coop punctuated the fence line. Matador, an ex-steeplechaser, smoothly cleared the obstacle. Fortunately, the ground was tight on landing. Once the sun hit either side of these jumps, footing might be sloppy on top, yet hard underneath. You prayed because there was nothing else you could do about it.

  Shaker, ahead on Gunpowder, stretched out. Georgia put on the afterburners. True to form, she bolted across the high twelve-foot-wide bank between the ponds.

  Shaker crossed the bank. Betty veered into the woods as she ran ahead of the huntsman while Sybil easily took a hog’s-back jump into an open pasture on the left.

  Georgia, brush flat out behind her, ears pricked up, ran neck and neck with another fox she’d never seen before. He’d joined her on the other side of the pond. No time to talk, but the dog fox stuck right with her. She sensed he was green to hunting.

  Sister’s stride was lengthening. Matador ran over the bank. Everyone made it except one Custis Hall student, mounted on her own majestic Warmblood. While the animal could jump the moon, he wasn’t quite as sure-footed as the Thoroughbreds and quarter horses, and he slipped as the earth churned up. Both slid down the embankment, the horse’s hind end cracking through the ice.

  To the riding girl’s credit, she didn’t panic. She leaned far up on his neck while the animal scrambled out. Cindy Chandler, riding tail for First Flight, stopped for them. She checked the horse to see that he hadn’t gotten cut up by the ice, then the human and horse continued on, wet.

  Georgia used the woods to her advantage, but Pookah, a second-year hound, displayed her own talents by picking up the line where Georgia had dashed through an old hollowed-out log. The smell of wood and moss had somewhat disguised her scent.

  Cora, running up with the youngster, said, “There are two foxes.”

  Pookah asked, “What do I do if they split?”

  “Stick with the hotter scent.” Cora offered no guidance if the scent was equal in strength, which it would be today.

  The pathways through the hardwoods, kept open by Cindy, made for easy going. Shaker burst out of the woods in time to see Betty on his right and Sybil on his left both flying along, caps off. The women pointed in the direction the foxes ran. He shot up a slight rise, then came out on the thirty-acre back meadow, which contained the schoolhouse, saw both foxes in tandem racing for the structure, hounds perhaps fifty yards behind.

  Sister emerged from the woods just as the two grays ducked under the schoolhouse.

  Georgia dove into her den, the young fellow behind her.

  “Follow me,” Georgia commanded.

  He crouched behind her as she moved along, then climbed a few paces upward at an angle to wiggle through a hole under a desk set against a wall.

  “Wow. All this is yours?” Inside the schoolhouse, the gray fox looked around as the hounds carrie
d on underneath.

  “All mine.” She advised, “Stay under the desk until they go. You never know if someone will peek inside.”

  Outside, Shaker on Gunpowder, blew “Gone to Ground,” as there was no way to crawl under the schoolhouse. One by one, the hounds emerged, congratulating one another for their good work.

  The Custis Hall girl who’d gotten the icy dunking, Kylie Engle, shivered.

  Hearing her teeth chatter, Cindy rode up to Sister, “I’m going to take Kylie back, get her into some dry clothing.”

  Sister agreed, then turned to the field. “Cindy is heading back, if anyone wants to go with her.”

  A few people in both First and Second Flights followed Mrs. Chandler.

  Sister rode up to Shaker. “The ground is getting filthy, but that’s hunting. Let’s pick up another fox.”

  “Righto.” He tapped his cap with his crop.

  As Shaker led the hounds to the back farm road, Sister turned to count heads. Six left, eight in Second Flight. Her eyes alighted on Donny Sweigart, a slight bulge on his left side. She didn’t remember giving Donny permission to carry a handgun. Well, no matter. She’d talk to him about it later. It was probably a good idea: Shaker and the two whippers-in had pistols loaded with ratshot, rarely used, but someone in the field should be able to put a suffering animal out of its misery if necessary. Fortunately, in her thirty-odd years as master, she’d had only two hounds and one horse die in the hunt field. Wounded deer, however, were another matter, and it made her sick when the hunt came across one.

  They walked along the road heading south. The sun, a welcome sight, raised the mercury to 42°F, a wonderful temperature for hunting. Robin’s-egg skies mitigated against good scenting, but the great thing about hunting was you never knew. A high-pressure system might not presage a bad day.

  Sister noticed a mob of crows sitting in barren tree branches. Cackling and gossiping, they stared at the riders, hounds moving toward them. A flash of blue signified a blue jay darting toward his home base. The crows called out abuse and, saucy fellow that the jay was, he answered in turn.

  As Sister laughed at this drama, all of a sudden the hounds opened with a roar. This puzzled her: If a fox was about, surely the crows would create an uproar, but they stayed put while the hounds thundered down the farm road before turning sharply right.