Fox Tracks

by Rita Mae Brown

  “It’s those high thin clouds,” Rickyroo noted.

  “Supposed to snow Saturday.” Outlaw always listened closely to the barn radio, as did all the horses.

  “Bitsy predicts snow, too,” said Hojo. He found the small owl amusing.

  “Bitsy may be the nosiest animal ever,” declared Outlaw. “She’s not content with reporting on the living, she has to bring reports from the dead.”

  “I tell her to stop flying around the Hangman’s Tree, but she perches, hears the spirits, and then scares herself,” said Hojo. “Live humans are bad enough. Why does she want to listen to dead ones?”

  “Maybe she’s trying to scare you,” Rickyroo teased.

  “Nothing scares me,” Hojo bragged.

  “Me neither.” Outlaw exhaled loudly. “But I am cautious when approaching the Ha-Ha fence at Little Dalby.”

  A Ha-Ha is often made of brush, often American boxwoods, and beyond it lies a ditch. If the animal did not clear it, he could push through. In general, Americans shied away from using brush as fencing, but it could work as a barrier. Ha-Ha fences were often one or two hundred years old, the hedgerow clipped, the ditches cleaned out. There was room to get your footing if you jumped the ditch, then faced the fence. If coming from the other direction, a horse could pause, then take the ditch. A few, full of themselves, took the whole obstacle. Some made it, some didn’t. Being stuck down in the ditch invariably caused a scramble among riders.

  “What you have to do is ignore your human,” said Hojo. “Pace yourself. Of course, if they’re seesawing at your mouth and pulling your head up, there’s not but so much you can do. However, the smart ones eventually learn to trust you to take the fence and to sit there quietly.”

  “That’s why it’s called a Ha-Ha fence,” Outlaw replied to Rickyroo’s advice.

  At this, they all laughed.

  “So what’s Bitsy’s latest news from the beyond?” Iota asked. “I haven’t talked to her lately.”

  “Okay. Now I am only repeating what she said. I’m not saying I believe it.” Outlaw began with that precautionary preamble. “Bitsy says the twelfth person hung there, Quincy Deyle—hung for rape—anyway, he told her there’s a killer in the hunt field.”

  Hojo was highly skeptical. “How would he know if he’s hanging on the tree? Or whatever he’s doing?”

  “Takes a crook to know a crook,” Outlaw said. “He raped a lady in 1778 and then strangled her.”

  “Doesn’t make any sense. Why would you mate with a mare and then kill her?” Rickyroo, although gelded, as were all the boys, couldn’t understand such destructiveness.

  “It’s a human thing,” said Iota.

  The four companions babbled all the way to Little Dalby. When heading west, the crossroads at Chapel Cross was a key geographic spot in the Jefferson Hunt territory. Straight west once past Tattenhall Station, you passed Orchard Hill, then the Chapel itself. Going west, the Gulf Station was on your right, and then Old Paradise covered both sides of the tertiary road. Of course, the Jefferson Hunt could no longer hunt there.

  Turning left at the crossroads, you came across some of Kasmir’s land. The mountains were close here. Then you passed Beveridge Hundred, still in good shape after all these years, and finally Little Dalby. No fixture was all that distant from any other, but the road left a lot to be desired. In a car, you might go thirty-five miles an hour. Hauling horses or hounds, that speed dropped to twenty-five, maybe thirty on a straightaway.

  Passing through the gates to Little Dalby, the horses lifted their heads, a current of excitement running through them, as well as Betty and Sister in the truck cab. The modest old gates, so unlike Crawford’s estate, consisted of two fieldstone pillars, set wide apart. On top were brass crosses, for back in the eighteenth century, Little Dalby provided a refuge for Catholics. Even though Virginia’s James Madison was the first to write about separation of church and state, religious prejudice still existed.

  As she pulled in to park on the well-drained flat field, Betty said, “I wish I knew the foxes better at Little Dalby.”

  “No matter. They know us.” Sister smiled.

  “I guess they do.” Betty checked out the trailers. “Don’t you like seeing people already here when we pull in?”

  “I do. We’ve got a small contingent of Custis Hall girls. The afternoon classes girls. Donny’s here with one of Sybil’s horses, I see. How many do you count?”

  “Nineteen. Not bad for a February sixteenth—cold, too.”

  “Yeah, but everyone knows the season is closing in fast. We have one month left. Gotta get those hunts in.”

  “And a lot know the foxes are mating, which makes for great runs.” Betty put on the emergency brake, even though the field was level. In a minute, the two women were out, wearing heavy bye-day tweed coats, a warm tie at their throats and each with a faded brown hunt cap—tails down, for they were staff—and brown field boots, a size too big, so they could wear extra socks.

  Thin layers kept them warm more than one heavy layer. Keeping the torso warm wasn’t as difficult as those toes and fingers. Eventually, cold won out.

  Moving off promptly at ten, the pack headed north, pale sunlight dispelling some of winter’s gloom. A northerly cast was a good choice because most of Little Dalby’s land ran from the house northward.

  They jumped over coops, and had crossed two tidy pastures when the hounds feathered. Moving their tails vigorously, they surrounded a long row of large rolled hay bales. Mice like to make nests in the hay bales and foxes like to eat mice. A fox had hunted there, and not too long ago.

  The pack, eighteen couples, opened all at once. They trotted, continuing north. They moved in a single line over the next fenced pasture, then took the coop before the mounted folks. Finally, as they crossed over a farm road they began running. The hounds blew through three fenced-in pastures, the fox scent sticking nicely to the slightly warming frosted earth. As the sun hit those fields, the temperature rose just enough for the scent to lift off the pastures, the fragrance burst full up in those magical hound noses.

  By now, everyone was glad they’d put borium on the horses’ shoes or even screwed in studs. That helped horses grip in slippery footing, which it certainly was. Mud on top of frozen ground is worse, but a slowly thawing frozen field taught you to sit deep in that saddle.

  The blinding pace already claimed some victims. Two riders couldn’t keep up, dropping back with Second Flight, who were running pretty hard as well. One of the Custis Hall girls, Emily Rogers, parted company with her horse at the last coop in the fence line.

  The Custis Hall girls could ride, but most generally rode on flat surfaces. For a young person new to hunting, the big test was balance. Compared to what they faced now, it’s easy to be balanced on the flat.

  Tears flowed from Sister’s eyes because of the cold and the pace. The hounds reached the end of Little Dalby, and leapt the Ha-Ha fence into Beveridge Hundred.

  Trusting Rickyroo, she relaxed her hands, sank a little in the saddle and slid her leg just a tiny bit forward for insurance. Easy for the rangy Thoroughbred, the ditch was cleared, then Rickyroo hit the ground on the other side and, without taking a step, soared over the hedge.

  Sister thought, Nice bounce jump.

  Some behind her thought otherwise. Four people skidded into the ditch, misjudging the distance and the width. Two of them added insult to injury by overriding their horses. The horses, no dummies, hadn’t fallen to their knees or on their sides; they turned and started down the ditch. The riders laid flat on their horses’ necks because people behind were still taking the Ha-Ha fence. Once committed to a fence like that, a rider really couldn’t pull up. Not going for it could prove even more dangerous.

  Once everyone was over, one of the riders tried to scramble out, but the bank caved in. She had no choice but to ride in the ditch.

  Loath to waste time, Second Flight master Bobby Franklin stopped his horse down on the state road and called to the four to
hurry up; they could get out down by the culvert.

  At last, they scrambled from the ditch with difficulty. Bobby moved on. He hated to lose the First Flight. If they ducked into a woods or headed west into really thick woods, he’d have a devil of a time finding them until Shaker blew his horn. Best to keep them in sight.

  On a vigorous hunt, one by one, the horses sorted out according to breed and conditioning. The best-conditioned Thoroughbreds stayed right up front. The appendix horses—half Thoroughbreds, half quarter horses—galloped with the forward group, often right behind the Thoroughbreds. The rest of First Flight hung about thirty yards behind, but today the gap was widening. One superb half draft horse blew along with the Thoroughbreds.

  They crossed Beveridge Hundred in fifteen minutes, jumping mostly log jumps, solid and well set. Then they charged into the grounds of Old Paradise.

  So far this had been an eight-mile point or run.

  Roger, the fox, ran flat out over the frozen ground, which sparkled white and pink as sunlight touched the frost. The rolling hills created temperature systems all their own. He ran nine miles, ten miles, and then he and the pack as one cut sharply left, heading straight for the faded grandeur of Old Paradise itself.

  In the distance, the massive barn came into view. Beyond that, the house’s white Corinthian columns glistened as the sun struck them.

  Shaker—up with his hounds, Hojo having one of the best days of his equine life—couldn’t yell encouragement anymore. The cold made blowing on the horn nasty because his lips would stick. His voice was giving out, but no matter. The pack was all on.

  Closer and closer they came to the barn. Three hundred yards. Two hundred yards. One hundred yards. The fox dove under the side into his den, with hounds closing at fifty yards.

  Before the hounds reached the barn, a blast hit a large tree behind Shaker as he barreled forward. Another shot rang out. The hounds stopped. Gunshots would usually stop them. Confused, they ran to Shaker.

  “Good hounds. Good hounds.”

  “What did we do wrong?” Diddy whined.

  “Good hounds, well done, come with me,” Shaker said in a pleasant voice as yet another blast sprayed the branches overhead.

  Shaker turned and met Sister, who stopped with six riders remaining close to her.

  On the other side of the barn, Betty heard the shotgun. She knew it was coming from the hayloft, but whoever it was had opened the high hayloft door a crack, fired, then closed it. She saw no truck or vehicle nearby, but she couldn’t well look. She also turned to ride on the side of the hounds.

  Sybil did likewise.

  Sister wasted no words. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They trotted back a mile, then walked. From where they picked up the fox’s scent to the shotgun blast had been twelve miles.

  Inside the barn, the fox, Roger, heard footfalls coming down the ladder. Once he’d climbed in from his entrance outside, he stayed in his stall. Breathing hard, he desperately wanted the human to go away. A truck was parked inside the barn, and the human got in it, started it up, then turned it off. A minute later, he jumped out of the truck and left by the barn’s side door.

  The barn owl fluttered down to Roger’s stall door.

  “Jesus!” Roger caught his breath.

  “Do you know there’s a Jesus lizard?” The barn owl turned her head almost upside down.

  “Dear God,” was all Roger could muster.

  The rear of First Flight and all of Second hadn’t witnessed the halt of the hounds’ approach, but everyone heard the shotgun blast.

  Sister called to Shaker. She was worried about the hounds. “Let’s get them back and check them out.”

  “I don’t think anyone is hit.” Sybil called from her side. “We’d have heard a yelp.”

  “That son of a bitch put someone up there.” Sister swore. “Crawford had to have done it.”

  “Maybe,” Betty called over. “But what are the chances of a run like that all the way from Little Dalby? Who would expect such a thing? It makes sense if the fixture is Tattenhall Station, but Little Dalby?”

  Sister was so angry she couldn’t think straight. “How do we know he hasn’t paid someone to quote ‘manage’ the farm since the DuCharmes aren’t doing it? It’s his fixture now.”

  “We don’t,” Shaker replied simply.

  “We have a right to follow the hunted fox into another hunt’s territory,” Sybil responded, close to the hounds on her side.

  Shaker shrugged. “What good does that do when you’re dealing with an outlaw pack?”

  “I’m going to drive over to that SOB’s farm and—”

  As only an old friend can, Betty said, “Janie, no, you’re not. Let’s get to the bottom of this first. Then we can handle it. Right now, I’m glad no one is hurt.”

  Calming down, Sister pursed her lips. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”

  “So, we’re not in trouble?” Diddy asked.

  “No, we’re not,” Diana replied.

  “But there is trouble.” Giorgio had hated the sound of that shotgun.

  As they rode back to the trailers, they picked up people who had fallen off, pulled up, thrown a shoe, or just couldn’t keep up. The group was buzzing.

  Back at the trailers, Shaker blew his horn for the riders to be silent.

  Sister’s voice carried. She said, “This was an unfortunate incident but, as Betty said to me riding back, we are lucky no one was hurt, horse nor hound. I would appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourselves. First, I must inform my joint-master. As you know, Old Paradise isn’t our fixture anymore. So Walter and I need to discuss this incident with the DuCharmes, and then with Crawford. We need to find out who fired that shotgun. You can’t fault hounds for doing their job and that was one of the best runs we’ve had this season. So please, keep this to yourselves.”

  They didn’t. Human nature being what it is, a few people almost immediately phoned their best friends and swore them to secrecy. Those best friends called more best friends.

  Finally, someone called Crawford.

  Sister, Betty, Shaker, and Tootie had done all the chores, which took longer after such an intense hunt. Their legs proved a little more tired than they’d realized during the energetic ride. All four of them had just emerged in front of the kennels when Crawford’s red Mercedes roared up Sister’s driveway.

  Seeing them, he slammed on his brakes, bolted out of the car, shouting at the top of his lungs before he even closed the door.

  He strode toward Sister. “Goddamn you, accusing me of shooting at your worthless hounds.”

  She marched toward him and, without saying a word to one another, the three staff members came up right behind her.

  He shook his finger in her face. “I’ll sue you. I’ll sue you goddamned snotty Virginian for libel.”

  “I haven’t libeled you.”

  He vented more, providing lurid details from a phone conversation, in which he refused to identify the caller who swore Sister said he hired someone to keep Jefferson Hunt off Old Paradise. Isn’t that always the way?

  The more he recounted what he had heard, the hotter Crawford got.

  When at last he had to pause to draw breath, Sister, unblinking, replied, “I said no such thing. I asked people to keep this quiet until we could investigate, and the first people I wished to call were the DuCharmes.”

  “But that’s not what I heard,” said Crawford.

  “That is what I said.”

  “She did,” Betty seconded Sister forthrightly, and so did Shaker and Tootie.

  “But since you are standing here,” said Sister, “I will ask you: Have you hired someone to keep us off Old Paradise?”

  “Of course not,” he answered, still in a huff. “No. I don’t want you there, but I’m not going to shoot you.”

  “All right then, you do know that under the Masters of Foxhounds Association rules, we have the right to stay on our hunted fox if that fox runs into your territory, the
territory of any hunt?”

  Face again red, he spit out, “I don’t give a damn what the MFHA says. A bunch of snobs. Not one of them can make a dime. They all inherited it.”

  This was not true, but Sister knew little good would come of defending the MFHA, an organization with a big job.

  “But you must understand we had to stay with our hounds,” Sister persisted.

  “I don’t give a damn about your hounds,” said Crawford. “I don’t want to be accused of shooting at people. What do you think I was doing? Sitting up there in the hayloft? It’s absurd!”

  “Someone was in that hayloft,” said Sister.

  Tootie spoke up, which surprised Crawford. “Mr. Howard, is it possible someone wants you and Sister at each other’s throats?”

  “I— Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Sister looked straight in Crawford’s eyes. “This incident may have nothing to do with hunting. People jump to conclusions, and I confess my first thought was that you had hired a patrol. As I considered it, that seems absurd.”

  “Of course, it’s ridiculous.”

  “Nonetheless, we were shot at. Three blasts from a high-powered shotgun. Sounded like a twelve gauge. Someone doesn’t want us on Old Paradise.”

  “Well, I am going to be hunting there on Saturday. Maybe they don’t want me there either.”

  A long pause followed. Crawford had calmed down.

  Very quietly, Sister said, “I would be careful then.”

  CHAPTER 30

  After lunch with the girls, Shaker returned to his house for a hot shower. He needed to get the kinks out. Meanwhile, Sister, Betty, and Tootie, still in boots and britches, lingered at Sister’s kitchen table, which Tootie had cleared, putting the dishes in the dishwasher. The dogs gathered below, and Golly watched from her gel pad, now a permanent fixture on the kitchen counter.

  Sister was drawing on a notebook page as Betty looked on. “Good thing you didn’t major in art,” Betty cracked.

  “Good thing you never went into politics.”