No matter how much a master and huntsman map out their hunt, of course, the fox schemes otherwise. Nevertheless, like many masters, Sister preferred to start with a plan.
Today she hoped to perform the introductions, make changes to the hunt plan as necessary, and then take off right when it said on the fixture card, mailed earlier to today’s riders. This informational card listed the fixtures, and times were printed next to them. In the old days, a few reminders, such as “We hunt at the kindness of landowners,” might also be on the card. As per tradition, the size was to be such that it would fit in a gentleman’s inside coat pocket. Where a lady placed hers was up to her. These days the card size and the card weight changed. The old heavy card stock—good paper, true printing—gave way to some long, narrow fixture cards, others that folded over, and few were still truly printed. Most clubs ran their fixture cards off of computers, a task performed by a blessed volunteer if not the hunt secretary. Since the Franklins owned a large press, they did the Jefferson Hunt’s printing as a gift to the club. The last two years, Sister had insisted on paying for the costly proper card stock.
When one picked up a Jefferson Hunt fixture card today, it was nearly identical to those first ones back in 1887, including the ink being in the club’s color: a true hunting green.
Sister cared deeply about tradition, decorum, and above all, making people feel welcome. Everyone at After All that day rose early, pulled their horses, tack, and themselves together in 22°F weather. Some drove all the way from Fredericksburg to hunt with the pack; others had only to rumble down a country road. They all deserved as good a time as possible. Hopefully, bracing runs would be part of that but, if not, a glorious ride in smashing territory would suffice.
All these manner of things raced through Sister’s head as she mounted Rickyroo, her eight-year-old, flaming-chestnut, Thoroughbred. Always excited by a crowd, Ricky danced a bit.
Shaker rode over to Sister on Kilowatt, a talented horse bought by Kasmir as a gift to the club last February.
“Boss, still as the grave,” he said, looking up at the sky.
“Sure is, but the clouds are low, gray; we might rouse someone.” The first cast keyed up Sister.
“All right then.”
“Hounds please,” she said in a clear voice. This let the field know it was time to go.
So many people had shown up today. Kasmir, his friend High Vajay, Ronnie, of course, and Henry Xavier—who had hunted with Jefferson Hunt since boyhood. Charlotte Norton, the headmistress of Custis Hall, accompanied the girls, along with their riding coach and Tariq Al McMillan. Those from Custis Hall had arrived in two big horse vans. Sister smiled when she saw Felicity next to Tootie. Felicity, whose son had turned one year old on September 14, made a point of hunting weekends. Sister gave up counting when she reached sixty people. Tariq and Donny rode together.
Felicity’s husband, Howie, was a nonrider and thus pressed into service. He stood by the hound trailer. When Shaker nodded, Howie lifted the heavy latch and out poured the eager hounds.
They stood by Shaker. Not that they wanted to but they knew this mattered. Like Sister, they followed tradition.
“All right then,” Shaker quietly called to them. He turned Kilowatt and rode north along Broad Creek, the covered bridge behind him.
Gray rode with his brother, Sam, to whom Sister lent a good horse. Sam was a gifted rider and might have had a good career on horseback had he not fallen into the bottle. At fifty-eight, Sam might still ride in a point-to-point or a local show, but the glory that might have been his would never come his way again. At the top level, a person only has one shot at an athletic career.
It was Sam’s day off from work with Crawford and if he wanted to hunt with Sister, there was not much his boss could do about it. Truth was, Crawford couldn’t run his stable without Sam.
The hounds patiently trotted along Broad Creek. Deep in parts, it was mostly two feet in a normal year. It had many crossings, though occasionally its banks were high. The creek drew a variety of wildlife to it, as its clear waters refreshed all.
In the far distance, a bobcat picked up his head, listened to the horn calls and the hoofbeats, then wisely climbed a tree.
Reaching that spot, the pack stopped for a moment.
“Move along,” Shaker advised. “Move along.”
Shaker’s philosophy, not always shared by his master, was that if the hounds didn’t open and just milled about, he would push them on. If the scent was good down the line, they’d open.
Sister favored a slower draw, just in case the scent scattered, or maybe the fox had walked across a fallen log. But as Shaker got good results, she did not interfere. Though it was true that if those hounds feathered, their tails moving, and Shaker pushed them, Sister just might chide him about it later. Sister rarely corrected staff in the field. They had enough on their minds without fearing they’d upset the master.
As junior-master, Walter left all hunting matters to Sister. She knew more than he did. He’d ridden in the field for years before becoming a joint-master. The more he learned about hounds, quarry, etc., the more he learned the old girl possessed a sixth sense.
They’d trotted, then walked for a half hour. Nothing. Broad Creek forked up ahead, jutting eastward.
Pattypan Forge, deserted decades ago, rested near the right fork. The going was better on the left. Shaker paused, looked back to his master.
Sister pointed right. Sure, it was rough in there, but this wasn’t a trail ride. You go where there’s a chance to break out your quarry.
The trail narrowed. Hounds surged ahead, reaching the forge, its brick overgrown with vines.
Young Pansy readily picked up Aunt Netty’s scent. “She left about six this morning.”
“There’s another line over here.” Giorgio, a hound from a new cross Sister was trying, spoke up. “It’s not too faint.”
Aggressive and egotistical, Dragon put his nose down on the second line. “That’s Target. We’ll follow him.”
Diane didn’t argue with her brother. His nose was good, his drive unimpeachable, though his manner left a lot to be desired.
The pack swung toward Dragon, moving on now, but they did not open. A yip here, a yap there to keep other hounds in the back notified, but the fox scent stayed touchy.
Vines hanging off a few old trees just about strangled some riders. Sister picked her way through old deer trails. Finally she cut a bit south to the old rutted trail, the ruts having been made for over two centuries as workers brought iron, copper, even silver to be melted down and worked at the forge.
Bobby Franklin, with Second Flight, was still fighting the tangle when the last of First Flight reached the old road. Suddenly the entire pack opened. Sound ricocheted off trees, seemingly off the old forge now behind them.
Sister would lose time if she tried to follow directly behind the pack in the thicket. Instead, she galloped along the road, snow and mud flying under Rickyroo’s heels. The road fed into a better road that ran east and west. The snow hadn’t been plowed, but it had settled down a bit so horses could run in it without overly tiring themselves. She veered east. Rickyroo put on the afterburners, for the determined hounds were pulling away.
Scratched to bits by brush, Shaker fought his way out of the damned mess, found the road farther down than Sister. Thanks to a long stride, Kilowatt effortlessly covered ground. He never looked as though he was trying hard, but rather gliding. Shaker made up the distance.
On the left, her usual side, Sybil ran at the edge of the thick woods. She was well away. Betty moving through corn stalks was also well away, meaning moving fast and up with the hounds.
Target was a good half mile between himself and the pack. The fox didn’t linger because the “D” hounds and Sister’s new “G” line were a tad faster than Jefferson hounds used to be.
He ducked into a narrow woods, ran across moss and running cedar to mess up his scent. Then he popped out at the corner of the Lorillard place at
an old falling-down shed. He blew by that dilapidated structure, then by the big newly refurbished woodshed.
Target paused, turning his head toward the sound. A more beautiful sight than this fox on the snow would be hard to find. He breathed hard, but he was far from blown.
In his prime, Target could have run for hours if need be. However, he didn’t want to run that long. Snow drifts, not always easy to spot, could slow him down or he could fall too deep into a hole to get out in time. Better to duck into the main entrance to Uncle Yancey’s graveyard den.
Nimbly, Target leapt up on the drylaid stone wall, two and a half feet high, then dropped onto the other side upon an infant’s tomb, the little angel on the tombstone announcing a baby lay beneath.
Ducking into the den, he awakened Uncle Yancey, curled up, fast asleep.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” the older fox growled.
“Hounds.”
The den had numerous tunnels, as well as various sitting rooms.
“Let’s move farther back. If Trinity is out today, he’s a digger. No point in putting up with that.” Uncle Yancey led Target farther along to a pleasant space lined with sweet hay. “I overslept,” said the older fox. “I meant to give them a hard run today. There’s something I want them to find.” Uncle Yancey paused, but before Target could say anything, he sighed. “Are you still at Pattypan Forge?”
“I go between here, there, and Hangman’s Ridge. Depends on which food boxes are full and well; it depends on Aunt Netty.”
Uncle Yancey laughed a high, dry laugh. “My bride will run you crazy. Why do you think I’m over here?”
“Her version is you refuse to pick up after yourself and she’s not doing it anymore.” Target added, with a hint of sarcasm. “She says you’re too tired to mate.”
“Me! She’s the one who says she’s not running after cubs anymore. Furthermore, she needs to fix that tatty tail. She looks like a goddamned muskrat.” He puffed out his chest. “While we’re on the subject of vixens, where’s Charlene?”
“My mother’s at home,” Target replied. “I’m checking these other places for her because there’s too much traffic at Foxglove. Not the farm itself, but they paved the road by it.”
“He’s in here!” Dragon bellowed as the pack quickly caught up with him outside.
The two dog foxes listened.
“I’ll dig him out.” Trinity started frantically digging.
Shaker, off Kilowatt, speedily pulled the handsome young hound out of the den. You can’t allow a graveyard to be desecrated.
“Hold up now,” Shaker commanded the hounds.
He walked Kilowatt to the stone fence, hopped up on it, then stepped into his stirrup. Why swing up if you don’t need to do it?
The field reached the graveyard in time to see hounds jumping back over the stone fence.
Grateful for the moment to catch their breath and take a swig from a flask, there wasn’t much chatter among the riders.
Sister rode up to Shaker. “Let’s go back on the road toward After All. If we parallel the woods we’ll eventually get into Tedi and Edward’s big back pasture. We might get another run.”
“If we don’t, I’ll keep pushing.”
They turned, walking out of the Lorillard farm.
Target and Uncle Yancey popped out of the den to watch them ride off.
“I’ll flank them and draw them to the deer and human carcass.”
“What human carcass?” Target asked.
“There’s a dead person under a doe at the end of that old road that goes north,” said Uncle Yancey. “Doesn’t really go anywhere, but I suppose way back when there must have been something over there the Lorillards used.” Uncle Yancey thought of the decayed corpse. “Most of the flesh is off. I could only see the jaw and part of the head. Might be a lot left under the doe, although she’s caved in.”
“Don’t go, Uncle Yancey. If the footing were sound you’d be safe, but the snow is treacherous. Dead is dead, human or deer. It’s not worth the excitement.” He thought for a moment. “Do you know who it is?”
“No.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. One human is as bad as another.”
With the field reversed, Sybil rode on the right and Betty was now on the left. Their task, difficult in heavy woods, was to stay on the shoulder of the pack. If you think of the hunt as a clock, the huntsman is the button where both hands come together. The pack is at twelve o’clock, and the whippers-in are at ten o’clock and two o’clock ideally. And it is merely an ideal.
Due to the heavy woods, Sybil moved closer to the pack. She picked up deer trails and stayed in good order. Coming out on the dead-end road, she glanced behind her, a habit born of years of whipping-in. Many was the time she looked back only to see the fox sliding behind her.
She saw a few deer. Turning her head to go on, she looked again, as she glimpsed a tatter of cloth.
Curious now, the tall middle-aged lady walked over on Bombardier. A piece of torn coat flapped in a light breeze. Nearby, an upturned jaw was unmistakably human.
She knew not to “Tallyho.” That would bring the entire field to this spot as well as the hounds, who would joyfully tear apart the bodies or what was left of them.
She kicked on Bombardier, shot out of there to speed down the dirt road.
“Staff,” she called. The Second Flight, then the First, moved to the right so Sybil could shoot by. This was exactly what they should do: Hounds always have the right of way, followed by staff.
Sybil pulled up beside Sister. “Master, there’s a dead person on the Lorillard service road, that road to nowhere.”
CHAPTER 14
Sheriff Ben Sidell knelt down. He didn’t touch the corpse, waiting instead for his team to arrive. Saturday was supposed to be his day off, but his hunt day was turning into something else. Gray and Sam drove back with him, all three men leaving their horses at the trailers. While among the other riders of the hunt, all three, plus Sister and Sybil, had kept their mouths shut.
Ben parked his battered Explorer about fifty yards from the Lorillard’s cul-de-sac just in case there might be any evidence in the road. No point driving over it, pushing it farther into the snow.
“When’s the last time either of you came down this way?” he asked.
“October,” Gray replied.
“About the same for me,” said Sam. “Once the old shed disintegrated back here we have no reason to come down.”
“Occasionally we check the road to see if poachers have parked here,” said Gray. “With all the thick pines and creepers, it’s easy to hide a vehicle even in winter. Now that Sam and I both live here, though, we’ve taken care of that problem. They know we’re watching.”
“Could you hear a vehicle from the house?” asked the good-looking sheriff.
“Maybe in summer,” Sam volunteered. “In winter, everything in the house is closed up—plus I’ve usually got a fire going. Damn, whoever dumped the body and the deer probably was one of the old poachers or someone who hunted alongside them. Course, most of those old boys are gone now. Hell, they got so old if they did kill a deer they couldn’t drag it out.” Sam shook his head.
“Who in particular among these old poachers might still be alive?” asked Ben, wishing the crime team would get there.
Sam thought a bit before answering. “Well, and you probably know this, back about three years ago Art DuCharme was poaching everywhere he could. Course, he’s not old. Why he did this I don’t know. Oh, and Donny Sweigart. Donny stopped all that once he started dating Sybil, but Art, who knows?”
Puzzled, Ben asked, “Art DuCharme has thousands of acres to hunt. Why come over here to poach?”
Gray’s moustache twitched upward slightly. Good as he was, Ben was from Ohio. He missed a few deep layers at the bottom of the seven-layer cake of Southern life.
Sam looked at his brother, then the sheriff, to whom he owed a great deal. When Ben first took over the job, he could have ro
ughed up Sam and his fellow drunks. Instead, the young sheriff tried to get them into the Salvation Army programs. He acted as though, even as low as they might be at that moment, they were still human beings.
Sam then said, “If Art could shift focus away from his still, good. Why hunt there, risk others hunting there with you? People talk. Why let anyone see where he hides stuff? Then again, if he actually poached a deer without getting caught, he wins twice. Some people always have to have their hand in.” He used an old phrase, which Ben didn’t know, but he understood the meaning.
Standing around, no longer on horseback, the cold felt colder.
The crunch of tires on snow drew their attention back up the road. Ben had specifically told his crew not to hit the sirens. The arriving vehicle parked behind his Explorer. Four officers stepped out of the county-issued SUV, two in uniform. One of the cops wearing civilian clothes was the police department photographer.
Joylon Hobbs, the chief investigator, took off his warm gloves, then wiggled his fingers into thin rubber ones. He knelt down carefully before leaning over and opening the collapsed rib cage of the deer. Now visible, the human wore a heavy wool coat.
“Pennsylvania tuxedo,” Joylon said.
“And what is that?” Gray didn’t mean to intrude, but the description piqued his curiosity, already high.
“That’s the old name for his kind of wool winter jacket,” said Joylon. “Black plaid over red. Usually hunters will wear them, or at least country hunters. The city and suburban fellas wear four-hundred-dollar Gortex stuff with all kinds of linings, zippers, reflecting tape on the camo.”
“Ah,” Gray simply replied.
The two uniformed officers, both of them somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five, were stringing up crime scene tape. After securing a perimeter, they began scouring the snow. All they found were Bombardier’s tracks and then human footprints belonging to Ben, Gray, and Sam. Anything of potential value would be under that snow. They reported back to their boss, Ben.
“We don’t usually see this,” Luke uttered laconically.
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