Fox Tracks: A Novel

by Rita Mae Brown

  Next to High, the Bancrofts and Kasmir watched the water spray off the wheel. As the sun hid behind clouds, it looked like diamonds instead of rainbows.

  Damn, I hope they hit soon. Sister thought.

  Asa must have read her mind. The old hound walked out from behind the mill, a few other old fogies with him. Coming out on the farm road to the back acres, he lifted his head, deeply inhaling. He put his nose to ground, sounded out with his basso profundo voice, and they were off!

  As Sister crossed the wooden bridge, hoofbeats reverberating, she patted herself on the back for not retiring Asa.

  The light gray clouds hung low. To the west, the sky darkened. Although sloppy, the footing wasn’t too bad, as Walter kept most of his roads in sterling condition, regularly bringing in loads of crusher run. Alongside, white-streaked fields showed all the snow had not yet melted.

  Five minutes beyond the bridge, the brisk trot turned to a gallop. Staying together, the pack ran parallel to the road in an open field. Betty kept up with them. Sybil did, too, but once she reached the end of the northern meadow, she jumped into a woods out of sight. The pasture on the right continued on. Hounds stuck to the line on the larger right pasture. They easily jumped its stone fence, which had been laid in 1780. These days a stone fence costs a bundle. In 1780, it was one way to clear the fields—but once laid, those stones held forever. If a few became dislodged, you put them back up. Nothing compared with them.

  Sister’s six-year-old Thoroughbred, Aztec, a handy 15.3H, popped over the fence. He’d started the day fussy but settled in with the run. Like most Thoroughbreds, standing around bored him. And like most Thoroughbreds, he saw no reason to keep his opinion to himself.

  Bisected by the farm road, the hounds split. One group veered toward Sybil while the larger group stayed straight on. Both groups picked up speed. Sister stuck with the larger goup.

  Shaker blew them on, but right now the hunt was in the hands of the whippers-in. Sybil needed to send the splinter group back to the main group. The problem was both groups were running hard on hot scent. They’d come upon two foxes. As it was mating season—the time of the best runs, usually—a huntsman wanted to keep his hounds on the dog fox.

  However, you had to see the fox tracks together, before guessing who was who. The male’s prints were usually slightly larger.

  Sybil was deep in heavy conifers and hardwoods. She rode to cry, as it was difficult to see. Betty, still out in the open, moved closer to the main pack, based on cry as well. Her job now was to keep the main pack together. If they shot out toward her, she’d stay right with them.

  By definition, a whipper-in is either sitting still, freezing their butt, or running for Jesus.

  With the small splinter group of hounds, Tootsie heard Shaker blowing them back.

  “What do I do?” The young hound worried. “This scent is scorching.”

  Trinity—one year older, with the same bloodline—advised, “Keep on. How do we know the others won’t lose their line?”

  “But aren’t we supposed to obey the huntsman no matter what?” asked Tootsie.

  “Listen, kid, if they lose that line, that whole bunch will come over here, as will Shaker.” Trinity laughed. “We will have saved the day. He’ll take credit for it.” Trinity laughed again.

  Steady on with the main group, Asa felt a shift in the wind, then he sniffed in a kaleidoscope of scent. The pack had come up on a crossroads, a meeting spot for deer, fox, and bear. They had all been here recently. The dogs stopped for a moment to tease out the fox scent line.

  DeDe, a young hound from the “D” line, circled the crossroads. “I don’t know what I have.” He inhaled another snoutful.

  Asa hurried over. “That’s the scent of boar. Ignore it, and pray we don’t run into the damned pig.”

  “Over here.” Diana called, and once again they were running their fox.

  The path through the rightward woods opened onto a high meadow. Here, an old three-board fence sagged in parts. Some boards were missing, but the coops held up.

  Sister and First Flight jumped in, while Bobby looked for a low place to step over.

  The hounds moved along more deliberately than before, but they stuck to it, even while Sister and the two fields of hunters could hear the splinter pack of hounds just screaming.

  “Should we go to them?” DeDe asked.

  “No, we should not,” Asa firmly replied.

  Sybil, riding next to those hounds, was having one of the best hunts of her life. The red fox burst out in front of her, crossed a narrow path in the woods, then crossed back up ahead. Fox, hounds, and Sybil found themselves out on that same high meadow as the main group but a good half mile farther down.

  All of a sudden, the sky filled with crows flying low over Sybil’s fox. The crow called St. Just hated foxes. He led the squadron of birds, but the fox easily evaded them, dropping into the sunken farm road. Crossing the old rutted mess, the red fox shot out on the other side of the road, circled partway and then, at last, took refuge in an old shed.

  Within five minutes, the fox hunted by the main pack also ran into the shed.

  Fortune smiled on Jefferson Hunt this day. If the foxes had not come back together, who knows when or how the pack would have been reunited?

  Riding up to the shed door, Shaker saw it was locked.

  Walter dismounted, and pulled a heavy key ring from his pocket. He tried the key that was to fit this lock. Didn’t work.

  “This isn’t my lock,” Walter said to Shaker.

  “It’s okay,” said Shaker. “I don’t need to get in there. I’ll blow ‘Gone to Ground’ out here.”

  Walter swung back up on Clemson, riding over to Sister as Shaker blew the magic notes.

  Once done, Walter said, “Sister, something’s wrong here. I’m going back, and I’ll take someone with me if you don’t mind. I need to cut the lock.”

  “Fine. Take Gray.” She turned, calling to her boyfriend. When Gray heard the request, he rode back with Walter.

  Shaker smiled at Sybil, picked up the hounds and the two whippers-in, and the pack walked down the rutted road to the creek. Whenever there’s a mill, there’s water for miles—certainly more than enough to satisfy a pack of thirsty hounds.

  Walter and Gray reached the stables in twenty-five minutes. They untacked their horses, wiped them down, threw down some hay, and hung up fresh water buckets.

  “You’ve got bolt cutters?” Gray asked.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Once equipped, the two men piled into Walter’s Jeep, drove out the main drive to head west toward town. Close to a mile down the state road, they came to the bumpy farm road at the edge of Walter’s land. Bouncing and sliding back to the shed, they reached it without too many head bruises. A seat belt could only do so much.

  Walter was large and powerful like Sister’s Big Ray had been. He easily snapped the hardened lock throat. He swung it around, dropped it out of the lock slot to open the door.

  The two men stepped inside the cavernous space.

  At the end, two large den openings announced good living for foxes.

  Gray lifted his head and inhaled much as the hound Asa had done at the beginning of the day’s hunt. “Tobacco,” he declared.

  Sniffing, Walter shrugged. “Yeah, but why?”

  Gray looked down to where it appeared boxes had been stacked. A few little squiggles of shredded tobacco dotted the floor. He knelt down, took off his gloves, and pinched the slivers between his thumb and forefinger. He stood up, dropping the meager find into Walter’s hand.

  Walter smelled it, then held it under Gray’s nose.

  “It’s pretty good tobacco.” Gray shrugged as he faced the physician.

  About twenty years apart in age, the two fit men stood in the large space, pondering the possibilities when a vixen carefully peeped out of her den.

  Neither man noticed, so she remained still to better study this oddly built species. Why they all didn’t fall flat on
their faces she didn’t know.

  Walter again smelled the tobacco. “I don’t get it.”

  “Contraband,” said Gray. “Sister’s been doing research since that fellow was murdered in Manhattan. There are millions of dollars to be made—that are being made—on contraband tobacco. Smuggling cigarettes into states with high cigarette taxes appears to be a profitable black market.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Walter whistled. “Why the hell are they using my shed?”

  Gray replied, “For one thing, it’s far out here and you don’t use it. The road testifies to that. As to how long they’ve been using it, who knows? But I would figure the tobacco is prepared in one location, rolled, packed, brought here. When a seller needs more, I guess it’s shipped to them. They are likely finished here or we’d find more evidence: shredded leaf or empty packs, stuff like that.”

  Walter scraped the concrete floor with the toe of his boot. “Keeps the moisture out.”

  “Right. This is a good place to stash goods.”

  Walter dropped the shards of tobacco into his pocket. “Well, it’s someone who knows the territory.”

  “I’m thinking it’s someone who hunts,” said Gray.

  “This isn’t a poacher,” said Walter. “Like what happened on your place—that could have been the work of poachers. I don’t have poachers.”

  “Actually, Walter, I was thinking this is the work of someone who foxhunts.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” Donny growled at Art, sitting behind the wheel of his truck.

  “But you said you all moved off.”

  “We did,” said Donny, shifting in the passenger seat. “We got on another fox, but Walter and Gray rode back to the house. I know they came back to the shed. I told you this.”

  “I’m not stupid!” snapped Art. “But I want to make sure. That big shed is perfect. You didn’t see anyone there.”

  “No, and I couldn’t very well ride back there by myself and make sure, could I? Come on, Art, think. I also couldn’t ask Walter and Gray what they were up to. We’d better find another place.”

  Art, sitting inside his truck, Donny in the passenger seat, fiddled with the vehicle’s radio, tuning in a twangy song about bad luck. “I hope the boss doesn’t find out,” he said.

  They talked in Art’s truck, motor running, at Roger’s Corner. People often bought fried chicken, potato salad, and brought it back to their vehicle to eat. There was no place to sit at the convenience store. Donny’s half-ton 1992 Ford F-150 van was next to Art’s Topkick.

  Donny reached over to turn down the country-and-western station. “Listen to me. Shut up. If he finds out anything, it will be because Walter and Gray talked. Then we can say we didn’t want to bother him about it, he’s got a lot on his mind. Listen to me, Art. Don’t turn up the goddamned radio station! Shut up. Act normal. We need to find another place to store the cigarettes until it’s time to ship them. Let me think.”

  “Kasmir Barbhaiya has so much property he doesn’t know what to do with it, and it’s close. Or there’s Tattenhall Station.”

  Donny stroked his chin. “Tattenhall Station is vulnerable.”

  Art was getting surly. “Why?”

  “Too many people drive by,” said Donny. “It’s a crossroads and the railroad tracks slow them down. If we’re seen there too many times, it might tip off someone. Also, sometimes Jefferson Hunt is allowed inside.”

  “Walter and Gray don’t know what’s going on. They’ll forget this in time.”

  “I hope so. We have a couple of choices. We can rent a large storage unit. People come and go in those places all the time. The problem is that tobacco in such large quantities even though boxed throws off a strong odor.”

  “Where else could we put it?”

  “We could buy up some rolls of insulation. It’s light, easy to lift. The main barn at Old Paradise is in good shape. Maybe Margaret goes in there, but I doubt it. Alfred doesn’t bother it either. That road’s so-so. It’s passable. Better than the road to Walter’s shed. Also, people expect you to be on the property.”

  Art shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “So we put the cigarettes there in the barn after we pick them up down in Russell County. Put them up in the hayloft and place rolls of insulation around them, or heavy canvas. Crawford’s promised to pump money into your parents’ farm so it will look as though you’ve started work on the barns—especially if you leave a few rolls of insulation still wrapped up inside in the center aisle. That should work, at least until we find a better place.”

  Art squinted, placing his hands on the steering wheel. “I can bring in some two-by-fours. Might work. We’d only be in and out about every two weeks. I don’t know. Let me think about it.”

  “People think you’re making ’shine. Your family won’t look too closely. They’d rather not know. And it is your property.”

  “Not as long as Mom, Dad, Alfred and Margaret are alive.”

  “You know what I mean. Once Crawford writes those checks to your folks, we’ll have to look elsewhere because your father will get workers to put up fencing out there pronto.”

  “Can’t do that until spring.” Art relaxed his grip on the wheel. “Sounds like a plan.” He took a deep breath. “I just don’t want any trouble with the boss. The money’s good. He can be touchy. I think about Carter, you know.”

  “Mmm. Bullet lodged in the back of his rib cage. They think he was shot through the heart.”

  “When did you hear that?” asked Art, agitated again.

  “Today’s paper. Report from the medical examiner’s office.”

  “You think the boss had him killed?” Art’s throat tightened.

  “What I think is that Carter shot his mouth off to the wrong person. Might not have been the boss. How do we know he didn’t trash-talk some of the guys down in Russell County? That’s a hard bunch.”

  “Mmm.” Art rolled his tongue over his front teeth. “They might be a hard bunch, but I don’t think they followed Carter all the way to Albemarle County to shoot him.”

  “Maybe not.” Donny took his point.

  “The boss is playing for much higher stakes than we are.”

  Donny sighed. “You’re right. All I want is enough money to buy a good engagement ring and put some aside. I’d like to start my own business someday.”

  “You? I never thought of you running a business.”

  “People fool you.”

  Art half smiled. “They do. Look, I don’t want to wind up like Carter Weems. We’ve done a good job. It’s just bad luck that Walter and Gray got into the shed.”

  “Foxes got there first,” said Donny.

  “Think Walter will call Ben Sidell?”

  “I don’t know. None of his property was harmed.”

  “Nothing we can do but wait it out.” Art frowned.

  “And buy insulation and two-by-fours,” added Donny.

  Gray hadn’t wanted to tell Sister about the shed at Walter’s breakfast. He waited until later. She listened with great interest.

  “We’re one step closer,” said Sister. “Though to what I couldn’t say.”

  “I’m not sure I want to know,” said Gray. “It isn’t our affair. And we don’t know for sure that tobacco contraband is stored there.”

  “Why else would tobacco be in Walter’s shed? It’s a tight shed, too, even though it looks like hell.” A thump upstairs drew her attention. “I am going to catch that cat at her mischief. She’s put a hole in my alpaca sweater, torn up every piece of paper she can find. This cat needs a serious talking-to.”

  As Sister climbed the stairs, Raleigh and Rooster lifted their heads from their paws, then put them back down again. So many times they’d been blamed for the devious cat’s depredations. This time, she would be caught red-handed.

  Gray turned on the television, but before he could settle down, Sister came back down the stairs with a black hair dryer, long nosed, in her
hand. Golly had knocked it on the floor. Now it didn’t work, not even a tiny whir.

  “Can anyone tell me why a cat wants a hair dryer?”

  Gray started to laugh, then Sister did, too.

  The dogs barked, hearing a car pull up outside.

  “I’m home,” Tootie called out a minute later, as she came into the kitchen.

  Smiling, Sister leaned down and kissed Gray. “Everything happens at once.”

  CHAPTER 24

  “Where were you yesterday?” Sister said over the phone to Ben Sidell. She’d called the sheriff to check in, and just maybe troll for information.

  “Nonni threw a shoe,” he said. “Couldn’t get the blacksmith out late Friday. I hate to miss a Saturday hunt.”

  “I guess you heard what happened?”

  “Heard it was a good hunt. Walter called me and told me about his shed.”

  “What do you think?” she asked, twisting the phone cord and looking out the kitchen window.

  “What do you think?” He teased. “Used to store tobacco.” He continued in a more serious vein. “I’ve already checked with the tobacco shop in Seminole Square, the one in Barracks Road and the one up Route 29 toward Ruckersville. I asked them why they don’t sell contraband.”

  “That’s an interesting question. One would think as an officer of the law, your question would be the reverse.”

  “For that, Sister, I would go into the shop with a deputy and a search warrant, but I don’t think any of those folks are selling contraband.”

  “Why not?”

  “For the very reasons they told me,” said Ben. “Virginia has the lowest cigarette tax of all fifty states. There’s a little profit to be made, but not enough to court the risk. They were all pretty straightforward about it.”

  “But the tobacconists know about some illegal activity of that sort?”

  “How much they know is up for question. I called the biggest shop down in Richmond; that owner estimated the black market profit is in the millions.”