Fox Tracks: A Novel

by Rita Mae Brown

  Gave her a chill.

  She took a deep breath. Another one. Tobacco.

  She followed her upturned nose until she found the place where the hay remnants were completely flattened. The odor was stronger here.

  “You in here?” Tariq called out.

  “I am.” She walked to the side of the hayloft.

  “We’re ready to go,” Tariq said. “Think both Sam and I can make it.” He held up his hand to her.

  “I’ll back down.”

  After climbing down, she bent over once in the center aisle to pick up the baling twine she’d left there. Silly, but she didn’t want to leave any debris. A pack of the bogus American Smokes fell out of her breast pocket. She bent over to pick them up, a cigarette falling on the floor. She also scooped that up, slipping it back into the soft pack.

  “Tootie Harris, when did you start smoking?” asked Tariq.

  “I don’t, really.”

  “You just carry around cigarettes for your friends?” He laughed at her. “I’ve never seen that brand.”

  “Contraband.” She smiled broadly. “Really, I don’t smoke. It’s a long story.”

  “If you do smoke, let me give you a Cleopatra.” Tariq reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a pack. “I never smoke on the grounds at Custis Hall.”

  “I really don’t smoke. I’m just carrying this around for Sister. Actually, she doesn’t know I filched a pack.” Tootie lifted her shoulders in an innocent gesture, then smiled.

  The young woman was so beautiful, Tariq, transfixed for a moment, had to snap back to reality. “Let’s go.”

  With Gray leading the way, both men managed to drive their cars off the property.

  In the passenger seat of Gray’s Land Rover, Tootie enthused about the barn on her way back. “Know what was really weird?”

  “What?”

  “It smelled like tobacco in the hayloft.”

  Gray pulled over at Tattenhall Station, waved on Sam and Tariq, then called Ben Sidell.

  The sheriff arrived an hour later, thanks to the roads. Gray had turned around and they had driven back to Old Paradise.

  In the barn, Roger heard the door open and ducked back into his den. The corn oil on the kibble was delicious.

  Tootie, Gray, and Ben hurriedly climbed the ladder.

  Hands on hips, Ben said, “Sure smells like tobacco.”

  “Here, smell this.” Tootie pulled out the pack, fetching one cigarette.

  “It is or was tobacco,” Gray firmly noted.

  Ben took the pack from Tootie’s hand. “What in the hell are you doing with this?”

  Tootie explained why she had the pack.

  Ben took her by the arm, looked into her eyes, and said, “You get rid of these. Better yet, give them to me.” He turned to Gray. “It’s one accident after another. Gray, you’re in charge of that crazy woman. Burn the packs. I will call her myself. I will cuss her out, too!”

  CHAPTER 35

  Water gushed from drain spouts, ran across low spots in roads, filled streams to the top of their banks and threatened to overflow. Tuesday’s cold temperatures were followed by mid-fifties on Wednesday, and even the low sixties on Thursday.

  Unpredictable as central Virginia weather can be, this provoked comment from everyone. The elderly swore they’d never seen anything like this temperature bounce. Weathermen produced graphs, other dates in history, and all concluded this had to be in the top five temperature fluctuations. Sister canceled Tuesday’s and Thursday’s hunts, hoping still for Saturday. The weather report for the weekend predicted mid-forties, some clouds, no precipitation. She hoped it would be so.

  Her mud boots were green wellies, but appeared brown right up to the tops. The house décor now included muddy paw prints. Even though Raleigh and Rooster had their sisal rug to wipe their paws on, there was just too much mud out there. When Golly made a foray outside, she allowed herself the pleasure of walking all over the cars, then shot back inside where she exhaustingly groomed her paws.

  What’s the point of trying to keep the house clean? Sister decided she’d wait until the mud dried before mopping floors and wiping down all the surfaces. No matter how hard they tried, the humans, too, tracked in bits of mud, even after taking off their boots.

  Betty and Sister stood next to each other in Sister’s big bathroom with the double sinks, washing their faces. Somehow, mud covered their faces, too.

  Betty wiped off the brown. “That hot water feels good.”

  “Did you ever use one of those face steamers?”

  “No, did you?”

  “Yeah. It did get the dirt out. But it’s like everything else, Betty, you have to make a regimen of it. Finally, I gave up.”

  Cleaned up, they repaired to the den, where Sister checked her emails and Betty sat down with a stack of old studbooks for hounds. The two had promised each other to go back with Asa’s bloodlines to find the perfect nick to one of the girls’ bloodlines. If only it were that simple.

  “After you check your emails, put in the MFHA disc on bloodlines, will you?” Betty asked.

  “Hmm.” Sister read avidly. “Well, Betty, score one for the narrow-minded.”

  “What?”

  “Charlotte Norton has sent Tariq’s resignation letter to the board. He states this will be his last semester. He doesn’t wish to cause problems for Custis Hall and he feels he must go back to his family during these tumultuous times. There’s more, but that’s the essence.”

  “Rickman did recant.” Betty opened another small red stud-book. “Don’t you wonder what Crawford threatened him with?”

  “Money. Campaign funds from Crawford and his friends. You no sooner get in the House of Representatives than you have to run again, so Rickman is already fund-raising. Maybe there’s more to it than that, but I expect that’s the meat of it.”

  “If I had that much money, I wouldn’t waste it on politicians.” She scribbled some names and dates—foxhunting club names, too—in her hound notebook. “Janie, you haven’t told me the whole story about Ben.”

  “Uh, I guess I deserved it, but he told me in vivid terms to never do anything like making those cigarette packs without talking to him. He said I was exposing myself and others to serious danger.”

  “Any more?”

  “No. He also said acts like that could compromise an investigation.” She slipped the MFHA disc into her computer. “He’s right. I didn’t think our sheriff’s department was working seriously on this contraband matter but I guess they are. It’s not my business. Obviously, they have more on their plate than that Carter Weems murder, which is old, I mean in police terms—at least I guess it is.”

  Betty got up, notebook in hand, and pulled up a chair next to her friend to study bloodlines. It was easier on the screen than pulling out a book for each year, although Betty did like to check the books.

  “Name the puppies’ mother yet?” she asked.

  “Tootie calls her Zoe, for life. She’s a sweet thing, those floppy ears and that boxer face.”

  The two scrolled through different bloodlines for Sister’s prized Bywaters blood. A good match wasn’t so easy to find these days, as that type of American hound began to fall out of favor in the middle 1960s, though in recent years it was somewhat coming back.

  “You just know that Zoe and those puppies will wind up in your house,” Betty remarked calmly.

  “I was hoping they’d wind up in yours.”

  They read some more as Betty wrote in her notebook. “Do you really think you’re in danger?”

  “No,” Sister, fearless to a fault, replied.

  This time it was a fault.

  CHAPTER 36

  The hounds, restless from being in the kennels all week, stood on their hind legs in the large draw pen in the kennels. Everyone wanted to go, so Sister and Shaker took most of the pack—with the exception of Asa, who needed rest, and Cora. Cora and Dragon did not get along; fangs would be bared and insults traded. This would go o
n even during hunting, if one tried to outrun the other. So master and huntsman decided to take the slightly younger hound.

  In the girls’ large run, along with three youngsters not quite a year old, Cora pleaded her case. “You can’t go without me. Dragon is an idiot. He overruns the line. He has temper tantrums. Take me! Take me!”

  Hearing Cora cry, the three young girls cried along with her. They didn’t know why they were howling since they hadn’t yet hunted and would not be doing so until next season, but if this lead hound was making a fuss, they would, too.

  A large field of hunters patiently waited by the kennels. Everyone, like the hounds, was stir-crazy. Walter was at a medical convention, so he wasn’t there, which was too bad. It’s always good to have your joint-master with you when footing is questionable. Actually, it’s good to have your joint-master out anytime.

  Tootie would ride with Sybil today and Betty would, as always, take the right side, on Magellan. Sybil was working with a young Thoroughbred, Buster. She figured a sloppy day like today was good for the five-year-old.

  With Sister on his back, Lafayette was calm, while waiting for Howie to open the gate. Felicity rode in the field with the Custis Hall girls. Donny Sweigart was out. In fact, everyone who could throw a leg over a horse seemed to be there.

  As the people waited, Bobby overheard a lady telling another that Art DuCharme had been pulled over yesterday, his truck searched. That caused a ripple of comment and the lady in question didn’t like Art, since he had not succumbed to her charms. The fact that Art would one day inherit Old Paradise along with his cousin was not lost on a certain type of woman.

  “Found nothing,” she said. “Full of furniture and a large box of furniture polish.”

  “I’m sure that furniture would look wonderful in your house, dear,” Renata Meroveus cooed.

  Others smiled, but behind their gloved hands.

  “Hounds, please,” Sister called and off they walked.

  The only possible first cast would be on higher ground and the foxes would fly low as soon as they could. For all the melting, some snow remained in low spots, though yesterday’s high winds swept over meadows, speeding up the drying process.

  Sister could hear sucking sounds as Lafayette walked along the mucky farm road heading toward Hangman’s Ridge, but it could have been a lot worse.

  Shaker cast in the apple orchard. Hounds ran to Inky’s den.

  “I’m not coming out,” Inky called up from her living room.

  Dragon stuck his head into the main den entrance. “Spoil sport.”

  “Come along then,” Shaker commanded and the hounds walked back out to the road and popped over the jump into the large open field between Roughneck Farm and After All.

  The hounds tried, were so focused. They headed to the foundation of the first cabin, the stone still relatively intact. A big walnut tree grew out of the middle. The fox called Target had been there; his scent was strong enough to open.

  Speaking, but not in unison, the hounds trotted from that foundation to the middle of the field.

  They split, one half going straight to After All and one half going toward Hangman’s Ridge. Both sides were now screaming.

  Shaker followed the half heading toward the ridge, figuring the ground rose higher, hence better footing.

  After All had good footing in the woods, but Broad Creek would be an obstacle on a day like today.

  Betty easily took the hogsback into After All, although she could feel Magellan’s hind hooves sink deeper than usual in the mud. Hearing the huntsman’s horn in the other direction, she had to try to turn the pack back to him and the other half of the pack—no easy task on open ground. In woods, it’s even more difficult. She urged Magellan on, trying to get ahead of the pack, which she did. Then silence.

  Betty wisely waited. No point in rushing right back. Better to remain still and listen. Someone would yelp, or she’d hear something underfoot. The footing in the woods was pretty good. Slushy snow stuck to the paths.

  She heard a yip, then a yap. Then silence again. She headed Magellan toward the last yap, picking her way through the woods. She came upon the hounds casting about and, as she did so, Trooper, farther into the woods than the others, let out a clear signal. All the dogs ran to him and off they went, all speaking.

  Damn, damn, double damn, Betty thought as she fought her way through the overhang, dead branches on the ground. She swerved Magellan around fallen trees. Finally, she made it out to a narrow deer path heading north and south. Hounds wailed, and she could hear the other half of the pack, full cry.

  She pulled ahead of the hounds, whom she could see as they ran through the woods. Now that she was on a path, she figured she’d stay parallel to them. If they turned inward, she’d go back in, but her best shot would be if they’d come out and cross the path. If not, she’d do what she could to get up on their shoulder. There was no way she was going to get ahead of them if she had to plunge into the woods again.

  Sure enough, they turned, Trooper in the lead, right toward her. She had just enough space to crack her whip and she did. It sounded like rifle fire. All heads came up. Her shouting could be ignored and sometimes was. This, maybe not.

  “Leave it!” Betty bellowed.

  A few hesitated. “I said, ‘Leave it.’ Come to me.”

  “We’d better do it.” Tootsie warned. “She sounds really mad.”

  One by one, they came to the path, as they weren’t but ten yards off of it when Betty cracked the whip.

  Looking down, Betty noticed large human footprints on the path. The footprints led directly into the woods where the hounds had been. Curious, she walked in and saw footprints again, now a line, and a brush along the snow. There were no fox tracks. A drag. Someone had dragged a foxtail through here.

  “What in the hell is this?”

  The hounds looked up at her on Magellan and Taz chipped, “Fox scent.”

  “Hounds, this isn’t good. In fact, this is terrible.”

  How terrible Betty didn’t know but she picked up a trot, keeping the hounds with her by using encouraging words. She headed for the horn, the sound of which grew farther and farther away.

  Sister followed the other half of the pack, staying about twenty yards behind them as they zigged and zagged over the meadow, then ran under the fence back onto the farm road just below Hangman’s Ridge.

  The jump, already sloppy, would become even sloppier as each horse in the field took it.

  Sister gave thanks that she was second over; Shaker had been first. Tootie and Sybil had to be somewhere in the orchard.

  The hounds lost the scent on the road. Some hurried into the orchard, others kept trying to the right of the road.

  Sister moved up and out of the way of the jump. As she did, Dragon opened, nose down. Moving deliberately, he ducked into the tangle at the bottom of the ridge. Deer paths, passable but full of switchbacks and some rough spots, allowed Sister to get closer to the hounds. Obviously, the farm would have been ideal, but this fox had other ideas, moving farther east at the bottom of the ridge.

  She could hear more hounds open now, as those in the orchard came to Dragon. She walked along the bottom, as she knew a path near a large rock overhang. She’d have to pick her way up, but it could be done. Behind her, she could hear people hung up at the jump.

  Turning around, she saw the forward riders trotting to catch up with her. Knowing her mind, Lafayette stepped onto the paths and began the upward climb.

  The rock outcropping reminded her of Devil’s Den at Gettysburg. It felt colder suddenly; snow filled many crevices. The path curved toward the giant rock, then climbed above it. She came out on the ridge above a pile of huge rocks. Large old conifers and some deciduous trees grew here. Their branches, having been pulled down by snow, still hung low. Some of the pines still had tufts of snow on the needles.

  Lafayette snorted. Sister heard horses below her beginning the climb. She heard a crack, a slash of fire from high up in one
of the pines, then felt a hard hit over her heart. She slipped off Lafayette, hitting her head on the ground.

  The horse didn’t move, but put his face down to the unconscious woman.

  Target doubled back, looking up at the horse. The fox swiftly moved beside the woman who fed him. He touched her cheek. The hounds had turned, so he sped off without saying anything to Lafayette.

  The dogs reached Sister just as the first rider climbing the path did.

  “Hold hard,” Edward Bancroft called.

  He maneuvered his horse to the right of Lafayette. There wasn’t much room.

  Dragon already had his nose to Sister’s and the pack surrounded her.

  “She’s alive,” the head hound called.

  Shaker was blowing the hounds back to him, but they didn’t obey.

  Betty had no idea what had happened and was trying hard to get to the horn.

  The shooter, down from his perch, was sliding down the steep side of the ridge, progress hidden from view. But the hounds heard him. Dragon wheeled away from Sister in pursuit. The pack followed.

  Dragon let out a deep call, which the hounds with Betty heard. They, too, took off.

  Shaker struggled to get up with his pack, as did Tootie and Sybil.

  Betty pushed Magellan on. A fast horse, she made up the ground. She saw the pack ahead of her, closing fast on a man with a rifle strapped across his back. He cut back into the woods, climbed up a tree just above the hounds, unslung his rifle, and focused through his scope. Betty was dead center. Dragon and the hounds leapt up, one grabbing the toe of his boot as he fired. The shot hit the top of her hard hat, creasing it.

  The force knocked Betty off Magellan. Unhurt, she picked herself up out of the wet field, then laid back, flat, her helmet upside down in the field. Magellan took off toward the barn.

  Hearing the hounds, Betty, face muddied, looked up. She saw the hounds around the bottom of a tree and a man in it.