Now, a pack of hounds, and, worse—people on horseback—were at his front door. Well, he’d tell them a thing or two at the lip of his den, of course. This day had been too much, plucked his last nerve.
“Get out!”
The speechless hounds stood stiff-legged as the badger continued his stream of uncomplimentary conversation.
“What is that?” Tinsel inhaled an unusual odor.
“Only ever seen one other one” Delia wished Shaker would give them an order. “Badger. They’re powerful. Mostly live farther north, but they’re moving in, I guess.”
Dragon lifted his head: the coyote scent proved stronger, heavier than the fox scent, even though the fox had so recently been there. Dragon wasn’t known for his patience. He walked away from the badger and put his nose down the rat hole.
“Let’s go.” He bellowed, taking off, half the pack taking off with him.
Diana shouted after her brother. “Wait!”
Diana and Cora hurried to the spot. Cora shook her head. “Coyote.”
Shaker knew his hounds. Cora did not follow the half that shot off with Dragon. Instead, she, Diana, Asa, Dasher, and others patiently moved a bit away from the still-fuming badger, casting themselves as good hounds do.
“Here he is. Here he is, that devil!” Asa got a nose full of fox scent first.
He opened, and the other half of the pack went with him, including Tinsel, who’d had the great good sense not to follow the impetuous, arrogant Dragon.
Shaker hesitated a second. Should he blow the errant half back and risk blowing back the hounds he knew to be right, or should he just blow the rapid series of notes—three short notes in succession—three or four times to try and bring the others back to Cora and Asa? He elected the latter, clapped his leg to Gunpowder, blowing as he galloped.
The splinter half bolted on Sybil’s side. She heard the horn moving farther away in the opposite direction, so she knew what her job was. Mounted on Colophon, a purchase in the summer to augment her hunter string, she hit the afterburners. She’d have to draw alongside Dragon, a little in front, and reprimand him. If that didn’t work, harsher measures would.
Luckily, the hounds chased over a meadow, so she wasn’t ducking trees in the woods. Colophon, sixteen hands, a bay thoroughbred and fast, streaked, his lovely head stretched out. Height in horses is measured in hands; one hand equals four inches.
“Dragon, leave it!” Sybil commanded.
“Make me!” he challenged her.
She cracked her whip, which brought the other hounds to a halt, but not Dragon. She again drew alongside the speedy hound, pulled out her .22 pistol with ratshot, and fired a blast on his rear end that he would never forget.
“Leave it!”
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” he shrieked.
His cries of pain at the tiny birdshot pellets—foxhunters called them ratshot—scared the other hounds. If they’d had a mind to disobey after pulling up for the crack of the whip, the thought now vanished.
“Come along.” Sybil said this with authority. They obediently turned, following her.
A mile later, moving at a canter, she heard Shaker again blow the rapid series of three notes, three or four times, on his horn. Of course, the hounds with her had heard long before that.
“Go to him,” she ordered. Those hounds couldn’t get away fast enough. It would be a cold day in hell before anyone in that group elected to listen to Dragon again. Whether Dragon had learned his lesson remained to be seen. His many gifts were sullied by a hard head.
Sister heard the ratshot blast after the whip crack as she thundered along. The crack of the whip, the tip moving faster than the speed of sound, sounded like a sharp rifle report. Depending on the humidity, it could be heard for miles.
Within ten minutes the coyote hunters swept past her, joining the main pack up ahead.
All on, Sister thought to herself. Thank God.
As Keepsake trotted through a wide creek, she noted spice-bush all along the banks and realized she was now at Chapel Cross, an estate four miles southwest of her place. They were still running hard.
A dirt crossroads, a small stone chapel on its northeast corner, came into view. The red, now in plain sight, reached his den, snug under the foundation of the church.
The hounds started to dig, but Shaker pulled them off with Betty’s help. Walter and Ronnie rode up to hold their horses at Sister’s bidding. Much as Shaker liked to reward hounds with a bit of digging, it wouldn’t do to have the small Methodist church disgraced.
He blew “Gone to Ground,” praised his hounds extravagantly while noting the tiny red dots on Dragon’s rear end.
“You’ll learn, buddy, or you’ll be drafted out of here,” Shaker said in a low voice to Dragon, and then in a higher one, “Good hounds! Good hounds!”
He slipped his left foot in the stirrup, swinging up in one graceful motion. Betty swung up a little less gracefully, as Magellan was taller than Outlaw. Patiently the thoroughbred waited for her to wiggle herself settled in the seat.
“Be glad she’s lost weight,” Gunpowder said. “Used to be twenty-five pounds heavier”
“She’s not bad” Magellan liked Betty. “I’d put up with twenty-five more pounds. She’s a hell of a lot better than Fontaine ever was” He mentioned his former owner.
The field stood; people breathed hard, as did a few horses. And there was Jim Meads, who had shadowed them on foot. Alice Ramy came out of the house when she saw him running. She offered him a ride in her car since the field showed no sign of slowing at that point. The instant he closed the door of her car, they chatted as if they’d known each other all their lives.
Sister thanked her hounds, thanked Shaker, thanked Alice, then turned to face the field.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have just put to ground a religious fox, and a Methodist at that. I suppose that means he doesn’t dance or drink.
“I myself am not a Methodist, and if any of you are, time to cover your eyes.” She held up her flask. “Lays the dust.”
The field laughed. People pulled out their flasks. The men fastened theirs on the left side of their saddle. Ladies’ flasks nestled in a small square sandwich box on the right rear of the saddle, usually. The ladies’ flasks contained less liquor than the men’s, so the gentlemen gallantly offered their flasks to the ladies first. It never hurts to get on the good side of a woman.
Sister offered her flask first to Betty, then to Walter, who had come up behind her.
“Thank you, Sister.” Walter took a sip, then offered his flask, which contained a mixture of scotch, orange juice, a dash Cointreau, and a secret ingredient he wouldn’t divulge. It hinted of bitters.
Hattie Baker Parrish offered Sam Lorillard her flask, then realized he couldn’t drink it. Sam, by chance, was just behind Xavier.
“Sam, I forgot.”
He smiled. “I brought iced tea.” He lifted his flask to his lips and, as he did so, loosened the reins. A movement behind the church made his horse turn his head, and, in so doing, the flecked foam from his mouth splattered Xavier.
Xavier turned, beheld Sam. His face turned beet red. He took his crop, scraped a white line of sweat off his own mount, flicking it right in Sam’s face. “Yours, I believe, sir.”
“You’re an ass, Henry Xavier,” Sam shot back.
That fast, Xavier—as big as he was—was off his horse, pulling Sam from his. The two started whaling the living shit out of each other; Xavier, bigger, landed more telling blows. Sam, small and slight, bobbed and weaved as best he could, but he was too mad to care about getting hurt, and he landed a few.
Gray dismounted, as did Walter, Ronnie, and Clay Berry. It took Clay and Walter to pull off Xavier. Gray managed to grab his brother’s upper arms and drag him backwards.
“I will have satisfaction!” Xavier struggled.
“Chill,” Walter advised, his voice calm. “Dueling days are over.”
Meanwhile, Meads caught it all on film.
The humans, hounds, and horses observed this drama with great interest, none more so than Sister. As the master, she couldn’t let it slide.
She rode to Xavier. “X, I know there’s bad blood, but I can’t allow this kind of behavior in the hunt field. You are excused. I will speak to you later when we are both in a better frame of mind.”
Shocked, as he had never once been reprimanded, and still angry but beginning to recognize he had done a really dumb thing, Xavier wordlessly remounted. He turned for the long ride back to Mill Ruins. Ronnie, a friend always, turned with him after saying, as was proper, “Good night, Master. Thank you for a glorious day.”
“Good night, Ronnie.”
Sam, head down, Gray still holding his upper arms, now looked up at Sister. “I’m sorry.”
“He provoked it, I know that; but Sam, you, too, are excused. I advise you to ride a good distance behind Xavier and Ronnie or, if you prefer, to ride at a distance from the field because we’re going in. I will speak with you later.”
“Yes, Master.” He bowed his head again. “Good night, Master.”
She nodded to him as Gray looked up at her. “Good night, Master.”
“Night, Gray.”
The brothers waited for the field to move off, then slowly walked behind them.
Walter, abreast with Sister, finally said, “Unforgettable day.”
She smiled. “The phone lines will be burning up tonight.”
Cranking on members wasn’t natural to Sister, but like so many people before her, she had learned that if you are going to lead, you must be fair, firm, and decisive. If a master tolerates bad behavior once, she or he will be certain to see it twice. And if a Board of Governors or the field senses a weak master, mischief multiplies like fleas in summer.
Humans, like hounds, need a strong leader. Sister was strong. She hoped she was fair.
“Thank you for your help, Walter. It could have been worse.”
“You know, I am always glad to help you or the hunt any way I can,” he said, meaning every word.
“If your schedule isn’t too busy this week, let me take you to breakfast, lunch, or dinner, whatever you prefer. I’d like to have your undivided attention.” She smiled, not wanting him to think it would be a difficult meeting. Actually, she hoped it would be positive.
“Tuesday, lunch.”
“At the club or will you be in scrubs? I can meet you close to the hospital.”
“The club. I look forward to it.”
Tedi and Edward winked at Sybil as she rode on the right side of the pack. She’d glanced back at them. They were proud that she had performed so well in a difficult situation.
Shaker complimented her, and did Betty. No one threw compliments around idly on staff. If you heard one, you knew you did a good job.
Cora growled at Dragon, “You are nine miles of bad road.”
He didn’t reply.
“Well, at least we know there’s a coyote here,” young Rassle said.
“I’m not arguing that, Rassle, but you’d better damn well know the difference between coyote scent and fox scent, and you must try for fox first. We were right behind our fox. You could have thrown a blanket over us all. We threw up at the badger den, but he had to be close, scent had to be hot. It demanded a bit of patience to cast a wide net and pick him up. Obviously, he walked into the creek, but he came out, now, didn’t he?” Cora sounded like a schoolteacher.
“Yes, ma ‘am.” Rassle listened.
Asa couldn’t resist. He hissed at Dragon, “Pizza butt.”
Humiliated and furious, Dragon kept his mouth shut, a surprise to all.
Cora then raised her voice for a moment, for the benefit of the pack, but especially for the education of the young hounds. “Hounds, we don’t have to think alike. We do have to think together”
CHAPTER 15
Three different types of grits, succulent ham, roast turkey, and a joint of beef crowded on the long hunt table, along with salads, breads, hot buttered carrots, squash, and the ubiquitous deviled eggs. The special dessert consisted of a hot glazed donut with a huge scoop of vanilla ice cream plopped in the middle, fudge sauce drizzled over that. This concoction, so much a part of the region, and so delicious, seduced even the most disciplined to cast calories to the wind. Every now and then a body has to go for it.
The breakfast, stupendous even by Jefferson Hunt standards, threw a jolt of sugar, protein, and carbs into hunters depleted by hard riding—apparent on the long walk back to Mill Ruins. More than one set of legs wobbled when the rider dismounted.
The bar, commanded by Donnie Sweigert, much in demand for these affairs, carried standard good liquor as well as a few exotic bottles such as Talisker’s peaty-tasting scotch. There was also the lovely Chartreuse liquor, which a few people poured over their desserts along with the fudge. The Absolut vodka and the Johnny Walker Black disappeared at a fast clip.
The excitement of the hunt and the drama of the fight sent blood sugar and conversation sky high.
The fox Bessie had the run of the house. She moved quite well despite her amputated front paw. But this was all too much. She retreated to the basement, but not before nabbing a tasty bit of ham. She ate half and buried the rest. Walter, realizing he couldn’t control her cache digging, had put down a load of dirt. Every other day while Bessie walked outside for a breath of fresh air, he’d sneak down, dig up her treasures and put them in the garbage. If the vixen minded, she didn’t say.
Even Tonto, the Welsh terrier puppy, now six months old, felt overwhelmed by the crowd. He joined Bessie.
The two canine relatives listened to the revelers upstairs. “Bet there’s no leftovers.” Tonto’s merry little eyes clouded over.
“Has to be some. Chef Ted drove up with an entire truckful of food.” Bessie remained hopeful.
“I don’t know. I didn’t know humans could eat so much at one time. I thought only dogs gorged.”
Bessie’s special house, wooden with a big overhang, reeked of her special scent. Tonto, accustomed to it, paid it little mind. He himself gave off faint odor compared to other breeds of dog. And terrier though he was, and prone to digging, he was fastidious in his personal habits, which helped keep whatever odor he possessed low.
“Bessie, do you think if the hounds saw you, they’d kill you?”
“Yes” she said matter-of-factly, “if the pack did. Maybe if just one hound saw me or came upon me, it wouldn’t happen, but a pack gets in a frenzy. Although Walter says he has seen Shaker call hounds off a quarry and it was impressive, I sure wouldn’t want to take the chance.”
The footsteps upstairs sounded heavier.
“Glad this old house has beams the size of tree trunks.” Little Tonto grinned.
“They are tree trunks. Peeled the bark off”
Tonto peered upward. His eyes weren’t as good as a cat’s, nor even a human’s, but they weren’t awful. He could see better in the dark than a human. “Oh. Old, huh!”
“This section, mmm. 1792. Heard Walter say so.” Bessie tilted her head, ear upward. “Now they’re singing.”
The assemblage, euphoric, gathered around the piano, Tedi Bancroft at the keys, belting out, “Do Ye Keen, John Peel?”
Those who weren’t singing stayed back in the dining room where, as Tonto feared, pickings were slim. Even Chef Ted himself had never seen people eat so much, and he’d catered many a hunt breakfast.
Sister, drinking a cup of tea, listened to Edward Bancroft expound on the conflict between Xavier and Sam.
“… in the bud. You did the right thing.”
“Now I have to make those calls.” Sister looked up at her dear old friend.
“You’re a good master, Janie. Better than good, one of the best.”
“Edward, you flatter me, and I thank you.” She sipped
. “Were you surprised at X?”
He nodded his silver head. “We’ve all known him since he was in diapers. He’s not a rash man. He wasn’t even that wild as an adolescent. For Xavier to lose his temper like that, I wonder if there’s more to his past dealings with Sam Lorillard than we know. Ronnie would know.”
“I wonder, too.” She inhaled the bracing fragrance of the tea, a strong Ceylon type. “I’m grateful neither man came to the breakfast. It was tense enough.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“I want to hear X’s reasons. As for Sam, I can’t very well fault the man for defending himself. I am not going to suspend either man, but each will receive a fair warning. If X can’t put a lid on it or if Sam carries on an obvious grudge after this event, then I will ask the board to suspend them for the season. I really don’t think I’ll have to use such drastic measures.”
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