Full Cry

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Boss, that damn Rassle dug out of the yard, taking all the first-year entry boys with him.”

  “I’ll be right home.” She paused a second. “Tell me where you’ll be.”

  “I think they headed toward Hangman’s Ridge.”

  “Great,” she replied sarcastically. “I’ll go slow on Soldier Road just in case. And then I’ll park at the kennels and find you.”

  “Better you find them. I am pissed.”

  “Me, too, but we’ll get them. See you soon.” She pressed the End button, picked up speed for home.

  When she and Big Ray built the kennel, they cut a two-foot ditch, laying in a thin wall of concrete so the hounds couldn’t dig out. But that was close to forty years ago. She wondered if part of that deep inner core had crumbled. This might be a long day and night.

  It had already been a long day. When she called on Xavier, she was surprised at how emotional he became, which exhausted her.

  “That man put me through hell.” Xavier’s voice trembled as he thought of Sam.

  While she sympathized, and she did, she reminded him of the rules of hunting.

  He agreed, promising to keep a lid on it. He did say one unnerving thing, which was that when Sam had lain about the train station, among the flotsam and jetsam of broken lives, Xavier had wished the son of a bitch had died there. Too bad he didn’t get run over by a train or fall in front of a car or drink whatever crap Mitch and Anthony swallowed.

  “He doesn’t deserve to live.” Xavier finished his line of thinking.

  “Xavier, that’s not like you,” she said calmly.

  “I’m not as good a person as you think I am.”

  A wound that deep—to the heart and to the pride of a man— leaves a scar if it heals.

  When she left, she hoped he could keep his anger in check. She loved him. He deserved every consideration. Some masters would understandably be tempted to ease Sam Lorillard out. People who are dear to the master or who write big checks to hunt clubs or who work hard usually receive special consideration. But in the field, no. She firmly believed in the principles of the hunt. On the back of a horse, you leave your troubles behind. On the back of a horse, your hunting knowledge and riding ability count, not your pocketbook.

  She hardly adored every single person in the field, although she liked most. When Big Ray was joint-master, she had to ride next to some of the very women he was seducing. But when the hounds opened, thoughts of Ray’s sexual peccadilloes scooted out of her brain. The ride back to the trailers would get her, though. She’d notice the color in the latest flame’s cheeks, the size of her bosom under a well-cut hunting coat, the length of her leg, the turn of her nose. Sister had to hand it to Big Ray, he had never picked a bad-looking woman. But then, he also had to ride back with her paramours, although like most women, she had been clever at hiding her extracurricular activities.

  These days she had to laugh at herself. A young person hunting with her, such as Jennifer or Sari, saw an older woman. They could never imagine that fires scorched through anyone over forty. She still had some fire left, as did Xavier; although his, at the moment, fanned out in rage.

  Some people never had that fire, not even in their twenties. They never slept with the wrong person or with too many people, never did anything silly, dangerous, or ill advised. To hear tell, every man and woman running for office in the United States had lived life as a blooming saint.

  How else do you learn except by being foolish?

  She pondered these things while hurrying along the outskirts of town, passing a trailer park, before breaking free into the open country, true home. The fields, sodden, cast a gray pallor. The trees stood out black and silver, green if a conifer, against the deep blue sky. She noticed a thin outline over the Blue Ridge, powder blue since the snow hadn’t melted that high up. The line looked as though drawn by a metallic gray pencil. Snow clouds would soon enough be sliding down the Blue Ridge, catching a little updraft from the valley below to move ever eastward. These clouds weren’t moving fast.

  Sister turned on the truck radio. The weather report on NPR said snow would be starting in the valley in the early afternoon, turning to rain by the time it reached Richmond. The precip, as they dubbed it, would last a day, possibly longer, as it was a stalled front.

  Sister believed national characteristics had been formed by weather. An Italian couldn’t be more different from a Swede.

  Her character had been formed by the four distinct, ravishing seasons of central Virginia. Expect the unexpected, the weather had taught her. She’d also learned to plan ahead; violent snowstorms or those exotic green-black thunderstorms could knock power out for days.

  She pulled in at the kennels, then drove back out, following Shaker’s tracks. They turned down the farm lane, past the orchard, then headed to the wide-open fields that lapped up on Hangman’s Ridge, already swathed in low clouds. A sprinkle of snow dotted her windshield.

  She cut the motor, pulled on her heavy jacket, and stepped outside.

  The tiny click, click, click of icy little bits struck the windshield.

  Little snows turn into big snows, meaning little ice bits, tiny flakes, often turn into big flakes, big storms. She peered upwards. Oh, yes, this was going to hang around.

  She listened intently. She heard the three long blasts on the horn. The air, heavy, changed sound. He was probably a half-mile off to her right, near the ridge.

  She heard a splatter, and three hounds appeared.

  “Darby, Doughboy, and Dreamboat. Good hounds. Were you going back to the kennel?” If she punished these young ones, it would do more harm than good. When one young entry digs out, it’s sure the others will follow, thinking the whole thing is a romp.

  “We saw a bear!” Darby, wide-eyed, reported.

  “Big!” Doughboy repented leaving the kennel without the humans and without the pack.

  “All right, kennel up.” She dropped the tailgate, and the three gracefully leapt up. She marveled at the power of their hindquarters. In her territory, a hound with a weak rear end wouldn’t last three seasons.

  She shut the tailgate, hearing the latch catch, then climbed back in the cab and opened the sliding-glass window so she could talk to the three hounds. This kept them interested. She didn’t want anyone jumping out.

  Back at the kennel Raleigh and Rooster greeted them, having come out through the dog door in the house.

  “Hi” the two house pets called.

  “Boys, you can help,” she called the two to her. “Walk along with me and be my whippers-in.”

  Raleigh loved this task. He accompanied most hound walks. He quickly moved to the right side of the three, leaving Rooster the left, an easier side since it bordered the kennels.

  Rooster sternly said, “You creeps shouldn’t leave the kennels”

  “Rassle dug out. No one said stop.” Dreamboat defended them.

  “You’re supposed to know better” Raleigh lowered his head, now eye to eye with Dreamboat. “You’ll never make the grade acting like a dumb puppy. Do you want to be part of this pack or not?”

  “We do!” The three whimpered as Sister opened the gate into the draw yard.

  “Then you’d better behave,” Rooster warned.

  Sister shut the gate behind them. She put out a bucket of warm water. It would be a few hours before it would freeze. She didn’t want to put the hounds back in their first-year boys’ yard. They’d go back out the hole.

  She, Raleigh, and Rooster walked back to the truck to head out and find Shaker when she heard the horn closer now, then, faintly, his light voice, “Come along, lads, come along.”

  She trotted out to the farm lane, her boots squishing with each step, the snow turning from bits to tiny flakes. She could just make out Shaker down by the orchard.

  “Got three ‘Ds.” “

  “Good. I’ve got Rassle and Ribot.”

  Within minutes, they had joined up. Rassle and Ribot got a tongue-lashing from Rooster and Ra
leigh.

  Shaker put the two boys in the draw yard with the others, then he and Sister walked back into their yard.

  She bent over. “Wall’s fine. Not crushed.”

  “Dug under it. That’s a lot of work. You know, we’ve had enough of a thaw that they could do it.” He stood up, peering upwards. “Well, from the looks of it, that’s over. Ground’s tightening up as we stand here. I’ll fix this with stone.” He sighed. “They get bored sometimes, but boy, they really had to work to get under your concrete barrier.”

  Sister folded her arms across her chest. “Well, I hate to say it, but we’re going to have to hot-wire the bottom here. Keep it hot for a week or two and see if that does the trick. If it does, then we can turn it off.”

  “Yeah.”

  Neither Sister nor Shaker liked using a hot wire with such young hounds, but Rassle, full of piss and vinegar, was going to have to learn the hard way. If he didn’t learn fast, the others would start digging. Monkey see, monkey do.

  “Why don’t I fill this back up while you get on down to the hardware store?”

  “I can fill it up. Easy if I use the front-end loader.”

  “Shaker, I think you’re a better judge of what kind of wire we need than I am, but I don’t think we need one of those boxes that works off the sun. Not much sun in the winter.”

  “Have to, boss. Can’t run a wire into the kennels. The boys will chew it right up, and you’ll have Virginia-fried foxhound.”

  “Ah, I forgot about that.”

  “They’ve got better solar collectors than they used to.” He headed back out of the kennels over to the equipment shed. There were always two dump truck loads of crushed rock, plus one load of number-five stone behind the equipment shed. If potholes in the road were promptly filled, the road lasted a lot longer.

  Shaker filled the front-end loader with stone, drove back to the boys’ yard, and dumped it in the hole. Sister stomped it tight with a heavy tamper.

  “Boss, this is no job for a lady.”

  “Who said I was a lady?”

  CHAPTER 18

  Only a handful of riders followed hounds on Tuesday, January 20, at the old fixture called Mud Fence, so named because in the eighteenth century, the enclosures were red clay and mud.

  The snow continued, light and powdery—which was unusual since snow in this part of the country is generally heavy and sticky. This dreadful viscous snow then stuck to horses’ hooves, turned slick as an eel under tire wheels. This snow felt like a bracing morning in the Rockies. The cold, however, could cut right to the bone.

  The moon, one day shy of full, often presaged how much game would be moving around. According to the moon cycle, this should have been a decent enough morning.

  However, the foxes at Mud Fence proved lazy as sin.

  Shaker cast hounds into the westerly stiff breeze. Hounds worked diligently. Doughboy, Darby, and Dreamboat settled with the pack, and Sister kept her eye on the youngsters. Shamed by their great escape, they yearned to redeem themselves.

  Behind her, Walter, Xavier, Clay, Ronnie, Marty Howard, and Dalton Hill composed the field. Most days, when the weather turned bitter, Tedi and Edward valiantly rode forth, age be damned, but this morning Edward had felt as if he were coming down with the flu, so Tedi stayed home to tend to him. The last thing anyone needed was the flu bug making the rounds.

  Bobby led the Hilltoppers on weekends and Thursdays. Tuesday, often a big fence day, kept many people at home, regardless of the weather. No Hilltoppers showed up today.

  Since Betty was now whipping-in full-time, Bobby ran Franklin Printing on Tuesdays. Thursdays they didn’t open until one, but they stayed open until nine. In return for Bobby’s support of her whipping-in, Betty covered Mondays and Wednesdays so he could go to meetings, run errands, or even play nine holes of golf. Because they now had seven other employees, managing people was almost as important as the printing work itself.

  As the snow fell, Betty, again on the left side, wasn’t thinking of the shop. She saw a shape ahead. Outlaw snorted. Hounds, to her right, remained silent. As she drew nearer, she observed a large doe still alive although shot, most likely at the end of deer season, which was the day after New Year’s. The animal’s leg dangled uselessly; gangrene had set in. Betty, a hunter herself, knew game could get away from even an experienced hunter. If it left no blood trail and did not crash through woods, a clever deer could elude a good hunter, though the good hunter would keep pushing. No responsible person wanted an animal to suffer.

  One of the problems in central Virginia during deer season was that so many men came in from Washington, D.C., or other cities. Dressed in cammies, toting expensive rifles, black smudged under their eyes, they usually didn’t know as much as they thought they knew. They might be able to shoot, but their tracking skills left much to be desired.

  Betty quietly pulled out her .38 and crept closer to the doe, whose poor head was hanging. When the deer turned to look at her, Betty fired. She hit the doe right between the eyes. The suffering animal’s legs folded up like a lawn chair, and she went down with an exhalation of air.

  Outlaw jumped sideways, not from the report of the gun, but from the fall of the doe.

  Betty patted her best friend’s neck and whispered, “Outlaw, if I’m ever that bad off, do me in. It’s the coup de grace.”

  Sister heard the shot, peered to see if any of her hounds had broken. They had not.

  Shaker pulled the pack to the right, away from where he had heard the shot. They drifted down a low rolling bank, then dipped into a steep, narrow ravine. There might be a chance at scent here. The hounds eagerly worked the area but again nothing. As young entry had not yet developed the patience of the male hound and, therefore, could be more easily tempted by the heavy scent of the other game or a bad day, Shaker paid special attention to the D boys.

  Though the signs had been promising, this was a blank day. Sister waited for a check, then rode to Shaker.

  “Let’s not frustrate hounds or ourselves, Shaker. We’ve been out two hours, and there’s not a hope in hell the temperature is going to rise enough to help us.” She squinted in the snow. “Funny, we often get our best hunts in the snow.”

  “That’s what makes foxhunting, foxhunting. You never know.” He raised the horn to his lips, the rim icy cold, and blew three long notes.

  When he removed the horn, a bit of skin came with it.

  “Smarts, doesn’t it?” Sister smiled.

  “If I smear on Chapstick, I can’t blow this blessed thing.” He stared at the offending instrument as the hounds came back to him. “All right, come along.”

  Sybil hove into sight at the right edge of the narrow ravine. She turned her horse, Colophon, to follow back, as did Betty, now a ghostly figure wrapped in white, standing on the left.

  Back at the trailers, Betty told them what had happened. All country, they understood, though no one liked it.

  Sister knew swift death was a good death. The longer she lived, the more adamantly opposed she was to keeping people alive, breathing cadavers. When her time came, she prayed the gods would be gracious. Then again, she hoped her time receded at least until she clocked one hundred. Life was too glorious.

  Xavier’s voice, rising, drew her attention to the trailers where he, Ronnie, Clay, and Dalton passed around a thermos of hot coffee.

  “You have to say that. You’re a doctor.” X swallowed the warming coffee.

  “I say it because I believe it,” Dalton coolly replied.

  “Well, I don’t.” X bordered on belligerent. “Once a drunk, always a drunk. Sooner or later, they all slide back. They’re worthless.”

  Clay spoke up. “Not entirely worthless.”

  “Why?” X turned to Clay.

  “They can serve as a horrible example.” Clay’s answer eased the tension.

  “I heard you and Sister buried Anthony Tolliver.” Ronnie finished his coffee, using a mug with the Jefferson Hunt logo on it.

 
“Oh, that.” Clay shrugged.

  “You wasted your money on Anthony Tolliver?” X was incredulous.

  “He didn’t waste it,” Dalton quickly replied.

  “The hell he didn’t. The county would have put that old souse in the ground. Actually, he was probably pickled. They could have dumped Anthony back at the train station, and no one would have noticed a thing.” X laughed.

  “He occasionally did the odd job for the company.” Clay’s face reddened; X was irritating him. “And Sister would have paid for the entire thing. Not right. I owed him something, I guess. Or her.”

  “Why would Sister Jane care about an old alcoholic?” Dalton asked.