Crazy Like a Fox

by Rita Mae Brown

  In her second year now as staff, she’d matured, topping out at about five foot six. Her best friend and former roommate at Princeton, Val Smith, stood at six feet two inches. Sister once was six feet two inches but she’d shrunk to six feet, half an inch. Tootie felt like a midget. Her mother leaned on Val, too, to bring Tootie around, but all that came of the Harrises’ theatrics was that their daughter wanted nothing to do with them. She didn’t want to hear about money, suitable marriages, wasting her mind. Her father, all ego, said he didn’t care. Her mother did.

  Sister and Shaker knew sooner or later the other shoe would drop or wind up in their asses. Both mother and father blamed Sister, the father more so.

  Sister had nothing to do with it, but she wasn’t going to turn away a college freshman with no skills other than hunting.

  “All right, Zane, come along. My, that’s a pronounced limp.”

  “I’m dying.”

  The injury was slight, but Shaker loved the young hound, so he scooped him up, all seventy pounds of him, carrying him back to the clean little room with a skylight, fresh water, and a wonderful bed.

  Rooster and Raleigh stood at the open door. “American Academy of Dramatic Arts,” they said in unison.

  Zane ignored them, placing his head on Shaker’s shoulder, staring at his tormentors from that vantage point.

  Sister unclicked the leash that she’d put on. “You’ll be fine. You aren’t the first hound to hang up a claw. Here.” She reached in her pocket, giving him a dried liver bit.

  “Hey!” Raleigh nudged her hand.

  “Just wait, Greedy-guts,” the tall woman commanded.

  Tootie joined them at the room. “How is he?”

  “Fine. Needs a few days for it to heal, and I think it will,” Sister answered. “Done?”

  “I’m going to ride two sets before the heat comes up more.” Tootie smiled at Sister.

  “Good idea.” Sister turned to Shaker. “Let’s all ride two sets. Knock ’em right out.”

  Sister rode Lafayette and ponied Rickyroo. Tootie rode Aztec and ponied Matador, while Shaker rode Kilowatt and ponied Hojo. He would still have one horse to work as he did not want to work the horse he hunted yesterday.

  The fitness routine, strict, consistent, pleased the horses. Horses and hounds, both, thrive with routine.

  Back at the stables, hosing down the horses, Tootie asked, “I can ride Showboat if you’re short on time.”

  “Why don’t you ride Matchplay next to Showboat? The youngster will benefit from my old boy,” Shaker suggested.

  “Good idea,” Sister called out from the wash stall. “I’ll be in the house if you need me.”

  No sooner had she pushed open the mudroom door, Raleigh, Rooster right behind, than a huge furball shot past the two dogs and rocketed into the kitchen once that door was opened.

  “Golly, you’re nuts.” Sister chastised the cat who’d left the kennels so obviously.

  A familiar voice called out from the mudroom, boots knocking the boot scraper.

  “Betty.”

  “Came by to sit down with you and do the fixture card.”

  “Oh, Betty.” Sister’s voice fell as she looked at her best friend. “Now?”

  “No better time. Once we figure it out, we still have to call all the landowners and that can take weeks. People go on vacations; they don’t know when they’ll harvest their corn, hay, wheat. You know how much time it takes, then we’ve got to get it printed up, take it to Freddie Thomas, sit around and stuff envelopes, then send it off before Opening Hunt. I’m in the mood. Thought I’d get you in the mood.” Beholding a less than enthusiastic face, Betty’s voice hit the seduction register. “I brought a big bowl of my avocado, red beet, eggs, shaved turkey, parsley, and cheese salad.”

  “All those ingredients just for me?” Sister laughed, already opening the cupboard doors as Betty walked back out to her car.

  “Sit close. We’ll get some.” Rooster beamed.

  “I’ll get some before you do. I can sit on a chair and even pat a folded napkin,” Golly said.

  The dogs stared at the braggart.

  Raleigh warned, “You’ll get in trouble.”

  “Uh-uh.” The calico licked her paw.

  Food on the table, Golliwog sitting just like a proper person in a chair, the cat did get a piece of turkey.

  “I hate that cat.” Rooster lay down, paws over his ears.

  “Ta Ta.” Golliwog licked her little dish, which Sister had thoughtfully put out.

  “Why do you feed her at the table?” Betty must have asked this a thousand times.

  “If she has a proper place setting, good china, she acts like a lady.”

  “Oh, my God.” Betty rolled her eyes, then exploded into laughter.

  “Betty, you wouldn’t believe how Golly manipulates our mother. Shameful it is. Awful to behold.” Raleigh cast his limpid brown eyes at the attractive Betty, perhaps ten pounds overweight.

  The impromptu lunch group ate, the humans weakening and tossing bits to the dogs, Sister placing more turkey on the cat’s plate. They talked about hunting, the weather, people, the subjects old friends visit and revisit.

  “So she organized her classes around hunting?” Betty savored an avocado slice.

  “Well, she did it last year. Tootie, thanks to her board scores and grades, had no trouble getting into UVA from Princeton. She doesn’t want to go full time. If she does it this way, she’s happy.”

  “And you said she’s taking organic chemistry?” Betty leaned toward her friend. “As a freshman?”

  “Well, she’s half a sophomore. They accepted her first semester grades from Princeton, finally. So far she loves it.”

  “More power to her. I would hate it.” Betty pointed a fork at Sister. “And you, a geology major.”

  “Like Tootie, I loved what I studied.”

  Betty put down the fork, pointed to her forehead. “Box of rocks.”

  “Never said I was bright.” Sister laughed. “Or you!”

  Table cleared, Betty pulled out paper and pencils. Doing a fixture card on a computer had proved counterproductive for both of them. Maps were spread all over the table. They kept checking them, studying the blue outlines signifying estates, farms, raw land where they had permission to hunt. Red outlines meant no hunting. Fortunately, there were few of those. Couldn’t really do that with computers squatting on top of the topo maps.

  Tedious as the chore could be, they compared notes about landowners, those wonderful people who gave the club permission to hunt over their lands, notes about terrain, and wind direction. Two heads bent over large colored maps from the U.S. Geological Survey.

  What joy to work with a beloved friend. Neither woman could know that in twenty-four hours their world would be topsy-turvy. Fortunately, both had a good sense of humor. They would need more than that.

  CHAPTER 6

  A fine mist like a thin white veil covered Tattenhall Station on Saturday, September 16, at seven-thirty A.M. The temperature, 50°F, promised an hour of decent scenting given the moisture, but the morning would warm up, the mist would disappear, and with it, the scent.

  Sister usually kept young entry near the home fixtures during cubbing. As they walked this country all summer, if a youngster wandered off, rarely, or overran the line way too far, the hound would know where it was and find the way back to the horn, the pack, or if all else failed, the kennels.

  But this year’s young entry and last year’s entry, now second year, had worked together so well, so early, Sister thought to take a chance and go to this westernmost fixture, the former Norfolk and Southern railroad station. Across the road farther west reposed Old Paradise, once one of the most beautiful estates in Virginia, started by a very pretty woman right after the War of 1812. Thanks to her robbing British pay wagons and supply wagons, all that delightful money rolled in as Sophie Marquet kept the cash and sold the supplies to the American forces at a patriotic discount. Old Paradise, at five thousan
d acres, had been poached by Crawford Howard. He rented it from the two DuCharme brothers, neither of whom could keep up the place, neither of whom had spoken to the other since 1960, improved it, then laid cash on the barrel. They caved and sold.

  When The Jefferson Hunt had Old Paradise as a fixture, that land, when combined with Tattenhall Station and some surrounding estates, plumped out at twelve thousand acres. What fabulous hunting, fabulous views. The DuCharmes apologized profusely to Sister. She said she understood. She did.

  As Crawford painstakingly brought back the glorious huge stone stables, revived the fields, restored the fences, Kasmir Barbhaiya refurbished the old train station, allowing the hunt to use it as a clubhouse while he restored Tattenhall lands to fertility, building a surprisingly modest house, a true old-style Virginia center-aisle frame farmhouse with a wraparound porch. Crawford, knowing he couldn’t outspend Kasmir, for a rich Indian is rich beyond most rich Americans, practically reeled back in shock when he beheld the pleasing, proportional light yellow clapboard farmhouse with Charleston green shutters. He felt it was a rebuke to his plans of grandeur, and it was. Kasmir had no need to show off. Indian he may have been, but he acted like a true old-blood Virginian.

  Crawford sniffed that this was the result of the British ruling India as long as they did. The elite packed off their sons to Harrow, Eton, Groton, then university in England, so the boys became as upper-class British as the British, which is also to say, in many ways, Virginian.

  What Crawford didn’t say or realize was that he was vulgar. Everyone else said it for him.

  This Saturday a field of fifty-nine people showed up, including Sara Bateman. Each week more Jefferson members joined the hunt as the excitement grew and the mercury slowly, too slowly, dropped. They also missed their friends.

  They didn’t miss much today. Shaker cast from the back of the train station; the hounds struck a line in a skinny minute, opened wide, and ran due east.

  Sister, grateful that she rode Matador, a former steeplechaser, sailed over a stiff seven-board coop, stiff to keep out the cattle now on Old Paradise. Crawford put up fencing, but he didn’t realize that some cattle are fence walkers and if they’re not policed or put in pastures with stout fencing, those buggers will get out.

  A seven-board coop is anywhere from three foot six inches to three foot nine inches, depending on the width of the boards. Taking such an obstacle at a gallop clearly was not for the fainthearted. A few checked their horses, waiting for Bobby Franklin to come up to a gate where they now joined Second Flight. Everyone else made it over the coop and the hounds were flying, just flying.

  The huge pasture dipped down a bit toward a narrow creek running toward a much larger broad creek, which flowed easterly. As that creek fed into another, the waters eventually would find their way to the mighty James River and thence to the ocean a good one hundred fifty miles away, depending on the topography.

  The creek itself proved no obstacle, but the additional moisture created slippery footing as the horses leapt over. Again everyone made it, but not without a bobble or two.

  Betty Franklin whipped-in on the right while Tootie Harris performed this service on the left. Tootie, young and supple, seemed a part of Iota, her own horse. Part of her salary included Iota’s board, since her father had withdrawn all economic support.

  The fox, a half-grown son of Earl, the red who lived in Crawford’s restored stone stable, had never been hunted before. Like the young hounds, he had to learn.

  Dragon, in the lead, couldn’t close the gap, for the little fellow had quite a start. Suddenly the scent evaporated. Hounds stopped.

  “Noses to the ground,” Diana ordered.

  “Why does this happen?” Pickens, a second-year, whined.

  “Happens more during cubbing,” Trident, older, answered. “The temperature bounces around and so does the scent. Keep at it. We might pick it up again.”

  Dragon, a braggart, announced, “Lucky fox. I would have chopped him.”

  The other hounds ignored this. No one was going to close that gap. The young fox ran like blazes.

  The humans, grateful for the check, breathed heavily, leaned over to check tack, pull up their girth an inch if necessary, took a swallow from their flasks. Some flasks were incendiary. Others, like Sister’s, carried iced sweet tea. Gray Lorillard, right next to her, imbibed something far more potent, then cheekily blew her a kiss.

  “Worthless,” she said under her breath, for one shouldn’t talk while hounds are working.

  He winked and nodded.

  Steady old Asa, wise, walked toward a line of Leland cypress, some undergrowth beneath as Kasmir had not gotten to tidying up. Actually, Sister would have been thrilled if he didn’t tidy up. More cover for foxes.

  The hound sucked up the air, a slight snuffle as he did so. He walked with deliberation. His stern began to sway, then moved like a windshield wiper.

  Diana, younger but she never missed a trick, watched her old mentor. She joined him. They walked along side by side. He stopped. Sniffed again. So did she.

  “Here!” Asa bellowed, his deep voice filling the air.

  “We’re on,” Diana commanded and the two hounds took off, the others quickly joining them.

  Sister, Shaker, Tootie, and Betty loved watching hounds collapse on a line. Those in the field who liked good hound work were also impressed. This was textbook stuff, and with young entry, too.

  Hounds moved through the undergrowth emerging on a trail in the woods, the old tire ruts pointing both north and south. Horses ran in the raised space between the tire tracks. By now Bobby Franklin had caught up to First Flight.

  Freddie Thomas, an attractive woman, a strong rider, rode in Second Flight today as she was on a green horse. Better safe than sorry. She’d bring this mare along; she had her made hunter, so she could ride First Flight when she chose to do so. The riders checked again, the mist seemingly tangled up in the treetops, leaves still heavy on the branches, a spot of color here or there. The real color would explode mid-October. Out of the corner of her eye, half turning in her really expensive Tad Coffin saddle, Freddie caught a movement. The hunted fox quietly walked right behind her horse.

  The rider behind her, Ben Sidell, the sheriff, counted under his breath, “One, two, three.”

  Freddie picked it up. “Four, five, six.”

  When they reached twenty both sang out, “Tallyho.”

  One must always give the quarry a sporting chance, hence the count to twenty. People forgot in the excitement of a view, but it really was bad sportsmanship.

  Shaker swiveled around in his saddle. “Come along.”

  Hounds had heard the tallyho, knew what it meant. Happily they reversed field, forcing the riders off the road, horses’ rear ends now in the woods, heads facing out. Otherwise, a nervous horse could kick a hound, or the huntsman.

  Both Ben and Freddie had removed their caps, holding them in their hands, arms outstretched, pointing in the direction in which the fox was moving.

  “Get ’em up.” Shaker encouraged the pack.

  Dreamboat struck first, then they all opened.

  Shaker wove through the woods, twisting this way and that. The field followed. Gray bent low onto his horse Wolsey’s neck, as a branch grazed his back.

  Slowed them down.

  The young fox burst out onto a meadow, heading for the county road that ran north and south dividing Tattenhall Station from Old Paradise. He ducked under the fence, blasted across the road, and ducked under the Old Paradise fence, an old stone wall rehabilitated by Crawford at breathtaking cost. While people loathed his personal showiness, they all admired his restoring what was original about Old Paradise.

  A herd of deer grazed in the field. The head doe lifted her head, hearing the horn.

  “Bother. Let’s go,” she ordered her group.

  The little fox headed for her.

  She paused. “Don’t be scared, Sonny. Run in the middle of us. It will throw them off.”
>
  Shaker came out on the road. The hounds soared over the stone fence. The huntsman looked at his Master.

  “The MFHA says we can stay on a hunted fox even if it goes into another hunt’s territory,” he said.

  Sister knew Crawford’s was an outlaw pack. So did Shaker. The rules didn’t apply to him, nor would Crawford have obeyed them. This flitted through her mind. She didn’t want to start the season with a fight, because sooner or later he would hear about it. On the other hand, hounds roared on full throttle.

  “The hell with it.” She squeezed Matador, taking the fence in a graceful arc as Shaker, next to her, did also. They looked like a perfect pairs team.

  Everyone followed. Poor Bobby had to ride a quarter of a mile to a gate to get in.

  The head doe, now into a woods, rock outcroppings looming ahead, stopped.

  The fox stopped with her.

  “There’s an old den in there. No hound can get into it but it will be easy for you. You’ll be safe. It’s a well-trained pack so they won’t follow us, but if you jump up on that first rock, walk along the top, you’ll see the den between the two boulders behind.”

  “Thank you.” He did as he was told.

  The head doe circled, going back toward the roar but far enough away from the hounds. She wasn’t worried about the hounds. She was more worried about the horses. Once a horse had dumped his rider, run to the deer, and joined them. She never forgot that, and probably the horse hadn’t either.

  The young fox found the den. How wonderful, he thought, as it was very large with an exit in the rear. Best not to be in any den with only one way in and one way out. Best of all, leaves piled up from last year partly covered a rubber ball, a shiny toy truck, and a lead rope. Toys!