Crazy Like a Fox

by Rita Mae Brown

  Betty Franklin, now on the southern side of the intersection, didn’t move. Hounds slowly walked toward her, working the grassy edge. Diana, in the lead, Parker fighting for his place next to her, moved deliberately.

  “He had to get off this road sometime,” she advised the youngster.

  Ardent, right behind, working in tandem with Reuben, agreed. “He didn’t go to Tattenhall Station. Dragon and Dreamboat ran over there to check. That s.o.b. is using the road.”

  Sister turned Lafayette’s head toward the west. Crawford followed suit as did the field, still waiting patiently. The sight of hounds on their hind legs, literally walking with the scent, excited the people about as much as a terrific run.

  People who don’t hunt don’t give foxes credit. Clearly, they’ve never read Aesop or writers from thousands of years ago. Throughout history, people have remarked on the intelligence of foxes. Even if they had read such materials, modern readers would assume this was all in the name of a good story.

  Seeing is believing. Those people who hunted September 30, including those in the cars, would remember this day for the rest of their lives.

  Tom was so overcome he couldn’t speak.

  Diana reached the intersection, lifted her nose for a moment, took her bearings. Picking up a trot she returned to the big coop they’d jumped out of Old Paradise.

  “Over!” She scrambled over, immediately followed by Parker.

  The two packs rushed for the jump; other hounds wriggled under the board fencing. And yes, they found fresh scent. Running, stretched to the fullest, the extraordinary grace of a flying hound mesmerized the people even as they kept their legs on their horses, hands forward. If anyone feared a hard gallop they got over it.

  Betty kept up on the right shoulder of the pack. Tootie, farther in the pasture, hung on the left. Sam Lorillard, the only whipper-in Skiff had, moved about a football field behind Tootie. An experienced whipper-in, Sam knew that should the pack reverse, he had to be there and he’d be up front. The burden would fall on him to protect them from the road.

  Sister turned for a second. So far the field kept up, no stragglers, no one hit the ground. Farther behind, Bobby Franklin kept everyone together.

  The music was deafening. Both Shaker and Skiff blew “All on” in unison. This meant all the hounds were on the line. Then they blew “Gone Away,” and a prettier sound was rarely heard.

  Everyone’s blood was up. Another jump at the end of the pasture, three logs tied together, challenged them onto a cleared path in thick woods. The fox, having a sense of humor, ran them through an illegal still destroyed a few years back. Riders circumvented the debris, heading up. They were literally at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Then he turned. Well ahead and with time to think, he came back down and, stretched to the max, he launched into a hard-running creek, water coursing down between crevices in the eastern face of the mountains.

  The otters, merry fellows, hearing the commotion, quickly disappeared into their dens.

  A red-shouldered hawk, high up, watched everything, knowing mice would scamper everywhere once the horses had passed.

  Hounds reached the creek. Dragon jumped in, swimming to the far bank. He began searching for scent. Others joined him. Diana walked along the creek side. Yes, the fox had leapt in where Dragon followed, but she knew he wouldn’t emerge directly opposite. Also, he could just as easily double back if he swam downstream.

  She walked and walked but whatever he’d done, he’d skunked them.

  Flanks heaved; people slipped a hand in a coat pocket retrieving a handkerchief to wipe their brows. As this was a well-trained field of people as well as a well-trained pack of hounds no one spoke. But the sounds of heavy breathing, riders petting the necks of their horses, horses blowing out their nostrils, kept the otters securely in their dens.

  If only the people would leave, then they could play some more.

  Shaker and Skiff conferred.

  “Let’s head back to the open fields. I don’t want to climb the mountains, do you?” the attractive huntsman asked.

  Shaker nodded. “Good call. It’s early in the season. Not everyone is quite hunting fit.”

  Skiff peered at the field, turned her horse toward the path leading to the westernmost field. Took them twenty minutes to reach the field.

  Shaker hopped down, opened a gate. No jump welcomed them in this fence line, nasty barbed wire. If they picked up another fox there’d be jumping enough, farther along. Save the horse.

  He swung back into the saddle with enviable ease, calling over his shoulder, “Gate, please.”

  Now the people chattered, as hounds weren’t working.

  Ronnie Haslip, the treasurer, dapper, eyes wide, swore to his old grade-school friend Xavier, “My God, what a run.”

  “The graveyard. How many years have we hunted with Sister? I have never seen anything like that.”

  These two men, in their forties now, had been best friends with RayRay, Sister’s son. When the fourteen-year-old boy was killed in the farm accident in 1974, it hit the boys hard. They vowed to watch over Sister as RayRay would, if alive. They kept their vow, remembering to bring her gifts on special days, dropping by. She loved them beyond words.

  Hounds moved within sight of the stable, trotting toward the southeast where Little Dalby and Beveridge Hundred lay. Had they continued east they would have been back at Chapel Cross but Tinsel stopped, her stern starting to move. Roger, one of Crawford’s hounds from his R litter, joined her. They opened, heading directly southeast. Now the pack was all on again, moving fast but not at blinding speed for scent proved tricky. All wound up at the rock outcropping where Sarge, Earl’s son, rested. He’d gone out early in the morning to a cutover cornfield on Old Paradise. His father, Earl, had stayed in the stable. Earl’s den, a disguised burrow, led under the tack room. He had another den in a stall. Life was good. This morning Sarge drew close, then saw the horse trailers so headed back to his new den in the boulders. He’d made improvements. No marauder could touch him.

  “He’s in there,” Roger bellowed.

  “He’ll stay in there, too,” Pookah grumbled.

  Folks, hunting hard for two and a half hours, finally turned back to the trailers. Had the day been cool, say a February day, everyone hunting fit, maybe they’d have kept casting but hounds performed beautifully. Stop while you’re ahead.

  Sister and Crawford rode side by side, reliving the hunt as was everyone behind them.

  Ahead, Shaker and Skiff’s horses walked in step, reflecting the harmony between the two huntsmen. Although they had hunted hard, hounds, heads up, stepped with a lively spring. They, too, recounted the day.

  A bit of scent pushed them into a trot, but it was over before it began.

  Back at the trailers, before dismounting, the two huntsmen blew in unison “Going Home,” a long drawn-out melody, a touch mournful for it means the hunt is over.

  In the distance, “Going Home” came back to them, deeper in tone.

  Tootie, now on foot, helping Shaker load hounds, said, “That happened last time we were out here. What a strange echo.”

  Sister listened. Most people heard it.

  Tom Tipton, getting out of Sara’s car, remarked, “Sounds like a cowhorn. Who’s doing a cowhorn?”

  Sara shrugged. “Probably a bounceback from the mountains. Shaker and Skiff blew quite a little toodle.”

  Tom didn’t argue with her. He just added, “Hardly anyone knows how to blow a cowhorn anymore. Weevil was good at it.” He paused, smiled. “I used to think if a huntsman used the brass horn he was a Yankee.”

  Sara teased him. “You would.”

  Misty-eyed, he just tilted his head. “It’s all gone now. All so far away.”

  Tables filled the center aisle of the main barn. Fried chicken, ham biscuits, sandwiches, sliced raw vegetables, and a variety of dips, and Crawford had a caterer slicing hot roast beef, which delighted everyone. Cooked carrots, tiny potatoes, asparagus, whatever
you wanted, it was there. Most riders, having wiped down their horses, watered them, and put on a sweat sheet, zoomed straight for the bar.

  A tub at the door of the stable was filled with raw carrots for the horses.

  Tedi whispered in Sister’s ear, “A big success. That echo was odd, wasn’t it?”

  “It’s the second time we’ve heard it out here.” Sister squared her shoulders. “We need to build on this success. Slowly, we’ve got to get Crawford to register with the MFHA as a farmer pack. That will solve a lot of problems.”

  Tedi sipped a perfect old-fashioned, which her husband had the bartender make for her. Crawford had hired a professional bartender as well as the caterer.

  Ed came alongside. “What a hunt, and wasn’t the hound work at the chapel spectacular?”

  “Was.” Both women agreed.

  Sister made her way to Tom Tipton and Aunt Daniella, seated side by side in front of the mahogany-paneled tack room, which gave off a faint whiff of fox. Gray, on duty, fetched the drinks. Sara, juggling plates, brought their food.

  “Oh, how I wish I had ridden today.” Tom glowed.

  “Next best thing, riding with Sara.” Sister smiled.

  “Who is the hound that found the scent on the tombstones? Sara thought it was one of your Ds but we were a bit behind.”

  “Diana.”

  “Extraordinary.” He reached up to squeeze her hand.

  “Gray has been keeping all this from me.” Daniella lifted her chin. “I must come out more often.” She turned to Tom. “Seeing you has lifted my spirits.”

  Shaker and Skiff talked hounds, enlivened by what they loved.

  “You know, if you want to walk your hounds with ours it will be fine. Sister would like it. Well, you know the history. We need to get Crawford on board. No more potshots,” Shaker suggested.

  Chewing, as delicately as she could, a piece of divine roast beef, she swallowed. “Today ought to go a long way toward that.”

  Just then Crawford tapped a glass. Eventually silence prevailed.

  “Allow me to show you what I’m doing at the big house.”

  With him leading the way, they trooped, drinks in hand, well fed, over to the four majestic in-line columns, with the long marble pediment on top. Having backfilled the foundation, the workmen now refitted any cut slabs for the basement floor, while another group checked the blueprints.

  Men carried lumber, sawhorses, and tools to begin reconstruction of the house. At its prime the exterior had been a thin smooth whitish marble over the timber frame. It was supposed to resemble the mansions outside of Venice, those designed by Palladio.

  As Crawford explained everything, the workmen stopped from time to time to listen.

  Alfred DuCharme, Margaret’s father, drove up, got out to join them.

  Seeing Tom Tipton, he hurried over to greet him. “Tom, how good to see you. My mother thought the world of you. She’d say ‘Watch Tom. He’s a good whipper-in.’ Those were happy days, weren’t they?”

  The workmen stopped as Crawford nattered on. Also, Yvonne was certainly not lost on the men, but they were workers so they couldn’t flirt. When Tootie came and stood next to her mother, the resemblance was astonishing. Sister noticed the men looking from one woman to the other.

  Earl prayed for the people to leave. So much food had been dropped in the center aisle he would have his own feast.

  Much as people admired the plans, what had already been achieved with the stables and outbuildings, they wanted to return to the food and the well-stocked bar. Alfred especially wanted to visit the bar.

  Tom, transfixed, stared up at the top of the Corinthian columns.

  “Come on, Huntsman. Bourbon calls.” Sara followed his gaze upward. “Do you think anyone knows how to build like this anymore?”

  “Yes.” He took a deep breath. “But this kind of beauty isn’t valued now. You go on, Sara. I’ll be there in a minute. I just want to”—he paused—“remember. I was so young. It seems like yesterday.”

  “Okay.” Sara left him as the workers started back to it.

  Alone, looking out from the top of the forty-feet-long footsteps, Tom leaned on a corner column. The faces of the departed came to him, as did the feel of his favorite Thoroughbred, General Ike. How he loved that dark bay. He could almost hear Andrew, a sensational hound, along with Dietrich, a superb girl. Tears came.

  “You were a good whipper-in,” a familiar voice praised him.

  Tom grabbed the huge column for support even though he barely could get his arms around it. He was afraid to look behind him.

  “We’ll never see days like that again. Fewer people, fewer roads, fewer cars. People understood hunting, even those in cities. Remember?”

  Forcing himself to turn, Tom faced his huntsman. “I do. Weevil, you’re dead.”

  Devilish smile on his handsome face, Weevil laughed low. “Maybe. But I’m here.”

  “How?” Tom felt his heart race.

  “There are so many dimensions in life. We don’t see them. The animals do. But we deny what we can’t prove. I’m here. I needed to come back to Jefferson Hunt one more time. Maybe I came back to find the Old Paradise treasure. But I’m here.”

  Shaking, voice low, Tom managed to get out, “You won’t hurt me, will you?”

  Head back, laughing, Weevil answered, “If I was going to hurt you I would have done it when the trains still stopped at Tattenhall Station.”

  Scared or not, Tom shot back, “That wasn’t my fault.”

  “It’s always the whipper-in’s fault.” Weevil, smiling, pointed a finger at him. “Luckily, the whole pack made it across. Tom, you’re white as a ghost.”

  “I’m talking to a ghost.” Tom hadn’t lost his wits.

  “One question. Who is still alive? Who is still alive who remembers?”

  “Daniella Laprade. Most everyone else is gone on. Their children, many of them, are gone, too, but there’s still a lot in their sixties. Christ, we’re getting old.”

  “Happens.” Weevil paused. “When I disappeared, Brenden DuCharme accused me of stealing his wife’s jewelry. I did not.” Then Weevil turned, walking toward the old hay barns, all the old restored equipment sheds that lined the farm road past the stone stables.

  Tom, still holding the column, breathed deep breaths. Sweat rolled down his forehead. He couldn’t walk. His legs were jelly.

  Below him, at the stables, the breakfast continued.

  Sara, plotting with Sister about adding fixtures, hunt territory, changed the subject.

  “I left Tom at the big house. He should be back here by now. A trip down memory lane can’t take that long.”

  “I’ll go out with you. Maybe all this commotion pooped him out.”

  The two Masters, one active, one retired, left the stables by the enormous open wooden doors, leaded glass on top of the heavy, heavy oak.

  “Uh-oh.” Sara started to trot, followed by Sister.

  Running up the steps like teenagers, they reached Tom, grasping the columns.

  Sara put her arm around his waist. “I’ve got you. Sister’s here. Where do you hurt?”

  He shook his head but he did let go. “I saw Weevil. He spoke to me here. Right here.” He took a ragged breath. “He hasn’t aged.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “Sara, let’s walk him to the trailers. We can sit in the cab of your car. Too many people.” Sister inclined her head toward the stable.

  Once in Sara’s roomy vehicle, Tom loudly declaimed, “I am not crazy. I saw a dead man.”

  “Dead man walking.” Sara repeated the common phrase.

  Sister, voice quiet, reassured the shaken man. “We don’t think you are crazy. Here.”

  Pulling out her cellphone from the inside of her tweed jacket, she played the video.

  “God” was all he could say.

  Sister explained how she and Marion found the video. “We don’t know what to make of it.”

  “You feel okay?” Sara then added, “I c
an go fetch you a drink.”

  “No. Sober. I need to stay sober.” He folded his hands, age spots on them, in his lap. “He looks exactly as I remember him. His voice, maybe a little scratchier, but same height, build, hair, eyes, and cocky as always.”

  “What did he talk about?” Sister inquired.

  “Old times. He wanted to know who was still alive.”

  “What did you say?” Sister gently pressed.

  “All gone except for Daniella Laprade. He knew he’d been accused of stealing Margaret’s jewelry. He said he didn’t.”

  Sister’s shoulders squared. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

  Tom explained, “Alfred and Binky, young men then, asked me if I knew anything. They pledged me to silence so as not to embarrass their mother. I think they knew.”

  “Did you see where he went?” Sara took up the questioning.

  “No. I was so scared I was holding on to that column. After I saw him go behind the hay barns I shut my eyes. I couldn’t walk. Could barely stand up.”

  “Any of us would have been frightened.” Sister put her hand over his folded ones. “Did you notice what he wore?”

  “Yeah, I did, kinda. He wore ratcatcher. No dust on him though.”

  Sister blinked, thought again. “Did he smell of horse?”

  “No. At least I didn’t smell that. My sniffer is still good. He gave off a bit of scent, same scent I remember.” He smiled a little.

  “When you and Sara followed the hunt you had the windows down?”

  “Sure.” He looked at Sister.

  “And when Shaker and Skiff blew ‘Going Home,’ did you hear anything?”

  “An echo.” He swallowed. “It wasn’t an echo. Now I know that Weevil blew his cowhorn.”

  “Tom, this is an odd question, but—considering the circumstances—can you think why he has come back? Why he took his cowhorn out of the case?”

  “He guarded that cowhorn. Loved it. Wouldn’t let any of us blow it or touch it. Carved the hunt scene on it. Beautiful tone. Some huntsmen are techy about their horns.”

  “That they are.” Sara started to recount just such a tale, then stopped, realizing Sister was super-focused.