Full Cry (24 page)

Sister watched this. The other hounds came to Diana. Cora put her nose down, confirming the shift.

When hounds are doing their job, Sister thought to keep quiet. If she'd been in heavy covert, she would have tooted as best she could, so Betty and Sybil would know where she was. Not a good thing for the whippers-in to get thrown out.

Her questioning of why the fox would head straight north into another pasture was quickly answered when she galloped well into the pasture, having taken the coop, and saw the herd of Angus on the far side. He'd made a beeline for them.

Sure enough, hounds checked. How many times had she watched this? But now it was in her hands.

“Good foxhounds,” she called out to them, her voice encouraging. “Get 'em up.”

Hounds circled the cattle; Dasher moved right through them. Young Tinsel found the line on the other side, and off they ran. This side of Orchard Hill was divided into ten- to twenty-acre pastures that the owner used to rotate stock. Every fence contained jumps, which made it great fun, except that Sister was so intent on staying with hounds she never saw the jumps. She cleared them, eyes always on her hounds. Rickyroo was in his glory. He lived to run and jump.

Finally, they blasted into fifty acres of apple orchard on the right side of the farm road. On the south side, where there was more protection from sharp north winds, were fifty acres of peaches.

Orchards draw deer, raccoons, possums, and all manner of birds. Even rabbit feed on the edges. The place reeked of competing scents, which the temperature kept down.

But Cora, Diana, Asa, Ardent, Delia, and Nellie untangled the scents. The younger ones, while momentarily overwhelmed, quickly imitated their leaders. They kept on the fox.

He had put distance between them when he used the cattle. Try as they might, they couldn't close it, but scent held.

Sister caught sight of Betty down on the farm road. She figured Sybil to be outside the orchard.

Edward, Tedi, and Gray were getting one hell of a hunt. They glided through the apple orchard, flattening grass soft underfoot, a welcome change from some of the footing they'd recently been over.

Sister, well up with her hounds, kept a sharp eye in case she might see her quarry. She'd see him before the hounds would.

On the other side of the orchard, a stout coop divided it from the hayfield. Rickyroo took it with ease, and Sister glimpsed the smallish gray.

“Yip, yip, yoo!”

Hounds knew what this meant from their master. Their adrenaline, already high, shot higher. They pressed.

Young though he was, the gray had some tricks in his bag. He looped around the hayfield, dipped into the narrow creek, came out, turned toward the peach orchard, which had a fire stand at the edge: a tower with a roof and ladder.

He climbed up the ladder and flopped on the lookout stand.

Hounds skidded to a halt underneath.

“He's up there!”
Trinity screamed in frustration.
“No
fair.”

Rickyroo halted. Sister, not entirely sure that the gray had climbed, dismounted. “Ricky, hold the fort.”

Hounds milled under his legs, their excitement bubbling over. Trudy tried to climb the ladder, made it up three foot holds, only to fall flat on her back.

“Nitwit,”
Cora said.

The hounds sang and sang. Edward, Tedi, and Gray arrived in time to see Sister's small butt, covered by her buckskin breeches, moving up the ladder.

She peeped her head up and almost fell back as the small gray walked right up to her, putting his nose close to hers. Cowering wasn't his style.

“If you throw me down, I'll bite.”

“Well done, little fellow, well done.” She smiled at him and backed down. Then she plucked the horn from her first and second buttons and tried blowing “Gone to Ground.”

Blowing the horn proved easier if she wasn't moving, but she needed work. Laughing, she took the mouthpiece from her lips, “Okay, so it doesn't sound like ‘Gone to Ground.' How about ‘Up in the Air'?”

Everyone had a good laugh, including the fox.

“Sister, that was thrilling,” Tedi enthused.

“You're being very, very kind.”

Betty and Sybil came in just as Sister was blowing her mightiest.

“This is one for the books.” Betty smiled broadly.

“I don't know about that.” Sister swung back up on Rickyroo, who was having the best day. “But I think it's time to go in. We've sure had some big days, haven't we?”

“And the reds have just started breeding,” Betty mentioned, knowing the grays had been at it for two or three weeks.

“I always said the best hunting is late January through February.” Sister, high from the chase, and having managed a few warbles, laughed.

“Grays cheat,”
Trinity complained.

“No, that's the way they do,”
Asa reminded her.

“Not as bad as the time three years ago when a gray
jumped in the backseat of Tedi's car. He'd foiled his scent.
She drove him home!”
Cora giggled.

Since Jennifer and X had taken her truck, Sister, Betty, and Sybil loaded up hounds. Sari and Ronnie heard the whole story. They stayed back, waiting for Jennifer and Xavier to return.

Sister, using Betty's cell phone, reached Jennifer on the truck phone as she pulled out from the hospital.

Shaker grabbed the phone. “Three cracked ribs, two separated, a mild concussion. I'm fine.”

Xavier took the phone from Shaker. “And he's bald. Walter had his chest shaved before they taped him so it wouldn't hurt when he took the bandages off. Such a manly chest.”

Sister heard Shaker laughing, then wince. She said, “We could sell tickets. Raise a little money for the club. You know, help your huntsman change his bandages, see his naked chest.”

“Wouldn't get a dime,” X replied.

Once off the phone, Sister told the others, “He's okay. Cracked ribs, two separated.”

Tedi and Edward both said, “Good news.” Tedi added, “And you did great!”

“All I had to do was keep up, that was enough. Let's be honest, it was a pretty good day for scent.”

“Janie, you did great.” Tedi patted her arm. “Take the compliment.”

Sister smiled. “You're right.”

Gray walked over. “Are we still on for tomorrow night at the club?”

“You know, dinner there is like taking an ad on local TV.”

“Exactly right.” Gray reached for her hand. “I'm serving notice on all other men.”

“Flatterer.” She laughed.

Betty, Sybil, Jennifer, and Sari, once back at Roughneck Farm, all helped get the hounds fed, cleaned, checked over. Then the girls took care of the horses.

Shaker kept trying to do chores until Sister finally lost her temper with him, banishing him to his cottage.

“He's worse than a child,” she said to Betty and Sybil.

“They all are.” Betty kept working. “Overgrown boys.”

“But isn't that what makes them fun?” Sybil, lonely for male companionship, winked.

“You're right,” Sister agreed.

The phone rang in the office.

Betty hurried in to answer, then called for Sister.

After listening to Ben Sidell, Sister rejoined the others as they washed down the feed room. “Girls, they've identified the burned body. Donnie Sweigert.”

“Oh, no!” Sybil exclaimed.

Betty, too, exclaimed, “This is awful. What in God's name was Donnie doing there?”

“Said he had a high alcohol content in his blood.” Sister thought Donnie not a very intelligent man, but how could he be dumb enough to be dead drunk, literally, in the middle of a fire?

“God, I hope there wasn't hemlock in it,” Betty gasped.

“No.” Sister clasped her hands together.

“Well, he worked at the warehouse for years. Maybe he got drunk and fell asleep,” Sybil thought out loud.

“With a can of gasoline next to him?”

“Jesus.” Betty whistled.

“Before this is over, we're all going to be calling for Jesus,” Sister said. “What is going on down there?”

“Doesn't make any sense.” Sybil, too, was upset.

“It makes sense to somebody,” Betty rejoined.

“Yes—that's what scares me,” Sister half whispered.

CHAPTER 29

“Old-fashioned,” Sister said, walking through the freshly washed-down kennels, water squishing under her ancient green Wellies.

Walter, having a light day this Friday, used the afternoon to check in on Shaker and to begin his hound education. “What do you mean by old-fashioned?”

“Oh, a little heavy boned in the foreleg, a bigger barrel than gets pinned in the ring these days, and a somewhat broader skull than is currently finding favor.” She closed and double-latched the heavy chain-link gate leading to the young-entry run. “You breed for the territory, Walter. You'll get sick of hearing that from me, and truthfully, you breed the kind of hound you or your huntsman can handle. A lot of people can't handle American hounds; the animal is too sensitive, too up for them.”

“Like house dogs? Some people like terriers; other people like golden retrievers.”

“In a sense, yes. But I swear there are more born liars in the foxhound world than anywhere else but golf and fishing.” She moved along to the hot bitch pen.

Sweetpea, having recently been bred, was already in the special girls' pen, as Sister called it, the hot bitch pen and whelping area. A steady hound, not brilliant, Sweetpea, when crossed to Sister's A line or Jill Summers's J line, produced marvelous hounds. Mrs. Paul Summers Jr. was the long-serving master at Farmington Hunt. She'd bred a consistently fine pack for over thirty-five years.

“Hello.”
Sweetpea wagged her tail.

“Sweetpea, you remember Walter.” Sister reached down and smoothed her lovely head, the eyes expressive, filled with intelligence.

“I do.”
Sweetpea touched Walter with her nose.

Wanda, more advanced in her pregnancy, hearing voices, padded in from outside, where she'd been taking her constitutional.
“I'm here.”

“This is Wanda: great drive, okay nose, strong back end, as you can see. That gives her a lot of power. Her shoulder angle could be better, but at least it's not straight as a stick. So in breeding Wanda, I want to keep her good features, but see if I can't improve the shoulder a bit and maybe refine her head just a wee bit. Again, I'm not too much into looks, but conformation is the key, as well as attitude. Same as with horses, of course. Both these girls are so easy to work with, eager to please and keen to hunt. And their offspring are even better. Wanda is bred to a Piedmont hound who actually goes back to Fred Duncan's incredible Clyde—oh, that was back in the early seventies. That hound could follow scent on a hot asphalt road. Never saw anything like Warrenton Clyde.”

Walter, overwhelmed, sighed. “Sister, how am I going to remember all this? It's Greek to me.”

Sister, who had a few years of Greek in college, smiled. “If you mastered organic chemistry, bloodlines will be a snap.”

“Can I read up on this?”

“The books start in the early eighteenth century. Well, actually, I think Xenophon even mentioned hound breeding, but don't fret, Walter. I'll give you a list of the classics. The MFHA has FoxDog: their computer software. I struggle with it, but Shaker's got the hang of it. I'm not exactly a computer whiz, but I can send e-mail.”

“FoxDog?” He bent his tall frame over to pat both Wanda and Sweetpea.

“All the bloodlines for every hunt for each of the main types of foxhounds are on FoxDog. I can't imagine sitting down and entering all that information. God bless the MFHA.” She paused. “But I'll tell you, the best way to learn about hounds and breeding is to hunt, hunt, hunt, and watch. Go to any hunt you can, mounted or on foot, and observe. The great ones stay in your mind just like the great horses or movie stars.”

“That makes sense.”

“And you'll soon know what I'm talking about when I say that Piedmont Righteous '71 was bred to Warrenton Star, which gave us a bitch, Piedmont Daybreak '79, and she produced Piedmont Hopeful '83, a very great bitch. A lot of people will say they want Hopeful in the tail female line, and all that sounds impressive, but I just watch hounds. I don't give a damn if the nick is on top or on bottom—”

Walter held up his hand. “Sister, what's a nick? You've lost me.”

“Nick is a bad hound who hunts coons.”
Wanda was referring to a neighbor's hound, whom she didn't much like. Although Nick was a good coonhound, he didn't pay his proper respects to Wanda—a girl with a big ego.

“I think of a nick as a lucky cross. Funny Cide, terrific racing horse, a gelding, you know whom I'm talking about?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, he won't be retired to stud, but people will study his pedigree and try the same or similar cross if they can. Nothing wrong with that, but I think you can get a good result playing with the template, if you will. Instead of just copying something that in the thoroughbred world would mean hundreds of thousands of dollars, reverse the nick or go back to the grandparent generation. If you study, Walter, there's always a way. I study pedigree. I study hounds, study horses, too. And one of the great things about foxhunting is I can call another master in order to take a bitch to his dog; he or she is flattered. Of course, masters allow this and everyone benefits. You don't pay for it. The opportunity is freely given. Foxhunting operates on generosity. We improve the animal if we're careful. The operative word is ‘careful.' ”

“What's tail line and all that?”

“Oh. The tail line is the bottom of a breeding chart, the dam or bitch's side. The top belongs to the dog hound or stallion. I'll show you when we go in to the office, but you'll see right what I mean when you check a pedigree. It's a good thing to study and research pedigrees. It's a better thing to see performance in the field and to talk to those who know the antecedents of a good hound.”

“I've got my work cut out for me.” He whistled. “Can't wait. And Sweetpea and Wanda, I can't wait to see the babies.”

“Mine will be better,”
Wanda bragged.

Sweetpea, easygoing, just licked Sister's hand.
“I love
you, Sister. I'll give you good puppies.”

“Precious.” Sister kissed her head, then patted Wanda.

They left, closing the gate behind them, and walked the long outdoor corridor to the main kennel building. Once inside, she showed him Sweetpea's pedigree of this year's entry from Sweetpea and Ardent. Walter realized the format was exactly the same as a horse pedigree. He felt better.

The door opened, and Shaker stepped through. “Draw list for tomorrow?”

“Haven't done it yet. Did you do yours?”

“Yes.” He placed his list on the desk then spoke to Walter. “I'm not sitting around.”

“Give it another day, Shaker. Really. I'm not worried about your ribs. The concussion worried me even though it wasn't bad. But give it another day.”

“Who's going to hunt hounds tomorrow? I need to go out.”

“You and Lorraine can be wheel whips. I'm not taking any chances with you. If you miss tomorrow, well, it's not great, but if you miss the rest of the season, the best part of the season, I'll be one step ahead of a fit,” Sister reminded him.

Shaker sat on the edge of the desk. “For Chrissakes, people get their bell rung all the time.”

“They aren't fabulous huntsmen. And how do you blow the horn when you're galloping?” Sister hoped the compliment would somewhat mollify him.

“Practice. It's a good idea to go out with an empty bladder, too.”

“I figured that out.” She laughed. “I'll hunt the hounds tomorrow. God willing, nothing awful will happen. Let's take steady eddies, no young entry. Make it easy for me. Tuesday, you'll be back in the saddle and all will be well.”

“No, what's going to happen is you'll love hunting hounds, and we'll have a fight,” Shaker grumbled.

“I will love hunting them. I loved yesterday even though I had butterflies, but you're the huntsman and huntsman you'll stay.” She swiftly ran her eyes down the draw list, dogs on the left side of the page, bitches on the right, firstyear entry, young entry, and even some second year with a different-colored mark before the animal's name. It was a good system. “I'll get back to you on this.”

Up at the house, Sister asked Walter about Shaker's injuries as she heated water for tea.

“This is the third time you've asked since yesterday.”

“I'm sorry. He's very dear to me, even if we fuss.”

“He hit hard. He can wrap up his ribs. I want a few more days for his head. By the time I saw him, he was in pretty good shape from the concussion, but you always want to be careful with a head injury.”

“Thank you again for seeing him. I guess we could have sent him to the ER, but I trust you; I don't know who's in the ER.”

Walter smiled. “Thank you for your confidence, but the team down at the hospital is very good.”

She poured tea. Walter liked dark teas, as did she. “You don't know much about foxhounds; I don't know diddly about medicine. What really is an endocrinologist?”

“Someone in the right field at the right time. It's the study of ductless glands. So it's really the study of the thyroid, the pituitary, and the adrenal glands, basic human chemistry.”

“Lucrative?”

“Very. If you have a child whose growth is stunted, you'd go to an endocrinologist. Menopause—think of the money there with the boomer generation. It's a growing field that will benefit from the constant advancements just in thyroid studies alone. Pretty amazing.”

“Would an endocrinologist have more ways to make illegal money than, say, yourself?”

“From medicine?” Walter's blond eyebrows rose. “Uh, well, Sister, any crooked doctor can make a fortune. Prescribe unnecessary painkillers, OxyContin, mood elevators, Percodan, Prozac. If you're less than honest, it's easy, because, of course, the patient wants the drugs.”

“What about cocaine or heroin?”

Walter couldn't help but laugh. “You don't need a doctor. You can get that on the street.”

“It's really easy to get coke or marijuana?”

“As pie. Easy as pie.” Walter sipped the restorative brew. “Our government, the FDA, I could list agencies as long as my arm, and I've got long arms, make the mess bigger and bigger. Some drugs are classified as dangerous; others aren't. I could kill you with caffeine. There's a hit of caffeine in this tea. Sister, I could kill you with sugar or salt. Americans are literally killing themselves every day with salt and sugar. We are so hypocritical when it comes to— what's the term?—illegal substances. You've got people making policy based on their version of morals instead of, well, endocrinology. And I'm serious: I could kill someone with caffeine. I'm a doctor; in order to save lives, you have to know what takes those lives. Any doctor worth his salt, forgive the pun, can kill and make it look perfectly natural. But as I said, why bother? Americans are killing themselves.”

She drummed her fingers on the kitchen table. “Mmm.”

“Why this sudden interest in endocrinology?”

“Dalton Hill's speciality. He's paid his associate membership; he's been hunting pretty consistently. Good rider.”

“Bought that Cleveland bay.”

“Yes.” She frowned a moment. “Obviously, he has money.”

“Right.” Walter smiled. “He's an endocrinologist.”

She smiled back. “What do you know about him?”

Walter shrugged. “Leave of absence from the Toronto hospital, teaching this semester, and he's brilliant. That's what I hear.”

“Do you like him?”

A long pause followed her question. Walter cleared his throat. “Not really.”

“Cold.”

“More or less. He's thawing a bit, thanks to your geniality and the hospitality of Virginians in general.” Walter thanked her as she refreshed his tea. “He's recently divorced, which is why I think he's teaching this semester. A chance to get away. Clear the head.”

“I've been curious about him.” She smiled again. “Can't have too many doctors in the field. Wish we could get the entire hospital staff to hunt.”

“You wouldn't want that. We've got some first-class fruitcakes.”

“And the hunt doesn't?”

They laughed.

“Back to hounds,” Walter said. “Can you breed for the task? By that I mean, can you breed an anchor hound?”

“We could be here for weeks on that one. Well . . . yes and no. I have noticed certain characteristics passing in certain of my lines. For example, Delia, mother of Diddy and those first-year entry, comes from my D line. D hounds are consistently steady, and they enter and learn fairly quickly. On the other hand, I've observed that my R line can be brilliant, but it seems to skip a generation. Rassle, Ruthie, and Ribot are brilliant. Their mother wasn't; she was just there. Her mother was outstanding. Like I said, the answer to your question is yes and no.”