Outfoxed (9 page)

CHAPTER 17

At five-thirty in the morning the frost covered the ground like a silver net. The few leaves underfoot would soon give way to blankets of maple, oak, hickory, gum, sycamore, and poplar. Fall, a bit late this year, was about a week away from peak color. Flaming red edging the green of the maples stood out against the dawn light, as did the yellow oak leaves.

Shaker divided hounds in the kennel. Those who would be hunting that day were placed in a draw run. Excited to be chosen, they tormented those left behind with boasts of how good the day's hunt would be.

Hounds remaining in the kennel were deemed unfit or unready for many reasons. A bitch going into season would be put in the hot bitch pen until her estrus passed. A hound footsore from Tuesday's hunt would be left in the kennel. A hound having difficulty mastering his or her job would be held back lest he or she distract the other hounds from their task. Hounds under two years or a year and a half, depending on development, would be left in the puppy runs. Dragon languished in sick bay. Although he was recovering rapidly, his left eye was swollen shut.

Shaker patiently explained to his charges the reasons for their missing the party. He double-checked everyone, making certain plenty of fresh water was available and that they had eaten their breakfast.

The hounds to hunt wouldn't get breakfast until their return. Full hounds run slow or sit down and throw up. No one minded delaying breakfast if it meant they'd hunt. They pricked their ears, waved their tails, hopped around in circles.

“All right. Settle. Settle now. It's another hour before you go on the party wagon.” Shaker called the hound van the party wagon. “No point in wearing yourself out before the party starts.”

He had backed up the hound van to the draw run the night before. He had only to open the door into the draw run and the hounds would race down the chute to the opened door of the van. This saved time because without a draw run a few hounds, overexcited, would zoom past the van.

He walked outside the kennel to light his pipe. Shaker wouldn't smoke near his hounds. Their noses were so sensitive that smoke bothered them. He wanted those noses sharp for the hunt.

He read somewhere that dogs in general hear six times better than humans and that a human has about five million scent receptors whereas a hound has over twenty-two million. Whatever the numbers, hounds heard and smelled more than a human could imagine. He thought about that sometimes, about how dull our world would seem to a creature with broader, sharper senses.

What must it be like to see through the eagle's eye or the owl's?

What he saw was the gray giving way to the first streak of pale pink. The clear sky promised a spectacular day, but not for hunting. Those raw days when the smoke from the chimneys hangs low, those are good hunting days. Today scent would evaporate rapidly. However, there was no wind, hardly even a lick of breeze. That would help. He'd have to drop hounds on a line fast and hope for a burst. Whatever line they'd get wouldn't last too long unless, of course, the fox moved along the creek bed.

He sucked contentedly on his briar pipe, a Dunhill of great antiquity given him by his father. Lights were on in Sister's kitchen. No doubt she was already on the phone with a member who needed to know right that moment what Sister Jane thought about wearing Prince of Wales spurs or could the member show up in a running martingale, even though it was improper?

Shaker knew he had not the patience to be a master nor the money. He'd worked his way up to being huntsman, getting the horn when he was thirty-one, no small accomplishment. In his mid-forties, he had no money other than what he earned and that wasn't much. His benefits, housing, truck, standing in the community pleased him, but most of all he loved what he did. He loved it more than money, more than anything. In the end even more than his ex-wife, who when he turned forty bedeviled him to think about his future, take a job where he could make some good money. Sheila never understood him but then maybe he didn't understand her. Women seemed to need security more than he did. He asked for a fine day's hunting, each hound on the line, and he lived one day at a time.

He could hear Doug in the stable. Having a good professional first whipper-in made the huntsman's life much easier. Shaker's horse would be tacked up and loaded on the van. He could rely on Doug to get ahead of the hounds, an assignment that took a brave and good rider.

Although young, Doug would carry the horn someday. Shaker had known Doug since he was in grade school. He'd come to the kennel and tag after Shaker and Sister Jane like a hound puppy. There wasn't much love or stability in Doug's childhood. He found both at the kennel.

The back door opened and closed. Sister Jane, dressed except for the barn coat she was wearing, waved good morning.

Raleigh ran ahead.
“What a day.”

“Morning, big guy.” Shaker ran his palm over the glossy black head.

Sister beamed, breathing in deeply. “If we can't get up a fox, we'll have a perfect trail ride. Not that you won't find a fox.” She winked.

“I'm beginning to think the fox finds us.”

“There is that.”

“And who had called this morning, ass over tit?”

“Only Ronnie Haslip. He can't find his tweed jacket. I told him the day would warm up fast. He can ride in his shirt and vest. For whatever reason that seemed to satisfy him. He said he'd called everyone but couldn't find an extra coat and he'd go straight up to Warrenton to Horse Country and buy a coat after the hunt. He worries more than his mother and she was world-class.” Sister Jane laughed. “Oh, the Franklin girls are in rehab.”

“Heard yesterday.”

“As Raymond would say, ‘The shit has hit the Franklin fan.' ” She admired the lacy pattern of the frost. “Wouldn't he just love today. He took credit for every bright, low-humidity day we had.”

“Direct line to Great God Almighty.”

“That's what he said.” Sister laughed, remembering her husband's sacrilegious streak. Raymond liked nothing better than pouncing on someone who touted the Bible. She herself thought one worshiped best outdoors. “Do you ever miss Sheila on a day like today?”

Accustomed to her sudden direct hits, the curly-haired man shook his head. “No.”

“Not even on a full moon?”

“Well”—he smiled—“maybe then.”

“Good.” She smiled triumphantly. “It won't do for a man to be too independent of women.”

“I have you.”

“Ha. My solemn vow is to fuss at you. Think of it as marriage without the benefits.”

“Long as I can fuss back.” He patted her on the back.

“Deal.” She leaned into him. She'd known Shaker nearly as long as she had known Raymond. She knew his virtues and his faults. She loved him for himself as well as for his talent.

“Rodeo?”

“Yep.”

They turned to enter the kennel, to load up the hounds. Doug was already loading the horses.

The phone rang in the kennel.

“Jefferson Hunt.” Shaker listened, then handed it to Sister Jane, his hand over the earpiece. “Crawford.”

“Hello.”

“Sister Jane, might I have a few words with you after the hunt today?”

“Of course, Crawford, but you have to survive it first.”

CHAPTER 18

The massive stone ruins of an old mill perched over the fast-running creek. Broad Creek, swift moving and ten yards wide on Sister Jane's property, was twenty to thirty yards wide in places at Wheeler Mill, which was eight miles south of her place. The raceway remained intact two centuries later. The men who built this mill intended for it to last.

As a courtesy to Peter Wheeler, too old to maintain his property, the hunt club, once a year, cleaned the raceway of branches or any other floating debris, bushhogged the trails, and repaired jumps. The stone fences rarely needed fixing, having been constructed in 1730, same as the mill.

The Wheeler line would die with Peter. Speculation as to the disposition of his estate intensified with each pass-ing year.

An early riser, the old man sat on a director's chair in the bed of his truck, having been hoisted up by Walter Lungrun, who'd arrived early.

When Sister saw the young doctor she breathed in sharply. He reminded her of her husband. Walter—tall, blond, wide-shouldered, and square-jawed—was handsome without being pretty, just as Raymond had been.

Upon seeing Sister, Walter walked over, tipping his hat. “Master, good morning.”

Shaker stared at him as though seeing a ghost, then returned his attention quickly to the hounds.

Before he could say his name Sister smiled. “Dr. Lungrun, you are most welcome. I'll try and scare up a fox for you. Is this your first hunt?”

“When I was in college and med school I hunted a few times. May I try first flight?”

“You may. If you make an involuntary dismount I'll keep going, you know, but whoever is riding tail today will pick you up.”

“I'll try not to embarrass myself.” He clapped his black cap back on, tails up.

Only staff could hunt with cap tails down.

Sister surveyed the field. Twenty-five people on Thursday morning at seven. Opening hunt was two weeks away. Each hunt the field swelled as people, presumably in shape, eased back into the routine of foxhunting.

The regulars were out in full force except for Jennifer and Cody Franklin.

“Folks.” She motioned for them to ride over to her. A few were frantically searching for the last-minute ties, gloves, and girths back at their trailers. Shaker and Doug had unloaded the hounds, who were being wonderfully well behaved. “First flight with me. Hilltoppers with Fontaine. Will you do us the honors, Fontaine?”

“Of course, Master.” He touched his hat with his crop. Much as Fontaine hated missing riding up front, he knew he was being given a position acknowledging hunting sense and better yet, this was done in front of Crawford Howard. Of course, Fontaine's knowledge of the territory didn't mean he possessed the much coveted hound sense. But to lead Hilltoppers, Fontaine didn't need to have it.

“Ralph, will you ride tail?” she asked Raphael Assumptio, known as Ralph, a middle-aged man, strong rider and better yet, competent in a crisis.

“Glad to.” He, too, touched his cap with his crop.

“Huntsman.”

Shaker, holding his cap in his lap as was proper, nodded, put his cap on, and said, “Hounds ready?”

“You bet!”
came the chorus.

Lafayette turned his head. “
Ready to rock and roll?”

As Sister patted his gray neck, the other horses neighed in anticipation.

Shaker stuck to his plan, dropping the hounds where he thought he'd hit a line along the creek. Flecks of frost clung to the sides of the creek and overtop the banks, but across the pastures the light frost had already transformed into sparkling dew.

He moved along on the farm road paralleling the creek bed. He glanced back, smiling when he saw old Peter Wheeler, hand cupped to his ear, waiting to hear the hounds, which when in full cry were music to his ears.

Peter hadn't long to wait because Dasher called out,
“Over here.”

As this was Dasher's first year, the other hounds weren't quick to honor him. His litter mate Diana respected him, though, and she trotted over, putting her nose to the earth.
“He's been here.”

On hearing both Dasher and Diana, Cora thought she might double-check their work.
“For real. Come on. I say he's fifteen minutes ahead of us.”
She touched the earth again.
“Maybe twenty.”

With a burst of speed, the hounds tried to close the gap, but the fox, who'd been hunting, meandered over fallen logs, lingered on stone walls waiting for mice. Once he heard the hounds he doubled back, slipped down the raceway embankment to run along the watercourse. Then he climbed out right at Wheeler Mill, paused to consider what an old man was doing in the back of a pickup truck. He sauntered behind the truck, stopped and sat to stare at Peter, then got up and walked into the mill, where he had a tidy little den with so many exits the hounds couldn't trap him if they put a hound on each visible one. He even had exits running under mighty timber supports.

Peter bellowed for all he was worth, “Yip, yip yooo,” giv-ing the rebel yell instead of “holloa” or “tallyho.”

Within three minutes the hounds arrived at the truck, then plunged into the raceway, the creek, then back out, since the fox had zigzagged by the creek and then the raceway. It only took the hounds perhaps half a minute before they were all in the mill itself.

Shaker was a minute behind his hounds. He could see Douglas ahead parallel to the creek. He knew no hounds had veered off course.

He hopped off Showboat, his Thursday horse. Showboat calmly stood while Shaker gingerly walked across the low stone wall into the mill. Otherwise he'd have to ride around, and Shaker believed in getting to his hounds as quickly as possible, in this case to reward them for putting their quarry in his den.

Sister and the field galloped up as Shaker bent low to open the oak door into the bottom of the mill.

The hounds sang,
“He's in his den. He's in his pen. We've got him cornered! Mighty hounds are we!”

Shaker blew triumphant notes on his horn; then he trebled them, which made the hounds dance all around the enormous mill wheels and the smooth areas where the kernels dropped to be bagged up. They leapt over one another, they dug at one of the den openings, they jumped straight up in the air so Shaker would notice them.

“I found the line first,”
Dasher boasted. The black marking on his head came forward in a widow's peak.

“I was first into the mill,”
Diana, thrilled at her success, barked.

“We did well as a pack. The youngsters led the way.”
Cora allowed herself great satisfaction.

“I still think if we'd crossed the raceway instead of moving alongside it we would have nabbed him,”
Archie, brow furrowed, flews hanging loose, said.

“Archie, you worry too much.”
Cora laughed at him.

“There is no perfect hunt, Cora. We can always improve.”

“You're right, Arch.”
She humored him.

Outside Sister Jane rode over to Peter. “Thanks for the view.”

“Granddad taught me that yell.” Peter felt young again despite his infirmities. “And I tell you, Janie, he walked right up here and stared at me. Insolent he was. Insolent and big, oh, a big fine red dog fox. I've seen him before. Fox everywhere this year but none so big as this boy.”

“You're a good whip, Peter.”

“Tell you one thing, pretty girl, if there's not foxhunting in heaven, I'm not going.” He laughed; his eyes sparkled.

She remembered him when he was younger, when his hair was pitch-black. Peter Wheeler was a handsome man to have in the field or in the bed.

“I hope you won't be going any time soon even though I bet the foxes are grand. Foxes from the great runs in England during the nineteenth century. Now there's a thought.”

He beamed at her. “When you were seventeen, I predicted you would be master someday. You had it even then, Jane.” He reached in the pocket of his flannel shirt for a cigar, a Macanudo for a mild early-morning smoke. “It's an inborn thing. Can't be taught. Can't be bought.”

“Thank you.”

“And I'll tell you something else. You're still a fine-looking woman. I'm glad you didn't dye your hair or tie up your face. Looks stupid and fake. Hate to see that on a woman. Silver hair makes you look distinguished. More like a master.” He chuckled. “And a word of advice—and that's the great thing about being two years older than God—I can say whatever I damn well please. To hell with the rules, Janie, do as you please. Time's a-wasting.” He laughed. “Go seduce some fellow half your age. You can, you know. Here comes Shaker. Like the cat that ate the canary. And look at those hounds, will you. Just as pleased with themselves as Shaker. My, how I'd love to be on the back of a horse.” He was so excited he stood up, energy racing through him.

The field buzzed behind the master, happy to have such a good beginning and happy to have a moment for gossip, pass the flask, take a few furtive puffs on a cigarette, and quickly grind it out on the bottom of a boot. The horses chatted, too.

Sister rode over to Shaker. “Well done.”

“Not bad. I'll cast in the other direction, up toward the graveyard.”

“Fine.”

She turned back to her field, took her place in the front as Crawford edged up behind her. He dearly wanted to ride in the master's pocket, the most coveted position in the field.

Czapaka murmured to Lafayette,
“I'll try not to bump you. He can't hold me, you know, but I don't want to go first. You've got more guts than I do. You go first.”

True, Lafayette did have to negotiate obstacles and terrain first, but Showboat was in front of him on those times when he could see him. That gave him a good idea of the footing. If Showboat and Shaker were out of sight, he used his judgment, which was solid. Lafayette took Sister Jane to the jump. She didn't have to squeeze him over.

“If it gets too bad just dump him,”
Lafayette advised. Being a thoroughbred, he had no tolerance for someone with bad hands.

They waved good-bye to Peter as they walked north. A yip now and then meant a faint, faint scent lingered, but they crept for about a half hour, arriving at the graveyard, headstones so old the writing had worn down to curves and straight lines. The years still read clear. Those resting within were Wheelers, Jacksons, and Japazaws, descended from an Indian leader of the last half of the seventeenth century, the first half of the eighteenth. It was always a source of pride and defiance among the Wheelers, Jacksons, and Japazaws that they claimed their blood. Many a settler denied sexual congress with the native peoples, much less married them.

Archie walked through the open wrought-iron gate, twelve feet high with a scroll at the top.
“Half hour.”

Cora joined him.
“Let's make certain.”

They deliberately walked through the graveyard, feathers scattered behind a large monument. A bobwhite had provided a feast for their fox.

“There's another one.”
Archie sniffed a crossing scent.
“About the same time.”

“Arch, I'll go to the edge of the graveyard with this one and you go to the edge with the other. Let's come back and compare. If we leave the graveyard, the whips will come in thinking we've split but I don't know which line is better.”

“Okay.”
Archie moved north.

Cora moved south, taking the pack with her before some young one got impatient, although Dragon's disgrace seemed to have sunk in.

Within a few minutes the pack was at the southern edge of the graveyard, which opened onto a rolling fifty-acre pasture. Archie halted at the northern end, cut over about ten years ago. A border of mature trees had been left around the graveyard.

Cora called out,
“It's about the same. The scent.”

“Same here,”
Archie replied.
“But if we go into the cutover we have a better chance of staying with it. The scent will surely be dissipated on the pasture.”
Archie knew the territory better than anyone.

“Come on, kids.”
Cora swung the pack around. They fell in behind Archie, slipped through the wrought iron, and headed into the tangles.

The young ones had been trained to go into rough country during their hound walks but this was the real thing.

A lovely young bitch hesitated.

“Get your butt in there,”
Archie growled.
“You don't want Shaker to push you in.”

She scooted in.

Douglas up ahead viewed, letting out a holler.

Shaker didn't bother his hounds. They were working well; they needed no encouragement. To speak to them would bring their heads up. Besides which the hounds could hear Douglas better than he could. They knew what it meant.

The field followed along a farm road. The brush, thick, inhibited horses going in after the hounds. They covered a lot of ground at a steady trot. The cutover acres gave way to a bog. The road, higher, got them through. Sister saw hounds on both sides of the bog, in a line, moving forward, working hard because there couldn't have been much to go on in that mess. Once out of the bog they fanned out, picking up the scent on the moss at the bottom of a fiddle oak.

“Fading fast.”
Cora urged the others,
“Try to keep your head down more, youngsters, even though it will slow you down. It's so easy to overrun the line in these conditions.”

Once out of the bog they entered a high meadow; a cool wind caught them on the spine of the meadow. The hounds dipped their heads under it, although Dasher would stick his nose up. True, he got wind of heavy scent, but it wasn't fox.

“Don't even think about it,”
Archie snapped.

Dasher dropped his head obediently, even though the deer scent sorely vexed him.