Outfoxed Page 11

  “She’s a beautiful woman.”

  He sighed. “That makes it harder.”

  “Funny how we get turned around by looks. My mother said, ‘You can’t judge a book by its cover.’ She was right but I fell for Raymond because he was big, blond, and handsome. But in those days you couldn’t just jump into bed together or live together. The courtship process was definite. As I got to know him I discovered he was quite a lovely man. Well, I don’t need a trip down memory lane and neither do you. If I can help you in any way, I will.”

  “I know.”

  She rose and he rose with her. “You know the people who sell these damned drugs should be shot. Either that or we legalize them. We have years of dolorous evidence to prove that what we’re doing now doesn’t work.”

  “That’s for sure.” He walked her to the door. “Wasn’t it something to see Walter Lungrun? He was in high school when I was in junior high. Went to all the football games. All-state. I loved to watch him. I think he could have made pro even though he went to an Ivy League school. He’s grown up, though. Something’s different.”

  “Yes. I suppose facing life and death every day grows up most everybody.”

  “I’d kill Crawford if I were Walter.”

  She smiled at Douglas. “I don’t know if I would, but I’d take pleasure in long, slow suffering.”

  They both laughed as she hopped out the door into the biting wind. She hurried to her back door, opened it, and hung up her coat.

  Golliwog sauntered into the mudroom. “You’re late and I’m hungry.”

  CHAPTER 21

  To prove their dedication both Fontaine and Crawford hunted Saturday morning in filthy conditions. The wind cut them to ribbons; a light rain stinging like needles irritated them.

  Although she didn’t expect much, Sister thought the worst that could happen was they’d have a good hound walk. Keeping hounds fit tended to keep the people fit, too.

  To her surprise Walter Lungrun was out. The small field kept close together, spending the first half of the early morning jumping ditches, fording swollen creeks, and hunching down in their jackets to stay warm.

  Finally hounds hit above a freshly trimmed oat field, cut much too late. The run was short but intense. Sister decided to stop on a good note.

  They rode back toward the west, the sharp wind smack in their faces. Combating the elements occupied Fontaine and Crawford.

  Dragon, back in the pack, behaved impeccably.

  Sister Jane patted Aztec on the neck. She behaved like a lady; no jump fazed her.

  A howl ahead of them brought every hound head up.

  “What’s that?” Dasher asked.

  “Mountain lion,” Cora answered. “And I’m as happy to chase one as a fox. As long as I don’t chase deer, I think I’m in the right.” She glanced up at Shaker, who was trying to decide what to do.

  He didn’t want to send his hounds up until he knew exactly what was there. If it was a mountain lion, the scent of it might send some horses into a frenzy. Also, Sister was on a young horse. The horse had a fine mind but still, she was green.

  He raised his horn to his lips, then brought it down again. “Sister, let me go ahead. You’ll hear the horn if we can hunt home.”

  This was a code between them. No point in telling the field you’re worried about them.

  “Fine. Doug should be up there.”

  “He’s ahead to the right a bit. Betty’s behind us.” Shaker chirped to the pack; they eagerly trotted ahead of him. He was a huntsman who wanted his hounds in front of him always. Some didn’t but Shaker did.

  The young entry, curious, surged ahead of Cora.

  “Not so fast,” the strike hound ordered them.

  “We’ll stop when we get around the corner.” The three D young hounds plunged forward, the trees bending overhead, the light in the forest failing as the clouds lowered.

  They stopped cold. Inky, crouched low but fangs bared, kept her paw on a plump rabbit she’d killed. Circling her was a half-grown mountain lion.

  Diana growled, charging forward. “Leave her!”

  The mountain lion, startled, backed off. Dasher and Dragon remained frozen to the spot, which gave Diana enough time to tell Inky, “Go home. Fast. I’ll get the pack on the big cat. Foul your scent any way you can because there are experienced hounds behind us. My brothers don’t know much.”

  Inky shot away to the right, scampering over dripping moss and pine needles, skidding down a bank and plunging into a narrow drainage ditch. She paddled in the water for forty yards, then clambered out. The water trick would gain her time but a hound like Cora or Archie would work that opposite bank. They knew the water trick and they were close. Very close. She prayed that Diana could set them on the lion and she wondered that she was foolish enough to square off against the cat. However, it infuriated her that she’d worked hard to bring down that rabbit and the sluggard wanted to steal her dinner.

  Diana, rooted to the spot, the rabbit between her paws, shouted for her litter mates: “Follow me!”

  They barreled down, putting their noses to the ground as Diana deftly steered them onto the mountain lion’s tracks. The scent, stronger than Inky’s, was easy to follow. Within minutes the whole pack was behind them with only Archie holding his ground bellowing, “The fox went this way.”

  Even Cora, a rock of a hound, ignored him. She reasoned that they could get up a fox any day but a mountain lion, so close, well, why not?

  Shaker, up behind them now, watched a smallish bitch pick up the rabbit, running with the prize in her mouth. He peered at the mixed-up tracks, thought he saw one fox pawprint, dainty, but he clearly saw the cat pawprints. He plunged into the woods, knowing that Douglas would be ahead of him. A dirt road bounded the forest two miles away. Doug had to get there before the hounds did even though it was sparsely traveled.

  Sister listened for the horn. When she heard the double notes she trotted and quickly found the spot and the tracks. She saw Shaker’s scarlet coat disappear into the darkening woods, heard him encourage his hounds with another double blast. She couldn’t take her tiny field in there. She pushed Aztec into a canter, hoping to reach the edge of the woods and turn left. Blessed with fabulous ears, as long as she could hear her hounds she could follow. She knew she was onto a big cat. How and where the beast would run was anybody’s guess.

  They reached the small pasture, picked up the sunken farm road, and headed toward the state road. She could hear Fontaine and Crawford jockeying for position behind her, since there was now room. A flash of buckskin on her left in the woods told her Betty had headed into the fray using an old deer trail. All hounds were on. Betty had no one to push up, so she could move out and she was heedless of her kneecaps. Outlaw, Betty’s mount, would take good care of her and that confidence radiated from both horse and rider.

  Aztec flicked her ears back and forth. The scent of mountain lion puzzled and frightened her a bit. The two riders behind her moving up irritated her. She felt Sister’s right hand stroke her from her poll down to her withers as they flew along and she thought to herself, “It’s okay. Sister would never ask me to do anything that would hurt me.” She focused again on the road.

  Sister held her hand up like a right-hand-turn signal. “Hold hard!”

  Crawford bumped into Fontaine, who turned around and cursed. “Hold your horse, fool.”

  Sister, without turning her head, rebuked them by saying, “Gentlemen.”

  Martha and Walter, the only other two in the field, sat still behind the two rivals, whose shoulders had tensed up.

  “They’re to your left, Master,” Crawford prattled.

  “I know that.” Sister wanted to say, “You flaming asshole. What I don’t know is if they’re turning.”

  Before she could say or think anything, the half-grown mountain lion blew past them on the other side of the state road. She was running low and if one wasn’t concentrating, she resembled a German shepherd.

  “Oh my go
d. Oh my god.” Crawford pointed.

  Fontaine, cooler, called in a singsong voice, “Tally-lion.”

  Since the hounds were still a ways off, he could holler without bringing their heads up. Otherwise he would have turned his horse’s head in the direction the lion was heading, taken off his cap, and held it at the end of his arm, also in that direction. This way he would alert staff without disturbing the hounds. As any experienced foxhunter knows, the quarry you see may not be the hunted fox. It’s imperative to keep hounds on the hunted fox or, in this case, lion.

  Sister calmly waited for Douglas to pass, then the hounds, in good order, then Shaker, a big grin on his face. She fell in right behind her huntsman, perhaps twenty yards behind him.

  Shaker pressed to the hog’s-back jump, big logs built to create a rounded obstacle almost like a huge lobster trap. The huntsman shot over. Aztec eyed the jump. She hadn’t seen one like that. Then she felt Sister squeeze and thought, “What the hell. It looks like fun.”

  If Aztec had sucked back then, Czapaka would have quit for sure and Crawford would have taken the jump but the horse wouldn’t have. Czapaka, edging ahead of Gunpowder and an inflamed Fontaine, jumped the hog’s back in good form. Walter and Clemson cleared, as did Martha and Cochise.

  Behind them they heard Betty and Outlaw. They sailed over, then ran alongside the small field until Betty drew parallel with Sister.

  “Some pumpkins,” Sister called out.

  “Tell you what.” Betty laughed, the rain slashing at her face.

  The hounds picked up speed. The humans and horses flew over the pasture. The footing got slick. They headed into a small wooded border between two properties, jumped a rising creek, and with three strides more jumped a slip-rail fence dividing two properties and then into more woods.

  Sister halted. Shaker and Douglas, hounds at their feet, stared up at a massive rock outcropping, black in the rain. On top of it the mountain lion looked down at them. She’d had enough. She never did grab the rabbit, the cause of all this, and she’d had just about enough trouble for one day. Let one hound try to climb up to her and she intended to break its neck.

  St. Just, the king of the crows, who had been shadowing them, perched in a poplar, leaves yellow.

  “Leave it!” Shaker commanded.

  “I’m not afraid!” Dragon, in frustration, yelped.

  “Haven’t you learned anything?” Archie said in disgust.

  “Obey!” Cora commanded.

  Dragon shut up, glowering.

  Hearing Sister, Shaker cupped his hand to his mouth. “Hold there, Sister.”

  She pulled up. They could all see the lion on the rocks.

  The hounds bunched up, following Shaker. Betty rode under the mountain lion’s snarl.

  “I don’t like you either,” Outlaw sassed.

  Instead of going in front of the pack, Douglas made sure that Betty got out safely and every hound was out. Then he and Rickyroo trotted away as the big cat let out a spine-tingling roar. Spooked Rickyroo.

  “I wouldn’t have missed this day for anything in the world,” Martha said.

  “Me neither.” Walter took off his cap, wiping his brow. Chilly as it was, the run and the fear made him sweat.

  “Staff, please,” Sister called out.

  The little field moved over so Shaker, the hounds, Doug, and Betty could ride through. Hounds always had the right of way, with staff next. Field members turned their horses around so they faced the staff. One never turned a horse’s butt toward a passing staff member.

  “Ma’am?” Shaker drew alongside of Sister, his horn tucked between the top two buttons of his jacket.

  “A leisurely trail ride back to the trailers, I think.”

  “Good.” He wiped his hands on his britches. The reins were slippery. “It’s been years since we ran a cat.”

  “She’ll have a tale to tell her friends and so will we.”

  Flying alongside the hounds, St. Just cawed, “Not bad for cubbing.”

  “Where have you been?” Cora inquired. She liked St. Just, who often acted as aerial reconnaissance for the hounds—so great was her hatred of Target, in particular, and red foxes in general.

  Most crows disliked foxes but ever since Target had killed St. Just’s mate this dislike had turned into a vendetta.

  “I’ve been preparing my nest for winter. Going to be a cold winter.”

  The humans noticed the crow flying overhead, then peeling off. While they couldn’t understand what was communicated, the staff members knew if scent was bad and crows were circling and cawing, often hounds would find a line.

  The sky deepened to gunmetal gray. Sister remembered the Reaper on Hangman’s Ridge. She didn’t know why that incident popped into her head.

  They rode toward the trailers visible now at Foxglove Farm.

  Walter rode up alongside the master. “Is it always like this?”

  “Sure.” She smiled.

  CHAPTER 22

  Candles floated across the carp pond, which pleased Fontaine but not the carp. Although the evening remained as rainy as the day, the candles, housed in small lanterns in clever boats, kept their flames. Fontaine’s house, built in 1819, exuded serene Federal appeal. Over the years a wing was added here or there but the successive owners never lost the simplicity of design so central to the Federal period. The carp pond anchored the back left corner of his spring garden, mulched and tidied for the coming winter. The fall gardens shouted color from zinnias, mums, holly bushes, and shiny-leafed bay bushes. The sudden turn in the weather meant those loud colors had perhaps a day or two before they faded, giving way to the silvers, grays, beiges, and whites of that most stringent season.

  The foliage, nearing its peak, offered a contrast to the rain. If tomorrow proved as clear as the weatherman promised, the giant oak in the front lawn would be an orange almost neon in brightness.

  Sorrel Buruss, on the board of the historical society, had arranged this dinner party. Fontaine, unlike many men, loved preparing for a party. So many house chores, piling up over the weeks then months, were accomplished in the frantic rush to get everything shipshape before guests arrived.

  Thirty people, black-tie, laughed, reached for canapés off silver serving trays, enjoyed Cristal champagne as opposed to the cheap champagnes so often foisted off on guests at these dos.

  Sister chatted with the president of the university. The Franklins made a point of introducing Walter Lungrun to the movers and shakers of the community. Walter had been away for almost ten years. His family, being poor, was not social so he needed to meet people. Also, in those ten years, many new people had moved into the area. Fontaine invited him at the last minute, which gave him as much pleasure as he took in not inviting Crawford.

  Given the people attending this soiree, Crawford seethed but he was plotting his parry even as the assembled were shepherded into the dining room, a phenomenal shade of cerise with linen-white trim. Only Sorrel could have thought of such a color, which in the glow of the candelabra and wall sconces was fabulous. Sorrel believed anyone having a dinner party using electric lighting was an infidel.

  The Heart Fund dinner and dance, headed by Crawford, would trump this, or at least Crawford Howard hoped it would. He’d hired the best dance orchestra in the country and was transporting all of them to Virginia at his own expense. The Heart Fund would have been better served had he just given the medical charity the forty thousand dollars he would spend on the orchestra. But then these fund-raisers were about far more than raising money for the charity.

  Sister Jane sat at Fontaine’s right and the president of the university sat at Sorrel’s right. Even if Fontaine hadn’t wanted to be joint-master, the seating arrangement would have been the same. The president, powerful as he was, was transient. Sister Jane was permanent.

  Sister observed Sorrel shining in a turquoise sheath dress, one shoulder exposed. The color, set off by the dining room walls, made Sorrel the center of attraction.

  She
probably would have been regardless, for she possessed a seemingly effortless elegance and a ladylike sense of decorum. Sorrel’s blond hair carried a few streaks of gray, which somehow made her even more appealing. Even Sorrel must bow to the vulnerability of age.

  Sister had bowed to it emotionally years ago but she wouldn’t give an inch physically.

  Sorrel, a Richmond girl, could have married many a fine fellow but Fontaine, carefree, bursting with obvious mascu-linity, won her heart. That he still held it said a great deal about his wife’s perseverance as well as Fontaine’s own qualities, which perhaps he shared only with her. She knew about the other women. She didn’t always know who they were but she knew. Since she viewed passion as a danger and not a delight, Sorrel had little desire to retaliate. As long as appearances were maintained, the children protected, she closed her eyes.

  Fontaine’s foolishness with money caused her much more concern. But tonight none of that was apparent.

  A harpist played after dinner. Real Cuban cigars, not fakes, were offered to the gentlemen in the smoking room. The ladies retired to a drawing room, relieved of the burden of supporting male egos.

  The men felt the same way, although they wouldn’t have put it in terms of supporting female egos, only that paying court to women was tiring. That rigid law of southern life, women must be flattered, could try a man’s patience as well as his imagination.

  Fontaine racked up the balls on the pool table. Bobby, Walter, and the university president reached for their cues. The other men sat along the park benches against the wall, wait-ing for their turn. Four fellows dealt cards over the inlaid-wood card table, the monogrammed chips in neat stacks by each player’s right hand.

  Bobby won the toss and broke. Brightly colored balls ricocheted everywhere. He socked away one, two, and three but just missed putting the fourth ball in the pocket. Walter took over, bending his muscular frame. As Fontaine watched the young man fire away he was glad he hadn’t bet more than five dollars on this game. Walter was too good.

  Fontaine leaned into Bobby as they observed Walter’s deft touch.