Out of Hounds Page 7

  Both jumped at the chance. So there they were on the left side, perhaps the tiniest bit apprehensive but also excited after that brief run. The whippers-in usually have the best seat in the house.

  Weevil, none too familiar with this fixture, checked the wind, perhaps eight miles per hour. Not a problem but not a help either. So he called the hounds to him then slipped over the slight rise in this pasture down toward the woods.

  “Get ’em up. Get ’em up,” he called in a singsong voice. Dragon, out today, moved away from the pack.

  “Dragon,” Weevil called, for Dragon could hit a lick before you knew it, and he was right, but too far in front.

  Keeping hounds together takes training. It’s not that a huntsman minds them in a line or even frets over some few hounds who will fan out a bit at the edges. If you know your hounds, you know who is young, needing more time, who knows the game. The young ones learn if encouraged.

  If you don’t trust your hounds, don’t hunt them. Sister had that drilled into her by the late Peter Wheeler, a dear old friend, and a hunter of decades. Peter had hunted with the great Dicky Bywaters, as well as the Poe brothers, Fred Duncan, the greats of Virginia. He also had the pleasure of hunting behind the young Tommy Lee Jones, now in his fiftieth year hunting Casanova’s hounds. Peter would knit his eyebrows together, fuss at Sister, “I’ll make a foxhunter out of you yet.”

  She loved him. Who didn’t?

  She trusted her hounds and she trusted Weevil, young though he was. Weevil possessed a sure light touch with the intelligent, loving animals. He loved the hounds and this was returned. Weevil was the one with the higher view, the good eyes. He had to borrow four legs. Hounds knew on two he was unfortunately slow and they knew his nose wasn’t worth a damn. Well, their noses were superb. So they made a good team. They wanted the same thing: to chase foxes.

  Dragon hit. “Red.”

  Fifteen couples, out today, put their noses down at the spot, roared, shooting into the woods.

  Sister found a decent trail. The last time the club had been here was cubbing on a luscious October day, but the winds since then had knocked down trees, some big ones, so it was an obstacle course.

  Betty, on the right, memorized territory after one visit. If she’d been dropped onto a fixture of Deep Run’s outside of Richmond that she’d hunted as a guest in the 1980s, Betty would know exactly where she was. Uncanny.

  Kasmir pushed into a narrow deer trail. Riding Nighthawk, a horse he had bought years ago from the late Faye Spencer, he stopped, listened. The music ricocheted off the trees. Alida, behind him, noticed a flash out of the corner of her eye.

  “Tally-ho,” she softly alerted Kasmir.

  Kasmir turned to see the direction in which she was holding her cap. What he saw was the butt of a coyote, a big one.

  Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, “Tally-ho!”

  Weevil heard him but did not interfere with his hounds running in the opposite direction. Sure enough, they paused fifty yards into the woods, furiously working, they turned left, south, to head in the direction where Kasmir and Alida stood fast.

  Within a few minutes, battling low branches, Weevil appeared, hounds streaming before him. Alida had her cap outstretched.

  “Coyote,” Kasmir called out and Weevil nodded back.

  Then the two newly recruited whippers-in moved farther to the left, charging forward as best they could.

  Clever as a fox is, a coyote is not stupid. This fellow vaulted over tree trunks then dipped over an odd embankment that once was part of a man-made irrigation canal, dug during the Depression by the CCC. While it wasn’t steep, horses would need to jump the canal, which was two feet deep, perhaps as wide.

  Sister on Lafayette soared. Never look down. She did not.

  This, however, did not apply to Dr. Walter Lungren, her joint master, out today on his day off from the hospital. He didn’t throw his wonderful partner, Clemson, off but he threw himself off.

  Father Mancusco, behind him, hollered, “Lay flat!”

  In this manner, Walter could observe the bellies of the horses in the field. Once they had passed he scrambled out, mud on his right side, mud on his cap, which had flown off.

  “Thank you.”

  Freddie Thomas, a good rider, stayed back, caught Clemson, who was in no hurry. Holding the sweet mare, she waited while Walter found a tree trunk, lots to chose from, stood on it, easily mounting.

  “You tight in the tack?”

  “Yes.” Walter smiled at the attractive Freddie.

  “We’ve got a lot of ground to make up.”

  They tore off just as the coyote broke cover at the edge of the woods, abutting property filled with old cars, rusted bedstands, plastic barrels.

  Skirting this mess, the coyote came out behind it, turning back onto the Chafee’s Welsh Harp. Again he used the woods, but this time followed a wide stream. Hounds sang in tune.

  Fast though they were despite the difficult terrain, he knew he was faster. Making a tight circle he then headed back toward the small unused barn behind the house, burst past that, now flying due east, straight as a stick.

  Hounds came out onto the pasture just as he disappeared at the other end of it. Staff and the field saw the entire pack running together, a sight which foxhunters love. A few of the older hounds now ran tail but they weren’t out of the pack, simply at the rear. Again they plunged into heavy cover then stopped.

  “Dammit!” Dreamboat cursed.

  Tinsel, a young fellow, tried not to go to the deer carcass, but what was left of it still emanated that heavenly smell to a hound.

  “Leave it!” Betty rode over.

  “Okay.” Tinsel dropped his head.

  Weevil pulled them away from the enticement. “Did you see him?”

  Weevil’s eyes followed her as she held out her crop in the direction of the coyote. Betty, long a whipper-in, knew no good would come from this. Coyotes take you right out of your territory a lot. They charged on to Showoff Stables.

  The pack also ran behind the luxurious stable, then lost the line by the tractor shed complete with gas pumps. That powerful gas smell covers many an odor. They circled, noses down, trying so diligently as Parker Bell, red-faced, charged out from the end of the stable.

  “What in the goddamned hell do you think you’re doing?” he screamed at Weevil. “Get these damned dogs out of here before I shoot them.”

  Weevil put his horn to his lips, blew three equal blasts, then sang out, “Come along.”

  As he did so, Kasmir and Betty moved, now between the paddocks, to help him.

  Seeing them, Parker bellowed, “Get out. Get out. You’ve got the horses farted up. If there’s one scratch on any of these horses, you all are paying for it! Mr. Sabatini sues people for sport.”

  Alida rode back to Sister. “Kasmir said to stay away. So I’m coming to you.”

  “He’s right. The last thing that idiot needs is an audience. Forgive the crude language.”

  Hounds, loathe to surrender their search, did return to the horn one by one. Trinity, a sweet little fellow, veered too close to Parker, who kicked him. That fast Weevil dismounted, knelt down to pick up the hound, and Parker kicked him. Weevil rolled over.

  Kasmir vaulted off Nighthawk. Middle-aged, a touch of a paunch, he hauled off and hit Parker smack in the face.

  “You goddamned Arab!” Parker punched back.

  “Goddamned Muslim,” Kasmir responded as Parker insulted him, then punched the worker in the gut.

  While Kasmir may have been past his prime, he had boxed at Oxford. He was actually enjoying this so he crashed his right fist into Parker’s jaw when the large man doubled over.

  Weevil, holding Trinity, frightened but unharmed, handed the sweet fellow up to Betty, who draped him over her saddle.

  “It�
�s all right, sweetie. I’ll put you down in a minute,” she reassured the trembling animal.

  A distant siren preceded the cursing. Alida had called the Sheriff’s department just in case. Ben Sidell drove down the main entrance, lights flashing, which of course caused more equine consternation. He cut the motor, got out, beheld Parker struggling to his feet, Kasmir standing over him.

  “Sheriff,” Kasmir simply said.

  “Trespassers! Trespassers!” Parker unsteadily stood up. “Goddamned hounds ran through here. These assholes ran through here. I want them charged with trespassing.”

  The sheriff, calm as always, handed him an envelope, which he’d pulled from his pocket. “The Goodloe law. These people have the right to come onto this property to retrieve hounds. It’s the law in Virginia.”

  “My boss will change that. He can buy you and sell you.”

  Kasmir just smiled, for this field hand, which is how he thought of him, had no idea who he was or what he was worth.

  “Here comes your boss now,” Ben remarked as Sabatini strode from his house. He did not look angry but he did look concerned.

  Ben snatched the papers from Parker, held out his hand to shake Gigi’s, and with his left hand gave him the Goodloe law.

  “Mr. Sabatini, I had hoped to call on you, but not in this fashion.”

  “Scared the horses,” Parker sputtered, although it was dawning on him that this was not going to be an ordinary tribulation.

  “Are you all right?” Betty asked Weevil, who nodded he was.

  “Given the uproar, Sheriff, if you will permit me, I’d like to get the hounds out of here. For the record, this oaf kicked Trinity.”

  Gigi, whip smart, knew the minute the name was spoken that the sheriff also knew the hound. While he was not happy that a pack of hounds had roared over his farm, he was shrewd enough to not wish to make an enemy of the sheriff. These hunting people had pull. He was the new guy in town. New guy with a big ego, but he was smart.

  “Yes, go on, huntsman. Before you go, do you wish to bring charges concerning the hound?”

  Parker’s face was now purple.

  “No, Sir, I just want to leave.” As Weevil mounted, Parker’s dirty footprint on his side was visible.

  Ben looked from Weevil to Parker to Gigi. “Mr. Sabatini, this place is beautiful. I can understand your concerns and I know that Jefferson Hunt did not willingly come onto your property. Hounds can’t read. If the scent is strong they will follow it. I’m sure the masters of the hunt will call upon you to secure any damages, should there be any. I realize you’ve come from New York,” Ben had the information before he drove down the driveway thanks to a terrific staff, “and I hope you learn to like it here. You should know that foxhunting is the state sport of Virginia and the foxhound is the state dog. I’ve given you the Goodloe law, which will make clear the rights of hound owners. I do hope this settles things.” He touched his cap, got into the squad car, and slowly drove out.

  Parker bawled his innocence but Gigi turned his back on him without reply. He had some things to think over, one of which was Parker’s behavior. Gigi hired ex-cons. They were grateful and they were cheap. Unfortunately he had other things to worry about than foxhunters, but he did not want people hunting over his land.

  Hounds reached Sister, the field, the woods behind.

  “Master?” Weevil said.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, for they all saw him get a hard kick.

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Weevil, you showed extraordinary discipline and I thank you.”

  Kasmir, touching his cap with his crop, apologized. “Master, I fear I evidenced no such discipline. That lout kicked a hound.”

  Weevil piped up. “He called Kasmir a goddamned Arab.”

  “I corrected him.” Kasmir grinned mischievously.

  Alida, now alongside him to ride back, said as they moved off, “Honey, you let him have it.”

  “If he had insulted you, my dear, he would now have no teeth.”

  She smiled, reached over to touch his arm as they walked the hounds back.

  Once hounds were loaded, the small field of twelve, horses tied to trailer sides, hay bags also tied to trailer side, grabbed their food baskets and folding chairs to sit by the tailgate. Everyone poured over the scene.

  Walter sat next to Sister. “We’d better get over there.”

  “Something tells me that fellow who I met at Kathleen’s opening will do better with another man. I’ll come along, naturally, but you carry the ball. I am sorry. None of us ever wants to run over territory we don’t have permission to hunt, and in a way, Walter, we are at fault. We knew a big show stable was coming in here but we didn’t come by before hunt season.”

  “Two reasons: One, we have never had a run like that from Welsh Harp in this direction. It’s always west. And two, this place is now finally open and in business. Was over a year in construction.”

  “Seeing it, I can understand why.” She took a deep draft of a hot tea handed to her by Betty, who also plopped down.

  “Trinity is fine. Poor little guy.” Betty sighed. “What’s wrong with people?”

  “What’s always been wrong with people,” Father Mancusco offered. “We are all God’s creatures and they don’t respect that.”

  Kasmir and Alida joined them. He came in for a ribbing but everyone was impressed.

  “So, Kasmir, they didn’t have anger management training at Oxford?” Walter teased.

  “Oh, Walter, I’m so old, they didn’t even teach psychology,” he teased back.

  “Do they now?” Walter asked.

  “I actually don’t know. I will say, no offense to your university system, that studying with a don made me come up to the mark. I had nowhere to hide. Oh, plenty of fellows didn’t study, their families pouring money into the various colleges at Oxford, but I knew I had this one chance to learn before life filled up with obligations.”

  “You obviously learned.” Sister adored him.

  “I did.” Kasmir stretched out his legs.

  Alida changed the subject. “How about another Munnings painting being stolen?”

  “Maybe it’s a coincidence,” Betty remarked.

  “Those paintings, the smaller, are worth between six hundred thousand and eight hundred thousand. The big ones are worth millions, as in three or four million.” Kasmir had become familiar with Munnings’s work when he studied and lived in England, for so many of them are still there. His estate is a museum, The Munnings Art Museum.

  “Sidesaddle,” Alida added.

  “So elegant. So feminine.” Sister smiled.

  “We all look pretty elegant right now.” Walter grinned. “Of course, you ladies look better.”

  “Right thing to say.” Betty laughed.

  CHAPTER 9

  February 14, 2020 Friday

  Standing in the bucket, lifted high up, Melvin Willis, called Willis, maneuvered the connector for the heavy optical fiber wire. The late-afternoon sun lent a shimmer almost blinding if one faced it. Oddly shaped, not quite round and not quite elliptical. The connection was necessary, as the high-speed fibers, thicker and heavier than an old normal telephone wire, had to be properly secured.

  Broadband finally edged its way into rural areas. Two presidents had promised it. Nothing, but now Firefly, in cooperation with Central Virginia Electrical Cooperative, took on the task.

  Heavy equipment sat by the road, tipped a bit inward as the roads, narrow, were not banked like city roads. The estimate that this would be finished by March was proving too optimistic. The territory alone would give people fits: ravines, swift-running creeks, larger feeders to the great Virginia rivers…in this case, the James ultimately and the actual foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. No matter how closely one read the topographical maps or checked with GPS, not
hing truly prepared the man in the field for what he would encounter.

  In this case it was a small pack of feral pigs. Willis watched as his crewmates ran for the cabs of their trucks. Until pigs could fly he would be safe. Glad of his perch he watched the small far group trot across Old Randolph Road and head into the woods. From the opposite direction a coyote slunk out of the woods…yesterday’s coyote, as Willis and the boys sat between Welsh Harp and Showoff Stables.

  The expanse of Showoff Stables impressed even nonhorse people. A center stable, as long as a football field, sat in the middle of a manicured field and a sensible driveway with a big circle for trailers.

  The stable, two stories high, sported a wide center aisle with brick laid in a herringbone pattern. The stalls, open to the top, sat under a high catwalk, used to crank open a row of windows along the roofline. In good weather, fresh air flowed easily throughout the structure. Each stall’s outside door, a Dutch door, could also be opened for fresh air. In the exact center of this long building a cross aisle led to the huge indoor arena. One had only to saddle up, walk into the arena in any kind of weather, and work one’s horse or take a lesson.

  Behind this structure an equivalently sized outdoor arena, a roof overhead but open otherwise, was another place to work your horse or take a lesson. Around all the large paddocks, three-board fences were white and now without lead in the paint, which meant you needed to paint them about every three years. Two if you were fussy.

  Wide walkway between each paddock meant the horses couldn’t reach over and bite another horse. Most of the paddocks contained three or four horses, all of whom got along. Every paddock contained its group of friends. The walkway kept the peace.

  Every paddock had a run-shed, which the horses could repair to in bad weather. But horses having an odd sense of weather as well as humor often happily stood out in a driving rain. You never knew why.

  Around this, more open pastures met the eye, not yet greening up. Too early, but when spring finally did come the place would glow emerald green. Woods covered the remainder of the two-hundred-acre place, these being filled with trails, and some of these trails had natural jumps.