Out of Hounds Page 8

  An office, semidetached, anchored the south side of the large stable. A covered walkway connected it to the stalls, for this way foot traffic could be controlled, keep owners at the stable. The main house could be seen in the distance, large yet simple. The design fit into the board and batten of all the wooden buildings, as did the color scheme, a deep mustard yellow with Charleston green shutters. The outbuildings all had white frames for windows but Charleston green doors, and if shutters, Charleston green.

  All the supporting outbuildings echoed this color combination.

  This color scheme flowed from generation to generation. Whether it came from England originally no one knew, but it was common in this New World. Hanover Shoe Farms, founded in the late nineteenth century then transformed in the early 1900s, used it for their Standardbred breeding operations.

  The yellow was lighter than Showoff Stables.

  One could find the colors in Maryland; Upstate New York; Lexington, Kentucky. Wherever there was a large population of horse people, this would occur.

  Given that the trees with the exception of evergreens were denuded, the mustard yellow helped one focus. A wheelbarrow next to an equipment shed could easily be seen.

  Willis, once the support ellipse was secured, took a moment to admire the setting. Down below, to the side of the outdoor arena, a small building, he didn’t know what it was for, had the door open. Squinting, it looked like a person’s gloved hand on the ground. Given the position of the door, he couldn’t be sure what he was seeing.

  Intensely watching this hand, he counted to himself. After he reached sixty he thought he’d better hit the walkie-talkie and tell Foster to bring him down.

  “Done.”

  “Roger.” Foster began to lower the high bucket. Once down, Willis lifted one leg out then the other. “Foster, take a minute. Come with me.”

  “Yeah, sure.” The young man with his four-day stubble cut the motor, wrapped his scarf tighter, opened the door, his feet touching the ground as he reached for his gloves in his pockets.

  “Got your cellphone?”

  Foster replied, “Always have my cellphone. You guys couldn’t work without me.”

  “Right.” Willis, now in the middle of the beige pea-gravel road, head down, walked fast.

  “Slow down.”

  “Speed up. Something’s not right.”

  “Willis, everything’s fine. All the markers are set. We won’t have trouble digging the cable from this point. Everybody wants stuff underground. Yeah, well, it doesn’t last but so long. They’ll have to dig it up again.”

  “Thirty years from now. Hey, maybe forty. Nobody really knows. Come on, Foster. Quit dragging your ass.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Willis reached the outdoor arena; moving with purpose, he reached the shed. “Shit.”

  Foster, now beside him, looked down at a large man, forties at the most, arm outstretched. This was the hand that Willis had seen. “Jeez.”

  The man, lumberjack cap over red hair, eyes to the sky, had been strangled with a Fennell’s lead shank.

  Willis tersely ordered Foster, “Call 911.”

  Kneeling down, Willis didn’t touch the corpse. It seemed to him the man had not fought for his life. Perhaps his attacker was too experienced.

  CHAPTER 10

  February 15, 2020 Saturday

  Hortensia, snug in the big hay shed at Mill Ruins, Walter Lungren’s place, listened to chatter far away. Her ears, sensitive, could hear sounds at a distance, which humans’ could not. The rumble of rigs crunching stone as they rolled down the long drive alerted her to this Saturday’s hunt. Walter put out food for the foxes at Mill Ruins, there were four in constant residence but others passed through. As it was breeding season, many a male shot through chased by James, the old red behind the mill, or Ewald, a younger red, who cleverly made a den under the back porch of the house. He also had another one at a more distant outbuilding. The house den, close to the smells of the kitchen, kept Ewald happy. Sometimes the other foxes would come by to investigate the garbage or whatever Walter threw out, but Ewald snatched up first pick being right there.

  The other gray fox, the third on the property, lived acres away in the back, having a den under a large old storage building. All of the dens protected their occupants from the winds, fierce in winter. Each den had more than one entrance. There were other places to tuck in, in case of being caught unawares, that also dotted the large farm.

  Yvonne Harris followed the field, driving Aunt Daniella and Kathleen Sixt Dunbar. The “girls,” as they thought of themselves, especially liked Mill Ruins. The large waterwheel, turning, water flying off the paddles, seemed to transport them to another time, maybe a better time, or so they wished.

  The mill, heavy gray fieldstone, built after 1790, testified to the wisdom of our forebears. Built to stand for centuries, it did. The two-story structure, grinding equipment intact but unused, had served generations of settlers. Everyone needs grain, corn, wheat, oats. Freshly ground grain also brought in foxes, other creatures, eager for the leavings. Corn kernels spilled being carried into the mill, oats scattered, and ground fine flour dusted the wide-plank floors. All a fox had to do was wait until nightfall, eat what fell on the way to or from a wagon, or wiggle inside. James, the crabby red living behind the mill, constantly reminded Hortensia and Ewald that they were newcomers. He couldn’t do that to Grenville, living in the back at what’s called Shootrough, for his ancestors had lived here since the eighteenth century as well.

  Old blood was old blood, whether vulpine or human.

  Hortensia thought the whole thing silly. She liked foxhunts. She rarely gave the hounds a run but when the people left they always dropped food, even gummy bears. She loved those gummy bears.

  Once the people left, Yvonne slowly driving behind, Hortensia scurried to the trailers. Most of the riders closed their tack-room doors. A few did not, so she could pop in, rummage around. Freddie Thomas usually kept the door open. Hortensia recognized the trailers as well as the humans who owned them. She’d seen them for years. She caught a whiff of the gummy bears. Freddie’s plastic bag proved no match for Hortensia, who sat there being a pig.

  Ewald, slinking under a trailer, crawled out.

  “Boy, there are a lot of them today. Hey, sweets!”

  “The yellow ones are the best.” Hortensia fished one out.

  He jumped into the tidy tack room, a regular, heavy horse blanket lying flat in the space of the nose. Curious, he easily jumped up.

  “Nothing better than a horse blanket,” Hortensia said.

  “People sleep in these things. Some of them have living quarters, but it makes the trailer way too big, I think. Sleeping in the nose must be okay. With blankets a human can keep warm. Hey, mind if I eat a gummy bear?”

  “No. Whole bag full.” Hortensia reached in for a grape one, placing it in her mouth. Very ladylike.

  A stiff wind gust blew the door shut. The latch clicked.

  “Uh-oh.” Ewald pushed the door.

  Hortensia scratched at it. “Damn.”

  Ewald looked at her then climbed up in the nose again. “At least the hounds can’t get in here.”

  “No, but the human can,” Hortensia fretted.

  “She’ll be tired. It’s cold today, and bet you Grenville gives them a run. He likes to zigzag, cover rough territory, and see them fall off. Here’s what we do. We sit tight. If we stay perfectly still when she comes back, she won’t even know we’re here.” He slid under the blanket, only his black nose sticking out. “Come on. This is warm. She won’t be back for hours. When she turns her back we can go.”

  “You’re more hopeful than I am. I say she opens the door, sees us, and screams.”

  “You give the humans much too much credit. The last thing she will expect is two foxes in her tack room. Get under t
he blanket with me and when the door opens stay perfectly still.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Hortensia joined him.

  All one could see were two black noses sticking out from under the blanket. One would need to look for them.

  While Hortensia and Ewald snuggled in, Grenville, true to form, waited at woods’ edge. Hounds walked on the left side of the farm road while he observed on the right side. To reach him all would need to take a stout coop. He wasn’t worried. He could thread his way through the woods, giving everyone fits. He liked to hear the “Ommph” when someone hit the ground.

  Giorgio, nose to the ground, moved slowly. He’d hunted here over the years, knowing that often Grenville left a signature on pastures. However, he needed to draw the pasture he was on, not the one across the road. Had to obey his huntsman.

  Yvonne stopped to watch. “A lot of people out today.”

  “February is great if you can take the cold,” said Aunt Daniella, short heavy coat on, her legs wrapped in a plaid throw.

  Kathleen, in the back, learning about hunting, asked, “This is an old fixture. They must know where the fox is.”

  “Yes and no.” Aunt Dan watched as Tootie disappeared into the woods on the left side.

  “Sister, Weevil, and Betty, especially Betty, know where the dens are. Tootie does, too, because she started hunting Mill Ruins when she was at Custis Hall. But knowing where the dens are doesn’t mean the fox was out, may not be scent.” Yvonne had learned a lot in the last year.

  Ribbon, her Norfolk terrier, sat in her lap, keen to see everything.

  Grenville waited for hounds to reach the woodline across the farm road then he trotted into the open pasture, sat down, and waited.

  The field passed on the road. Then Second Flight passed. The sheriff was riding tail that day and he noticed a flash of red.

  Counting to twenty he called, “Tally-ho!”

  Ben turned Nonni in the direction of Grenville, now heading into the woods. His cap off, arm outstretched, he said nothing. Betty, already in the woods, jumped back out, saw Ben, then waited. Tootie stayed where she was.

  Weevil jumped the coop in the corner, crossed the road, jumped the coop into the right pasture. Sister, on Rickyroo, stopped, for she and the field were in the middle of the farm road.

  Rickyroo’s ears swiveled. Grenville waited for Weevil to clear the jump then he tore off into the woods.

  Ben kept his hand and hat steady as Betty also held out her cap.

  Weevil, seeing the direction, put hounds on what he hoped was the line. It was.

  Not a second of being tentative, all opened, leaping over, under, and through the three-board fence. Weevil took the coop in that fence line.

  Sister thought staying on the road paralleling the hounds might be the best choice. It was, but that road dropped soon enough, footing slippery. She slowed a little.

  “Well,” Yvonne muttered.

  “They’ll all back up at the stream crossing,” Aunt Daniella predicted. “Wait. If we hear hounds going away we can cross the stream, too. Shouldn’t be too high. But if not, I’d sit tight.”

  Although the stream flowed rapidly thanks to the rains and snow meltoff, the depth was only a foot. There had been times when the water rose higher than that. All the riders splashed through easily.

  Yvonne crept down as the last rider, Ron Haslip, crossed, riding tail for Second Flight, which he didn’t want to do but Bobby Franklin was desperate to give Ben Sidell a day up front.

  “All right, girls.” Yvonne put her vehicle in low gear just in case. “Any predictions, Aunt Dan?”

  The older woman opened her window, a slash of cold air right on her face. “Wind is shifting. More westerly to east than coming right down from the northwest. He’ll run with the wind at his tail.”

  “Why?” Kathleen asked.

  “Blow scent away from the hounds. If Weevil turns his hounds into the wind, the scent will carry. Foxes know this, so if their scent gets picked up they’ll zigzag to confuse the hounds. Then, too, if there’s a stiff wind they’ll use it to blow their scent yards away from its original path. They are cunning creatures.”

  “Tootie says the only creature that understands scent is the fox,” Yvonne repeated her daughter’s wisdom.

  Kathleen noted, “People seem to find a buddy or a group they stick with.”

  “Sometimes that’s due to the athletic ability of their horse. A person on a fast or long-strided horse will usually ride with like horses. Otherwise they’d need to be rating their horse,” Aunt Daniella explained.

  “I would have never thought of that,” Kathleen confessed.

  “All kinds of stuff going on out there. You can see Carter next to Buddy. Both on 16.2H, or thereabouts, Thoroughbreds. They’ll stay up front.” Yvonne was learning a lot from Tootie and Sam.

  “Buddy travels a distance to hunt here,” Kathleen noted. “He certainly pays attention to what I have in the shop when he’s here.”

  Aunt Daniella smiled wryly. “Kathleen, he’s paying attention to you.”

  A few moments passed then Kathleen said, “Doesn’t seem like it. He only chats about the pieces.”

  “Ah well, his wife died two years ago. They married out of college. I suspect he has no idea how to date now.” Aunt Daniella took a breath. “I knew them both. He’s a good fellow. Took good care of Sophia. Men have a much harder time, you know?”

  Buddy Cadwalder, tall and lean, did want to know Kathleen. Furniture gave him a reason to talk to her, overcome his shyness. Kathleen, polite and warm, seemed to have no interest in him, while other women threw themselves at him. This made her all the more fascinating. Being a man of a certain age, he wanted to make the first move but wasn’t sure of himself.

  Before Kathleen could comment Yvonne said, “Feathering. Just a few.”

  “That devil will make them work. He knows the territory. He knows the hounds. He’ll make fools out of them,” Aunt Daniella predicted.

  Grenville, comfortably ahead of the speaking pack, trotted along the stream, heading east. Hounds picked up scent but it wasn’t hot. They knew they were on but the wind at their backs created difficulties, blowing scent away from them.

  Pickens, a younger hound but not a youngster, nose down, stopped a moment. “Bobcat.”

  Diana and Dreamboat came over, touched the earth, then Dreamboat pronounced, “Not long ago.”

  “We need to stick with the fox. It’s Grenville. He’s easy to track but once he decides to run, he’ll do crazy things,” Dreamboat counseled.

  Grenville crossed back and forth over the stream, easily done, then he headed up through the woods to the Shootrough part of Mill Ruins. Broomstraw, golden and tough, covered the old abandoned pasture at the top. A rutted farm road ran alongside this, finally emerging onto a two-lane state road rarely traveled back here. A few round hay bales covered in plastic sat in two rows on the good pastures. Walter had rehabilitated the pastures on the sunny side of this part of the property, cutting good hay. The rest stayed broomstraw, which gave skunks, groundhogs, rabbits, foxes, and turkeys cover. Turkeys had been there early in the morning, for the soil was scratched to bits especially under the odd large sycamores, hickories, and black gum trees dotting the various pastures.

  Walking out of the broomstraw, Grenville heard the hounds behind him. Picking up the pace he ran in the middle of the rutted road. He could hear Yvonne motoring toward him but from a ninety-degree angle. The nose of her expensive SUV would pop out of the farm crossroads in a few minutes. He decided to go in the other direction, straight for the row of hay bales.

  Weaving through the hay bales he rubbed against them. Scent would be heavy. Then he climbed to the top, surveyed the countryside, leapt down, ran to a car so old it was abandoned in 1954. He walked through the insides, what was left of them, then he shot out, making str
aight for his den in the big storage building back there. Having time to dig entrances and exits, he was never far from a quick duck down thence upward inside, to enjoy whatever Walter had parked in this faraway building.

  Hounds worked their way across the stream, back and forth, then threaded their way through the woods, emerging into the broomstraw. Working steadily they kept moving, crossed the rutted farm road just as Yvonne drove out from the crossing farm road. She stopped the car, cut the motor.

  Hounds didn’t bother to look, they were so intent.

  “It’s a clear track but fades in and out,” Trooper remarked.

  “Wind. Not strong but tricky. It’s not staying still.” Taz inhaled deeply.

  “Shifting. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get some wind devils. You never know back here. The lay of the land, with all those swales just over the ridge there, works to his advantage,” Pookah sagely added.

  Once at the hay bales they spoke louder, for scent was stronger.

  Pickens jumped up on the hay bales, walking along the top rows. “Been here.” Then he jumped off, moved faster, all with him, and they streamed to the large storage shed.

  “He does this all the time. I hate it. Can’t get him out.” Thimble ran for the large building, found the entrance he used, began digging furiously, a plume of dirt erupting behind him.

  “You’ll never get me,” Grenville tormented him.

  “That’s what you think,” Thimble threatened.

  Weevil rode up. “Good hound. Leave it, Thimble.”

  Thimble looked up, disgusted, but he stopped digging.

  “Come along.” Weevil knew Grenville had his fun.

  Pickens followed his huntsman, as did the others.

  The tails on the back of Weevil’s cap, down, for staff wore their caps tails down, fluttered a bit. Weevil looked up, studying the sky. February played tricks. That being the case he thought all was well. The wind, not stiff, didn’t carry moisture, so with that belief he pushed down the farm road, away from the storage shed.