Fox Tracks (27 page)

Tears flowed from Sister’s eyes because of the cold and the pace. The hounds reached the end of Little Dalby, and leapt the Ha-Ha fence into Beveridge Hundred.

Trusting Rickyroo, she relaxed her hands, sank a little in the saddle and slid her leg just a tiny bit forward for insurance. Easy for the rangy Thoroughbred, the ditch was cleared, then Rickyroo hit the ground on the other side and, without taking a step, soared over the hedge.

Sister thought,
Nice bounce jump
.

Some behind her thought otherwise. Four people skidded into the ditch, misjudging the distance and the width. Two of them added insult to injury by overriding their horses. The horses, no dummies, hadn’t fallen to their knees or on their sides; they turned and started down the ditch. The riders laid flat on their horses’ necks because people behind were still taking the Ha-Ha fence. Once committed to a fence like that, a rider really couldn’t pull up. Not going for it could prove even more dangerous.

Once everyone was over, one of the riders tried to scramble out, but the bank caved in. She had no choice but to ride in the ditch.

Loath to waste time, Second Flight master Bobby Franklin stopped his horse down on the state road and called to the four to hurry up; they could get out down by the culvert.

At last, they scrambled from the ditch with difficulty. Bobby moved on. He hated to lose the First Flight. If they ducked into a woods or headed west into really thick woods, he’d have a devil of a time finding them until Shaker blew his horn. Best to keep them in sight.

On a vigorous hunt, one by one, the horses sorted out according to breed and conditioning. The best-conditioned Thoroughbreds stayed right up front. The appendix horses—half Thoroughbreds, half quarter horses—galloped with the forward group, often right behind the Thoroughbreds. The rest of First Flight hung about thirty yards behind, but today the gap was widening. One superb half draft horse blew along with the Thoroughbreds.

They crossed Beveridge Hundred in fifteen minutes, jumping mostly log jumps, solid and well set. Then they charged into the grounds of Old Paradise.

So far this had been an eight-mile point or run.

Roger, the fox, ran flat out over the frozen ground, which sparkled white and pink as sunlight touched the frost. The rolling hills created temperature systems all their own. He ran nine miles, ten miles, and then he and the pack as one cut sharply left, heading straight for the faded grandeur of Old Paradise itself.

In the distance, the massive barn came into view. Beyond that, the house’s white Corinthian columns glistened as the sun struck them.

Shaker—up with his hounds, Hojo having one of the best days of his equine life—couldn’t yell encouragement anymore. The cold made blowing on the horn nasty because his lips would stick. His voice was giving out, but no matter. The pack was all on.

Closer and closer they came to the barn. Three hundred yards. Two hundred yards. One hundred yards. The fox dove under the side into his den, with hounds closing at fifty yards.

Before the hounds reached the barn, a blast hit a large tree behind Shaker as he barreled forward. Another shot rang out. The hounds stopped. Gunshots would usually stop them. Confused, they ran to Shaker.

“Good hounds. Good hounds.”

“What did we do wrong?”
Diddy whined.

“Good hounds, well done, come with me,” Shaker said in a pleasant voice as yet another blast sprayed the branches overhead.

Shaker turned and met Sister, who stopped with six riders remaining close to her.

On the other side of the barn, Betty heard the shotgun. She knew it was coming from the hayloft, but whoever it was had opened the high hayloft door a crack, fired, then closed it. She saw no truck or vehicle nearby, but she couldn’t well look. She also turned to ride on the side of the hounds.

Sybil did likewise.

Sister wasted no words. “Let’s get out of here.”

They trotted back a mile, then walked. From where they picked up the fox’s scent to the shotgun blast had been twelve miles.

Inside the barn, the fox, Roger, heard footfalls coming down the ladder. Once he’d climbed in from his entrance outside, he stayed in his stall. Breathing hard, he desperately wanted the human to go away. A truck was parked inside the barn, and the human got in it, started it up, then turned it off. A minute later, he jumped out of the truck and left by the barn’s side door.

The barn owl fluttered down to Roger’s stall door.

“Jesus!”
Roger caught his breath.

“Do you know there’s a Jesus lizard?”
The barn owl turned her head almost upside down.

“Dear God,”
was all Roger could muster.

The rear of First Flight and all of Second hadn’t witnessed the halt of the hounds’ approach, but everyone heard the shotgun blast.

Sister called to Shaker. She was worried about the hounds. “Let’s get them back and check them out.”

“I don’t think anyone is hit.” Sybil called from her side. “We’d have heard a yelp.”

“That son of a bitch put someone up there.” Sister swore. “Crawford had to have done it.”

“Maybe,” Betty called over. “But what are the chances of a run like that all the way from Little Dalby? Who would expect such a thing? It makes sense if the fixture is Tattenhall Station, but Little Dalby?”

Sister was so angry she couldn’t think straight. “How do we know he hasn’t paid someone to quote ‘manage’ the farm since the DuCharmes aren’t doing it? It’s his fixture now.”

“We don’t,” Shaker replied simply.

“We have a right to follow the hunted fox into another hunt’s territory,” Sybil responded, close to the hounds on her side.

Shaker shrugged. “What good does that do when you’re dealing with an outlaw pack?”

“I’m going to drive over to that SOB’s farm and—”

As only an old friend can, Betty said, “Janie, no, you’re not. Let’s get to the bottom of this first. Then we can handle it. Right now, I’m glad no one is hurt.”

Calming down, Sister pursed her lips. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”

“So, we’re not in trouble?”
Diddy asked.

“No, we’re not,”
Diana replied.

“But there is trouble.”
Giorgio had hated the sound of that shotgun.

As they rode back to the trailers, they picked up people who had fallen off, pulled up, thrown a shoe, or just couldn’t keep up. The group was buzzing.

Back at the trailers, Shaker blew his horn for the riders to be silent.

Sister’s voice carried. She said, “This was an unfortunate incident but, as Betty said to me riding back, we are lucky no one was hurt, horse nor hound. I would appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourselves. First, I must inform my joint-master. As you know, Old Paradise isn’t our fixture anymore. So Walter and I need to discuss this incident with the DuCharmes, and then with Crawford. We need to find out who fired that shotgun. You can’t fault hounds for doing their job and that was one of the best runs we’ve had this season. So please, keep this to yourselves.”

They didn’t. Human nature being what it is, a few people almost immediately phoned their best friends and swore them to secrecy. Those best friends called more best friends.

Finally, someone called Crawford.

Sister, Betty, Shaker, and Tootie had done all the chores, which took longer after such an intense hunt. Their legs proved a little more tired than they’d realized during the energetic ride. All four of them had just emerged in front of the kennels when Crawford’s red Mercedes roared up Sister’s driveway.

Seeing them, he slammed on his brakes, bolted out of the car, shouting at the top of his lungs before he even closed the door.

He strode toward Sister. “Goddamn you, accusing me of shooting at your worthless hounds.”

She marched toward him and, without saying a word to one another, the three staff members came up right behind her.

He shook his finger in her face. “I’ll sue you. I’ll sue you goddamned snotty Virginian for libel.”

“I haven’t libeled you.”

He vented more, providing lurid details from a phone conversation, in which he refused to identify the caller who swore Sister said he hired someone to keep Jefferson Hunt off Old Paradise. Isn’t that always the way?

The more he recounted what he had heard, the hotter Crawford got.

When at last he had to pause to draw breath, Sister, unblinking, replied, “I said no such thing. I asked people to keep this quiet until we could investigate, and the first people I wished to call were the DuCharmes.”

“But that’s not what I heard,” said Crawford.

“That is what I said.”

“She did,” Betty seconded Sister forthrightly, and so did Shaker and Tootie.

“But since you are standing here,” said Sister, “I will ask you: Have you hired someone to keep us off Old Paradise?”

“Of course not,” he answered, still in a huff. “No. I don’t want you there, but I’m not going to shoot you.”

“All right then, you do know that under the Masters of Foxhounds Association rules, we have the right to stay on our hunted fox if that fox runs into your territory, the territory of any hunt?”

Face again red, he spit out, “I don’t give a damn what the MFHA says. A bunch of snobs. Not one of them can make a dime. They all inherited it.”

This was not true, but Sister knew little good would come of defending the MFHA, an organization with a big job.

“But you must understand we had to stay with our hounds,” Sister persisted.

“I don’t give a damn about your hounds,” said Crawford. “I don’t want to be accused of shooting at people. What do you think I was doing? Sitting up there in the hayloft? It’s absurd!”

“Someone was in that hayloft,” said Sister.

Tootie spoke up, which surprised Crawford. “Mr. Howard, is it possible someone wants you and Sister at each other’s throats?”

“I— Why?”

“I don’t know.” Sister looked straight in Crawford’s eyes. “This incident may have nothing to do with hunting. People jump to conclusions, and I confess my first thought was that you had hired a patrol. As I considered it, that seems absurd.”

“Of course, it’s ridiculous.”

“Nonetheless, we were shot at. Three blasts from a high-powered shotgun. Sounded like a twelve gauge. Someone doesn’t want us on Old Paradise.”

“Well, I am going to be hunting there on Saturday. Maybe they don’t want me there either.”

A long pause followed. Crawford had calmed down.

Very quietly, Sister said, “I would be careful then.”

A
fter lunch with the girls, Shaker returned to his house for a hot shower. He needed to get the kinks out. Meanwhile, Sister, Betty, and Tootie, still in boots and britches, lingered at Sister’s kitchen table, which Tootie had cleared, putting the dishes in the dishwasher. The dogs gathered below, and Golly watched from her gel pad, now a permanent fixture on the kitchen counter.

Sister was drawing on a notebook page as Betty looked on. “Good thing you didn’t major in art,” Betty cracked.

“Good thing you never went into politics.”

Tootie smiled, wondering if she and Val would wind up like those two: teasing, prodding, bedeviling each other while offering total support. Right now Val wasn’t offering much support. She texted every day ordering Tootie to return to Princeton, filling her in on all the details of everything she was missing.

“That’s the best I can do,” Sister said, giving up. “Tootie, you try.”

Tootie sat back down, took the proffered pencil and the notebook pushed in front of her. She stared at Sister’s sketch.

“You’ve got it,” said Tootie. “It’s just out of proportion.”

Sister poked Betty. “See.”

A minute or two later, Tootie gave the notebook back to Sister. Betty studied her simple drawing.

Pencil now in hand, Sister pointed to the drawing: a square, inside of which was a solid blue soaring bald eagle, head and neck white outlined in blue. It was a strong graphic. Underneath the eagle was a straight thick blue line to indicate water. Curved over the top of this was “American” and underneath was “Smokes” in red.

“Red, white, and blue.” Betty shrugged. “Basic, but we get the message.”

“Okay, can you print this up, Betty? Tootie has the proportions correct, yes?”

“Sure.” Betty was intrigued. “Tell me why I’m printing this up and how many?”

“A pack of American Smokes was placed on the chest of each victim. What Tootie and I saw was a cellophane soft pack, white with this picture on front. I don’t really remember if the pack itself was printed, or if this brand name was a square piece of paper slipped into the front of the cellophane covering the pack.” Sister looked at Tootie, who nodded in affirmation.

“Tell me exactly what you want me to print up.” Betty knew she’d have to clean up the graphic, but that would be easy with her equipment.

“Make me a sheet of squares,” said Sister. “Only need, say, eight. We can cut the squares and slip them into packs of cigarettes. From far away, well, not too far, say three feet or so, the pack will look like American Smokes.”

“Why in the devil do you want to do that?” asked Betty.

“We’re dealing with contraband cigarettes, right?”

“It appears so.” Betty again studied the drawing.

“So, I will carry a pack, and I’ll see if Gray will, too, as he’s always offering cigarettes to others. We just might bolt our fox out of his den.”

“That is flat-out lunacy,” said Betty. “For one thing, you don’t know that the criminals operate out of our county.”

Sister held up her hand. “I expect this covers Virginia and North Carolina. Don’t know about Kentucky, but this has got to be a fairly big operation. No, we don’t grow the stuff in our county, but after standing in Walter’s shed I’ve got a hunch our county is a storage center. Look on a map. Virginia is smack in the middle of the original thirteen colonies. And just north of the Mason–Dixon line are those states with the highest cigarette taxes. Head west, you reach Illinois, another heavily taxed state.”

The two other women thought a bit about this.

Tootie then said, “We are at the edge of what was once great tobacco country and we’re what, two hours from North Carolina? So it’s grown, cured, aged, right?” The two women nodded. “Then shredded and rolled.”