Sister stroked Golly’s silken fur as the cat devoured the treat.
Then she slipped on her old Barbour coat over a down vest and walked outside. The sun set so early in the winter, the long red slanting rays reaching from west to east over the rolling meadows. Her horses nickered as she passed. She looked at the broodmare, Secretary’s Shorthand, wishing the animal had caught. Secretary looked bigger than usual, but the vet had done an ultrasound two weeks after breeding, and again five weeks after the breeding. It seemed she was not in foal. But sometimes ultrasound doesn’t give the right information. Horses can fool people. Secretary was a muscular, good-looking chestnut, and Sister desperately wanted a foal from her.
She rapped on Shaker’s door.
“I know it’s you,” he called.
“ ’Tis.”
“I don’t want any. I gave at the church today.” He opened the door, then noticed her face. “What?”
“Shaker, the burned body’s cause of death was not smoke inhalation. He was dead before the flames got him but they aren’t certain yet just what happened.”
“Come on in.”
The two sat. Neither could imagine what was going on. After exhausting all theories, Sister brought up Tuesday’s hunt. It was to be held at Melton, a charming old farm.
“If the wind is up, I say we make a beeline for the hollow. If not, let’s draw counterclockwise. What do you think?”
He stretched his muscular legs.“If I draw counterclockwise, from the house, you mean from the house, right?”
“Right.”
“We’ll go down the farm road and then turn right. Well, that meadow is pretty open, gets the morning sun. Could get lucky. Courting time.” He loved fox breeding season.
“I noticed.”
“Don’t start. We’re just friends.”
“That’s what they all say.” Her voice was warm. “I’m glad you have someone you can talk to, enjoy.”
“Sari’s a great kid. Wants to learn everything about the hounds.” This was the way to Shaker’s heart, as well as Sister’s. “And Lorraine knows some of the girls by name now. At first, Lorraine wouldn’t touch a hound. She was too timid, but now she goes right in. Too bad Peter Wheeler’s not still with us. If she could have gotten in the truck with Peter, I think she would have learned more than if she was riding.”
“Boy, that’s the truth.”
“Oh, that ass Crawford called me. Says we need a flyspray system in the kennels for summer and he’ll pay for it. Jesus, boss, why’d you let him be president?”
“Because if I didn’t, the club would split into two factions concerning a joint-master. The larger faction would be against him, the smaller one for him, and you and I would be well acquainted with the misery.” She paused. “Leave the politics to me, Shaker. My job is to kiss toads and turn them into princes.”
He wrinkled his nose.“You’re right. You’re right. I would never do it.”
“What you do, you do better than anyone else. So what did you say? I hope you were civil.”
“You’d have been proud of me. I said, word for word, ‘Crawford, thank you for the offer. You do so much for the club. But the chemicals will be bad for the hounds’ noses. That’s why we have those big ceiling fans everywhere, keeps turning the air, and we don’t have too much of a fly problem.’ That’s it, verbatim. How can people hunt and not know anything about a hound’s nose?” He clapped his hands together.
“Because they hunt for other reasons, and that’s fine. In any hunt field, and I don’t give a damn what hunt it is, you can count on your fingers the people who have hound sense. Those are the ones who get the most out of hunting, I’m convinced.”
He dropped his arms over the overstuffed chair arms.“I was worried when Sybil came on board that she wouldn’t have hound sense, even though she can ride like a demon. But she’s stepped up to the plate. Give her one more year. Still makes some stupid mistakes out there. I’ve got to break her of going after one hound if the hound splits off, which thankfully doesn’t happen too often. I don’t know why it’s so hard for someone to recognize the pack comes first.”
“She’ll get it. On the other hand, there’s Betty Franklin, a natural. And who would have thought years ago when, in desperation, we asked her to help us just because she had the time? Betty wasn’t even that good a rider, but by God, she worked on it.”
His eyes lit up.“I thought you were crazy. But you know, I watched her in the summer on hound walks. We were lucky we had that summer together. We knew Big Ray wasn’t going to be with us much longer, and he was a damned good whipper-in, despite his ego.” Shaker crossed one leg over the other. “Gave Betty time, and she really showed me a lot. She knew to get around them instead of going after them if a puppy squirted out, and the thing that impressed me the most, the most,” he slapped the chair arms, “she could read their body language.”
“You’re born with it. I believe that. Like a sense of direction. You’re born with it. One can be taught the basics, but some people come into this world with more. I don’t know what we’d do without Betty.”
“Rock solid.”
“Well, you know how I feel about whippers-in. If I have to hear them, something’s wrong. Nothing worse than hearing some fool rate hounds, crack whips, and charge around like a bronc rider.” She grimaced.
“Boss, sometimes you have to hear them.”
“Not much.”
He smiled.“We’re on the same page. The best staff work is like the best team in any sport. They make it look easy.”
These two friends and coworkers talked for two more hours about hunting, hounds, other great hunts they admired. Left alone, their shared passion ignited and reignited ideas, thoughts, and much laughter.
CHAPTER 25
Plan your hunt, then hunt your plan. Every master and huntsman has heard this advice. Of course, the fox could care less. A good huntsman adjusts to the curves thrown by that prescient fox. An even better master doesn’t criticize when the hunt is over.
Tuesday, a small field followed hounds at Melton, a new fixture southwest of what the Jefferson Hunt called the“home territory.” Wealthy new people, eager to make a good showing, spent a great deal of money rehabbing the old place. Many jokingly called Melton “Meltdown” behind their backs. The attractive owners, Anatole and Beryle Green, in their late thirties, rode today with Hilltoppers.
The small field kept moving.
Shaker knew he’d drawn over a fox in heavy covert, but he couldn’t push the creature out. When first hunting hounds as a young man, he would have wasted far too much time trying to bolt the fox. Wise in the ways of his quarry and hunting, he now kept moving.
Half the D young entry hunted this morning. The other young entry stayed at home. They’d go on Thursday if conditions looked promising.
Sister, Tedi, Edward, Walter, Crawford, Marty, Sam, Gray, Dalton, and Ronnie composed First Flight. Bobby Franklin had only three people. Izzy Berry rode with Bobby to give herself a break from the crisis. Clay would be out next hunt, she said.
The temperature hovered in the low forties, the footing— slick on top, still frozen underneath—kept the riders alert and wary. What made this Tuesday difficult, apart from footing, was the strange stillness. Not a flicker of breeze moved bare tree limbs. As frost melted on the branches, the droplets hung like teardrops.
St. Just, the large crow, flew overhead. His hunting range covered half the county, less to do with the food supply than his relentless nosiness. Unlike Athena and Bitsy, St. Just rarely swooped down on prey. He would alight and walk on the ground, his gait rocking him from side to side. He’d pick up in his long beak anything that looked delicious. If taste disappointed, he’d drop the offending item. Most country people put out seed for birds in winter. He visited those feeders that he felt contained the better grade of seeds, thistle, tiny bits of dried fruit. One kind soul even put out desiccated grasshoppers.