“Oh, thank God!” Marty exclaimed.
No one else said a word, they just panted for breath.
Hounds found the den, digging and claiming victory for all they were worth.
Target, safe inside, made a mental note that Dragon, in his second year, had learned a great deal from his first year’s experiences. He wasn’t going to be easy to fool anymore. The ferocious drive that misled him last year had become more disciplined. Target would need to take this fellow more seriously. He would have to be more clever and he would have to teach him a lesson. Today would only build the handsome hound’s confidence. Dragon needed to be knocked down a peg or two. Aunt Netty had been right.
Target also thought he’d better tell his offspring, especially the youngest over at Mill Ruins.
Hojo stood quietly while Shaker walked to the den, stood, and blew the notes of triumph. He praised each hound, then led them away with Betty’s and Sybil’s help.
“Another excellent day,” he said, reaching for the reins.
“I didn’t think we’d do much today.” Sister smiled and turned. The faces behind her, flushed with heat and excitement, radiated happiness as well as relief. Ralph breathed hard, laughing at himself for being a bit out of shape. Xavier huffed and puffed.
“Well, what do you think?” Shaker, back in the saddle, asked the master.
“I think we call it a day.” She turned to Marty and asked, “And what were you thanking God for?”
“That you didn’t jump the wrought-iron fence into the graveyard.”
Tedi and Edward flanked Sister as they rode back across her lawn, the pathetic remains of her garden testifying to the fervor of the chase.
“Janie, winter is coming. You’ll just prepare the new beds early.” Tedi made light of it.
“You’re right.”
“You’ll need a new window.” Edward nodded toward the gardening shed. “I’ve got an extra. I’ll have Jimmy bring it over and put it in for you.”
“Thank you, Edward. You are the most generous soul.”
“Well, he is, but don’t be too impressed. You know we have the top of the old bank barn filled with Edward’s treasures. Old windows, mantels, heart pine flooring. You name it, Edward’s got it.”
Edward smiled. He was a pack rat by nature, but he had compromised early in their marriage by storing his finds outside the house. When he’d swear these items, such as cartons of old Esquire magazines, the large kind from the forties and fifties, would be worth something someday, Tedi would always reply, “Yes, dear.”
Sybil had inherited the pack rat gene. Nola, on the other hand, never saved anything.
As people dismounted at the trailers, talking about the terrific run, sharing a thermos of coffee, a cold beer or a ham sandwich, Sister rode with Shaker, Sybil, and Betty to the kennels. Once the hounds were inside she turned toward her own stable. Shaker would be busy with the hounds, washing out cuts and scratches from the gardening shed episode.
Jennifer and Sari, with no prompting from Betty, met her as she dismounted. “Sister, we’ll clean up your horses for you.”
“Why, girls, thank you so much.”
“And Mom says I can work here on weekends if that’s okay with you.” Jennifer wanted desperately to work with Sister. She wanted to learn everything about hunting.
“Jennifer, you’ll be a big help to me.” Sister could never refuse a young person in love with hunting.
Sari, her dark eyes almost black, timidly spoke up. “Master, I could work, too, if you need an extra hand.”
“Why, yes. You can start right now. I’ll pay you for the day.”
“No, we’ll clean the stable because we want to,” Jennifer said just as her mother joined her. Magellan was now tied to the trailer.
“Tell you what, I’ll accept your generous offer for today. And you can ride Rickyroo, Lafayette, and Aztec. Ask Shaker about Showboat and Gunpowder. At least a half hour of trotting for those guys.”
“Okay.” The two girls were thrilled.
“Ten dollars an hour.”
“Sister, that’s too much,” Betty protested.
“Good help is hard to find. Ten dollars an hour.” Sister, feeling fabulous, winked at them all.
Jennifer took Keepsake into the stable as Sister joined the gang at the trailers for an impromptu breakfast. She liked these tailgates better than the big affairs.
She complimented Sybil on her second day as first whipper-in.
“I got behind at the stone wall.”
“You made up for it. Whipping-in is a lot different from riding in the field. You can never stop thinking, reaching.” Sister popped a deviled egg into her mouth.
When she walked back to the barn later, the two girls were cleaning away. Tack was hanging from hooks. Keepsake, washed, was content in his stall, telling the other horses just what a fine day it was.
Sister loved having young people around. She walked outside, listening to the girls talking, laughing. She heard the big diesel engines of the vans fire up, detected the throaty roar of the pickup trucks for those pulling goose-necks. People called good-bye to one another, called “good night” to her, which was proper. One said “good night” to the master at the end of a hunt even if it was ten in the morning—which it was.
She walked across her desecrated lawn thinking the destruction was worth the fun. Golliwog, Raleigh, and Rooster sashayed alongside her. They had been very upset at the goings-on. Golly, of course, bragged about how she faced down Target just spitting at him, her claws unleashed.
They followed Sister under the hickories and hollies, past the scarlet maples that would turn flaming red in another month. They could smell the apples on the trees in the far orchard. Sister walked through the wrought-iron gate. Under the walnut tree in the middle of the graveyard was a graceful stone statue of a hound running. On the front was inscribed: REST, DEAR FRIENDS, WE’LL HUNT AGAIN SOMEDAY.
Bronze plaques, each bearing a hound’s name, were attached to the base, representing forty years of Jefferson Hunt hounds. Although the hunt was founded at the end of the nineteenth century, the graveyard was only forty years old. Newer plaques were affixed to the wrought-iron fence. A special tombstone had been erected for Archie, her great anchor hound, a hound she had loved as no other.
“Archie, you missed quite a day. And that pup whom you hated, Dragon, actually did very well, very well indeed.”
As they left, Rooster asked why Archie had his name on a plaque and a tombstone, too.
“Her fave,” Raleigh answered.
“Will we be buried here?” Rooster asked.
“No, we’ll be buried up under the pear trees behind the house.” Raleigh liked the idea of being by the house close to Sister.
“Not me,” Golly bragged. “I’m going to be cremated and when Sister dies she’ll be cremated, too. We’ll go in the ground together.”
“You are so full of it.” Raleigh laid his ears back.
Sister walked on over to the den. “Target, quite a show.”
He stuck his nose out of the largest opening. “I am the greatest.”
Raleigh and Rooster knew not to do anything or Sister would tell them, “Leave it.” She always told them what to do, and since she didn’t give a “whoop” they looked down at the fox, even larger than he was last year.
Golliwog huffed up and spit, and as they walked away she bragged, “He’s afraid of me.”
The two house dogs thought it better not to answer or a nasty fight would explode.
Sister stopped again at the hound graveyard. Leaning on the iron fence, she remembered something about the first day of cubbing in 1981. She just now recalled a check at a remote part of After All Farm. They’d had a good hard run and finally lost scent at the estate’s easternmost border where an old, well-tended slave graveyard reposed, small, smooth worn tombstones standing out against deep green grass, the whole bounded by a low stone wall. Most old graveyards were marked off by stone walls or wrought-iron fences. This graveyard belonged to the Lorillards, an old central Virginia family, both black and white. These were the original black Lorillards.