“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 straight 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.
The creek meandered, little loops here and there, as it was an old, old creek. Young waters run straight. Following the creek, which now ran close to the farm road, he headed south.
A wooden footbridge arced over the water perhaps six feet wide at that point, wide enough for a horse or human, since many humans on foot would not have been able to jump six feet as a long jump. Truly it wasn’t that wide but the banks could be slippery and a child would not be able to span it with a leap.
Weevil on HoJo nudged the Thoroughbred across the creek. Hounds, forward, noses down, moved with deliberation. The thin water vapor hovering over the creek might intensify scent.
An old deer trail wound up, for the land rose a bit.
Yvonne couldn’t go farther, as the farm road became impossible, deep ruts for decades.
“Hounds are headed for Birdie Goodall’s,” Aunt Daniella informed her. “The only way there would be to go out Mill Ruins, turn right, turn right again at Clinton Corners, way in the back there, and go down maybe two miles. A little white sign will hang on an old post. ‘Goodall.’ ”
“God’s little acre?” Yvonne laughed, using the phrase from the play.
“No, Birdie keeps it pin-tidy but it’s not convenient. The old home place of the Goodalls still stands. Never was a Goodall had a gift for money but they work hard and Birdie manages Walter’s medical office, the one he shares with the other doctors. If you sit still I am betting our fox will come back. This way we can warm up.” She lifted a flask with the Jefferson Hunt insignia engraved on it, reached again in her bag, pulling out Jefferson cups.
“I like the way you think.” Kathleen took the cup handed to her.
Yvonne ran her window down a bit to hear. Even though opened only a crack the cold air slipped in, wafer thin. She, too, was offered a libation.
“Ah.” Aunt Daniella smiled, for hounds opened loud enough for them to listen.
The whole pack together ran down the rutted farm road, which widened just enough for them but not enough for riders to gallop more than two abreast.
Reaching a garage, slate gray with red trim, they stopped. The front door to the garage was open, the house within walking distance but not particularly convenient. Hence no car was parked safely in the garage. It sat instead next to the house, under one of those roofs propped up on four legs. Why people used these things was anyone’s guess. Snow and rain easily blew onto the vehicle from the open sides.
Sister held up far enough from the house so as not to be a nuisance. She figured maybe Birdie just didn’t want to walk to the bigger, wooden garage except when a terrible rain or snowstorm was predicted. Then the car would be protected, except one would need to dig it out. Then again, it didn’t matter where you parked a car in a snowstorm, you had to dig it out eventually.