“Now?” Jennifer’s voice dropped, betraying fear.
“Now. Cody?”
“I’m coming.”
CHAPTER 17
At five-thirty in the morning the frost covered the ground like a silver net. The few leaves underfoot would soon give way to blankets of maple, oak, hickory, gum, sycamore, and poplar. Fall, a bit late this year, was about a week away from peak color. Flaming red edging the green of the maples stood out against the dawn light, as did the yellow oak leaves.
Shaker divided hounds in the kennel. Those who would be hunting that day were placed in a draw run. Excited to be chosen, they tormented those left behind with boasts of how good the day’s hunt would be.
Hounds remaining in the kennel were deemed unfit or unready for many reasons. A bitch going into season would be put in the hot bitch pen until her estrus passed. A hound footsore from Tuesday’s hunt would be left in the kennel. A hound having difficulty mastering his or her job would be held back lest he or she distract the other hounds from their task. Hounds under two years or a year and a half, depending on development, would be left in the puppy runs. Dragon languished in sick bay. Although he was recovering rapidly, his left eye was swollen shut.
Shaker patiently explained to his charges the reasons for their missing the party. He double-checked everyone, making certain plenty of fresh water was available and that they had eaten their breakfast.
The hounds to hunt wouldn’t get breakfast until their return. Full hounds run slow or sit down and throw up. No one minded delaying breakfast if it meant they’d hunt. They pricked their ears, waved their tails, hopped around in circles.
“All right. Settle. Settle now. It’s another hour before you go on the party wagon.” Shaker called the hound van the party wagon. “No point in wearing yourself out before the party starts.”
He had backed up the hound van to the draw run the night before. He had only to open the door into the draw run and the hounds would race down the chute to the opened door of the van. This saved time because without a draw run a few hounds, overexcited, would zoom past the van.
He walked outside the kennel to light his pipe. Shaker wouldn’t smoke near his hounds. Their noses were so sensitive that smoke bothered them. He wanted those noses sharp for the hunt.
He read somewhere that dogs in general hear six times better than humans and that a human has about five million scent receptors whereas a hound has over twenty-two million. Whatever the numbers, hounds heard and smelled more than a human could imagine. He thought about that sometimes, about how dull our world would seem to a creature with broader, sharper senses.
What must it be like to see through the eagle’s eye or the owl’s?
What he saw was the gray giving way to the first streak of pale pink. The clear sky promised a spectacular day, but not for hunting. Those raw days when the smoke from the chimneys hangs low, those are good hunting days. Today scent would evaporate rapidly. However, there was no wind, hardly even a lick of breeze. That would help. He’d have to drop hounds on a line fast and hope for a burst. Whatever line they’d get wouldn’t last too long unless, of course, the fox moved along the creek bed.
He sucked contentedly on his briar pipe, a Dunhill of great antiquity given him by his father. Lights were on in Sister’s kitchen. No doubt she was already on the phone with a member who needed to know right that moment what Sister Jane thought about wearing Prince of Wales spurs or could the member show up in a running martingale, even though it was improper?
Shaker knew he had not the patience to be a master nor the money. He’d worked his way up to being huntsman, getting the horn when he was thirty-one, no small accomplishment. In his mid-forties, he had no money other than what he earned and that wasn’t much. His benefits, housing, truck, standing in the community pleased him, but most of all he loved what he did. He loved it more than money, more than anything. In the end even more than his ex-wife, who when he turned forty bedeviled him to think about his future, take a job where he could make some good money. Sheila never understood him but then maybe he didn’t understand her. Women seemed to need security more than he did. He asked for a fine day’s hunting, each hound on the line, and he lived one day at a time.
He could hear Doug in the stable. Having a good professional first whipper-in made the huntsman’s life much easier. Shaker’s horse would be tacked up and loaded on the van. He could rely on Doug to get ahead of the hounds, an assignment that took a brave and good rider.
Although young, Doug would carry the horn someday. Shaker had known Doug since he was in grade school. He’d come to the kennel and tag after Shaker and Sister Jane like a hound puppy. There wasn’t much love or stability in Doug’s childhood. He found both at the kennel.
The back door opened and closed. Sister Jane, dressed except for the barn coat she was wearing, waved good morning.
Raleigh ran ahead. “What a day.”
“Morning, big guy.” Shaker ran his palm over the glossy black head.
Sister beamed, breathing in deeply. “If we can’t get up a fox, we’ll have a perfect trail ride. Not that you won’t find a fox.” She winked.
“I’m beginning to think the fox finds us.”
“There is that.”
“And who had called this morning, ass over tit?”
“Only Ronnie Haslip. He can’t find his tweed jacket. I told him the day would warm up fast. He can ride in his shirt and vest. For whatever reason that seemed to satisfy him. He said he’d called everyone but couldn’t find an extra coat and he’d go straight up to Warrenton to Horse Country and buy a coat after the hunt. He worries more than his mother and she was world-class.” Sister Jane laughed. “Oh, the Franklin girls are in rehab.”
“Heard yesterday.”
“As Raymond would say, ‘The shit has hit the Franklin fan.’ ” She admired the lacy pattern of the frost. “Wouldn’t he just love today. He took credit for every bright, low-humidity day we had.”
“Direct line to Great God Almighty.”
“That’s what he said.” Sister laughed, remembering her husband’s sacrilegious streak. Raymond liked nothing better than pouncing on someone who touted the Bible. She herself thought one worshiped best outdoors. “Do you ever miss Sheila on a day like today?”
Accustomed to her sudden direct hits, the curly-haired man shook his head. “No.”
“Not even on a full moon?”
“Well”—he smiled—“maybe then.”
“Good.” She smiled triumphantly. “It won’t do for a man to be too independent of women.”
“I have you.”
“Ha. My solemn vow is to fuss at you. Think of it as marriage without the benefits.”
“Long as I can fuss back.” He patted her on the back.
“Deal.” She leaned into him. She’d known Shaker nearly as long as she had known Raymond. She knew his virtues and his faults. She loved him for himself as well as for his talent.
“Rodeo?”
“Yep.”
They turned to enter the kennel, to load up the hounds. Doug was already loading the horses.
The phone rang in the kennel.
“Jefferson Hunt.” Shaker listened, then handed it to Sister Jane, his hand over the earpiece. “Crawford.”
“Hello.”
“Sister Jane, might I have a few words with you after the hunt today?”
“Of course, Crawford, but you have to survive it first.”
CHAPTER 18
The massive stone ruins of an old mill perched over the fast-running creek. Broad Creek, swift moving and ten yards wide on Sister Jane’s property, was twenty to thirty yards wide in places at Wheeler Mill, which was eight miles south of her place. The raceway remained intact two centuries later. The men who built this mill intended for it to last.
As a courtesy to Peter Wheeler, too old to maintain his property, the hunt club, once a year, cleaned the raceway of branches or any other floating debris, bushhogged the trails, and repaired jumps. The stone fences rarely needed fixing, having been constructed in 1730, same as the mill.