The Wheeler line would die with Peter. Speculation as to the disposition of his estate intensified with each pass-ing year.
An early riser, the old man sat on a director’s chair in the bed of his truck, having been hoisted up by Walter Lungrun, who’d arrived early.
When Sister saw the young doctor she breathed in sharply. He reminded her of her husband. Walter—tall, blond, wide-shouldered, and square-jawed—was handsome without being pretty, just as Raymond had been.
Upon seeing Sister, Walter walked over, tipping his hat. “Master, good morning.”
Shaker stared at him as though seeing a ghost, then returned his attention quickly to the hounds.
Before he could say his name Sister smiled. “Dr. Lungrun, you are most welcome. I’ll try and scare up a fox for you. Is this your first hunt?”
“When I was in college and med school I hunted a few times. May I try first flight?”
“You may. If you make an involuntary dismount I’ll keep going, you know, but whoever is riding tail today will pick you up.”
“I’ll try not to embarrass myself.” He clapped his black cap back on, tails up.
Only staff could hunt with cap tails down.
Sister surveyed the field. Twenty-five people on Thursday morning at seven. Opening hunt was two weeks away. Each hunt the field swelled as people, presumably in shape, eased back into the routine of foxhunting.
The regulars were out in full force except for Jennifer and Cody Franklin.
“Folks.” She motioned for them to ride over to her. A few were frantically searching for the last-minute ties, gloves, and girths back at their trailers. Shaker and Doug had unloaded the hounds, who were being wonderfully well behaved. “First flight with me. Hilltoppers with Fontaine. Will you do us the honors, Fontaine?”
“Of course, Master.” He touched his hat with his crop. Much as Fontaine hated missing riding up front, he knew he was being given a position acknowledging hunting sense and better yet, this was done in front of Crawford Howard. Of course, Fontaine’s knowledge of the territory didn’t mean he possessed the much coveted hound sense. But to lead Hilltoppers, Fontaine didn’t need to have it.
“Ralph, will you ride tail?” she asked Raphael Assumptio, known as Ralph, a middle-aged man, strong rider and better yet, competent in a crisis.
“Glad to.” He, too, touched his cap with his crop.
“Huntsman.”
Shaker, holding his cap in his lap as was proper, nodded, put his cap on, and said, “Hounds ready?”
“You bet!” came the chorus.
Lafayette turned his head. “Ready to rock and roll?”
As Sister patted his gray neck, the other horses neighed in anticipation.
Shaker stuck to his plan, dropping the hounds where he thought he’d hit a line along the creek. Flecks of frost clung to the sides of the creek and overtop the banks, but across the pastures the light frost had already transformed into sparkling dew.
He moved along on the farm road paralleling the creek bed. He glanced back, smiling when he saw old Peter Wheeler, hand cupped to his ear, waiting to hear the hounds, which when in full cry were music to his ears.
Peter hadn’t long to wait because Dasher called out, “Over here.”
As this was Dasher’s first year, the other hounds weren’t quick to honor him. His litter mate Diana respected him, though, and she trotted over, putting her nose to the earth. “He’s been here.”
On hearing both Dasher and Diana, Cora thought she might double-check their work. “For real. Come on. I say he’s fifteen minutes ahead of us.” She touched the earth again. “Maybe twenty.”
With a burst of speed, the hounds tried to close the gap, but the fox, who’d been hunting, meandered over fallen logs, lingered on stone walls waiting for mice. Once he heard the hounds he doubled back, slipped down the raceway embankment to run along the watercourse. Then he climbed out right at Wheeler Mill, paused to consider what an old man was doing in the back of a pickup truck. He sauntered behind the truck, stopped and sat to stare at Peter, then got up and walked into the mill, where he had a tidy little den with so many exits the hounds couldn’t trap him if they put a hound on each visible one. He even had exits running under mighty timber supports.
Peter bellowed for all he was worth, “Yip, yip yooo,” giv-ing the rebel yell instead of “holloa” or “tallyho.”
Within three minutes the hounds arrived at the truck, then plunged into the raceway, the creek, then back out, since the fox had zigzagged by the creek and then the raceway. It only took the hounds perhaps half a minute before they were all in the mill itself.
Shaker was a minute behind his hounds. He could see Douglas ahead parallel to the creek. He knew no hounds had veered off course.
He hopped off Showboat, his Thursday horse. Showboat calmly stood while Shaker gingerly walked across the low stone wall into the mill. Otherwise he’d have to ride around, and Shaker believed in getting to his hounds as quickly as possible, in this case to reward them for putting their quarry in his den.
Sister and the field galloped up as Shaker bent low to open the oak door into the bottom of the mill.
The hounds sang, “He’s in his den. He’s in his pen. We’ve got him cornered! Mighty hounds are we!”
Shaker blew triumphant notes on his horn; then he trebled them, which made the hounds dance all around the enormous mill wheels and the smooth areas where the kernels dropped to be bagged up. They leapt over one another, they dug at one of the den openings, they jumped straight up in the air so Shaker would notice them.
“I found the line first,” Dasher boasted. The black marking on his head came forward in a widow’s peak.
“I was first into the mill,” Diana, thrilled at her success, barked.
“We did well as a pack. The youngsters led the way.” Cora allowed herself great satisfaction.
“I still think if we’d crossed the raceway instead of moving alongside it we would have nabbed him,” Archie, brow furrowed, flews hanging loose, said.
“Archie, you worry too much.” Cora laughed at him.
“There is no perfect hunt, Cora. We can always improve.”
“You’re right, Arch.” She humored him.
Outside Sister Jane rode over to Peter. “Thanks for the view.”
“Granddad taught me that yell.” Peter felt young again despite his infirmities. “And I tell you, Janie, he walked right up here and stared at me. Insolent he was. Insolent and big, oh, a big fine red dog fox. I’ve seen him before. Fox everywhere this year but none so big as this boy.”
“You’re a good whip, Peter.”
“Tell you one thing, pretty girl, if there’s not foxhunting in heaven, I’m not going.” He laughed; his eyes sparkled.
She remembered him when he was younger, when his hair was pitch-black. Peter Wheeler was a handsome man to have in the field or in the bed.
“I hope you won’t be going any time soon even though I bet the foxes are grand. Foxes from the great runs in England during the nineteenth century. Now there’s a thought.”
He beamed at her. “When you were seventeen, I predicted you would be master someday. You had it even then, Jane.” He reached in the pocket of his flannel shirt for a cigar, a Macanudo for a mild early-morning smoke. “It’s an inborn thing. Can’t be taught. Can’t be bought.”
“Thank you.”
“And I’ll tell you something else. You’re still a fine-looking woman. I’m glad you didn’t dye your hair or tie up your face. Looks stupid and fake. Hate to see that on a woman. Silver hair makes you look distinguished. More like a master.” He chuckled. “And a word of advice—and that’s the great thing about being two years older than God—I can say whatever I damn well please. To hell with the rules, Janie, do as you please. Time’s a-wasting.” He laughed. “Go seduce some fellow half your age. You can, you know. Here comes Shaker. Like the cat that ate the canary. And look at those hounds, will you. Just as pleased with themselves as Shaker. My, how I’d love to be on the back of a horse.” He was so excited he stood up, energy racing through him.