“Yes, goddammit.” Crawford was linguistically stuck.
Walter’s horse, an old hunter named Clemson, wise in the ways of the sport, stood still. It was neither his fault nor Walter’s that they parted company. Czapaka, crazed with freedom, crashed into them on their approach. Walter was already in his two-point position and the big Holsteiner knocked Clemson, a 16.1-hand appendix quarter horse, nearly off his feet.
Walter, not the best rider, was nonetheless a caring one. He checked Clemson’s legs, walked him, reins over his head, to make sure the old fellow wasn’t banged up.
“I’m fine. I can’t abide warm-bloods. Dumb-bloods!” Clemson said.
Walter patted him on the neck, then swung up into the saddle. A hair under six feet, Walter looked much taller because of his terrific build. He slipped his feet in the stirrups.
“Ready?” Clemson asked, and was squeezed lightly in return.
They cleared the upright in good order as a still-cursing Crawford walked down to the eight-foot gate and struggled with the rusted chain and latch. This brought forth a torrent of verbal abuse.
Walter hid his laughter and trotted to catch up. He saw no reason to fly like a bat out of hell, since he could hear hoofbeats ahead.
Just as Walter found the group, Fontaine and the hilltoppers found Crawford, walking across the high meadow.
“It’s a glorious morning for a walk, Mr. Howard.”
“Shut up, Fontaine.”
“All in a day’s sport.”
“I’ll see your ass on the ground before the season’s over.” Crawford slapped his own thigh with his crop.
“Ah well, your ass is there now and buddy, there’s so much of it.” Fontaine laughed, riding on. The hilltoppers followed, suppressing giggles.
It never occurred to Crawford that not one of the hilltoppers asked if he was all right.
By the time he reached the trailers his feet hurt as much as his pride. Czapaka stood at the trailer as though an angel of reason. If Peter Wheeler weren’t still on the truck bed, Crawford would have taken the crop to Czapaka. Which wouldn’t have been a good idea no matter the horse but most especially Czapaka, who never forgot and never forgave.
“Horse’s all a lather,” Peter called out.
“Yes, he was a bad boy.” Crawford tried to be sociable. He was glad that Martha worked Thursdays. He would have hated to have her see his debacle. Fontaine would tell her in lurid detail the minute he got back to the office.
He loaded up his horse and drove off, waving good-bye to Peter.
When Crawford drove out, Sister Jane and the field had pulled up two meadows beyond the high meadow. The fox disappeared. No den was in sight. No stream to wash away scent. Not even cow patties to foul scent.
The hounds worked the ground but they couldn’t find even a sliver of hope.
“Let’s call it a day,” Sister advised Shaker, who was standing beside her.
“Cagey devil.”
“Related to my reds. Must be. They’re too smart to be foreign foxes.”
She did recognize foxes. She made scent stations, kept track of litters in the spring, threw out dead chickens given her by farmers. The chickens were shot full of wormer, which helped to keep the parasite loads down.
Sister was proud of her healthy foxes.
As they turned back for the trailers, Shaker blew in Douglas and Betty Franklin. The morning proved better than he thought it would. He was happy. Sister was happy. The hounds were happy. Only Crawford was unhappy, and that was his own damn fault.
Once at the trailers, the hounds loaded, Betty broke out her hamper basket, as did other members. These impromptu breakfasts, sitting on the ground, delighted everyone.
Hunting port made the rounds, as well as iced tea. Sister kept a cooler full of soft drinks in her trailer.
After she’d made sure the hounds and horses were fine, she sat down, leaning against Betty’s trailer.
“I ought to get you a director’s chair.” Betty handed her a saddle pad to sit on.
“I ought to get one myself. Too many things to do,” Sister replied.
“Dr. Lungrun, come on over here and feed your face.” Betty waved him over and he gratefully accepted.
Everyone talked, laughed about Crawford, asked questions of Walter, praised the hounds.
“Tabor Lungrun?” Bobby Franklin asked him.
“My father.”
“Ah. We’re glad to have you with us and hope you’ll come back out.”
“Dr. Lungrun, join us.”
He smiled at Sister Jane, finding her the most beautiful older woman he had ever seen. “I need two sponsors, do I not?”
“I can’t sponsor you because I’m the master.”
Bobby held out his hand and shook Walter’s. “I’d be happy to sponsor you, Doctor. My pleasure.”
Fontaine, quick to curry favor with Sister Jane, held out his glass. “Me, too. Your father was a good man ruined by a not so good one. We’d be pleased to have a Lungrun in the fold.”
The only reason Fontaine brought up that unhappy episode was so that no one would forget it. Small worry. No one in Virginia ever forgot anything. Misdeeds from 1626 were recounted with as much relish as if they’d happened yesterday. But Fontaine, who knew better than to point out another man’s misery, also wanted that joint-mastership. Since it was Crawford Howard who’d destroyed Walter’s father in what Crawford said was a bad business deal and others said was calculated greed, Fontaine wanted everyone to remember right that moment.
“I’d be happy to ride with Jefferson Hunt.” Walter bowed his head a moment. “Mrs. Arnold, I apologize for calling you after nine-thirty. I’ve been informed that you go to bed early.”
“Beauty sleep,” Betty teased her.
“Then I need to be comatose.” Sister laughed at herself.
“Hear. Hear. A beautiful woman need not disparage herself.” Fontaine held up his glass and the men drank to the master, who rather enjoyed it.
As the group broke up, Douglas sought out Betty.
“Mrs. Franklin, I thought Cody was hunting today?”
She liked Douglas and often wondered why he bothered with Cody, who treated all men badly. “Douglas, both of my girls are in a drug rehab program. They must stay at the hospital for a week and then they’ll be back with us but still part of the program on an outpatient basis.”
Bobby, in the trailer tack room, stuck his head out the door. “Betty, people don’t have to know that.”
“They know already. About drugs. We were the last to know.” She turned to Douglas. “Because we didn’t want to know, I’m afraid. Anyway, they’re both doing something about it.”
“Is Cody allowed to see people?”
“Not this first week. After that, as I said, she’ll be out. You knew. I mean you knew about the drugs?”
He nodded that he did.
Bobby stepped down with an oomph. His knees hurt from carting around all that weight. “Guess there are no secrets in this club.”
“You don’t have to answer this, but do you take drugs?”
“No. I’ll drink sometimes but I can pretty well keep a lid on it.”
“Thank you for being honest with me.” Betty touched his shoulder.
On the way home Bobby fumed first about that conversation but then about Fontaine. “He’s going to tear this club apart. He’s going to undo all the good that Sister and Raymond built over the years. He didn’t have to bring that up about Tabor Lungrun. We all know why he brought it up.”
“The young people don’t remember.”
“They’ll know now. They’ll ask and the whole thing will be like fresh paint.”
“It was murky.”
“Murky. It was business, Princess. Crawford put up the money and Tabor put up the work. They went into the cattle business together twenty years ago. The market crashed. Tabor lost everything. Crawford could take it as a tax write-off. That’s not dishonest.”
“Buying Tabor’s farm at a bargain basement price is dicey.”
“Business, Princess, business. The Lungruns never had much anyway. He had to sell the farm to keep the family going.”