But in her heart of hearts, Sister knew the Penn-Marydel was a fine hound. The ears were set lower on the head. While they had speed, they kept their noses to the ground longer, which might make them seem slow but the other side of the coin was that a fast pack could overrun the line. So she kept two couple and was glad to have them but if a person asked what kind of hounds she hunted, she replied, “American and crossbred.” The crossbred was a mix of American and English blood.
Hounds panted inside the van, not from heat but from anticipation.
Shaker shut the back door, rolled back the sliding doors, drove the van out, stopped it, rolled the gates back shut. Ahead of him, Doug waited with the small horse van. Sister, in her best habit, her shadbelly, sat next to him.
Thanksgiving brought out the best in everyone. It had none of the jitters of opening hunt. By now, staff knew how the pack was working or not working, as the case may be. Plus, at the end of the hunt, there was that glorious dinner with one’s family and friends crowded around the table. Mince pie. The very words could send Sister into a swoon.
Every time she thought of her trap, her heart pounded. Would it work? She didn’t know what she would do if she did catch the killer. She had substituted her .38 for her .22 loaded with ratshot. The holster hung on the right rear side of her saddle. No one would know she’d switched guns.
Shaker flashed his lights behind them, indicating he was ready.
“You don’t mind that I put Keepsake on for Cody?”
“No. He needs the work and she’s the best for it. If he can whip, he’s more valuable. He can do everything but lead the field. Sorrel might be able to get more money.”
“I thought she donated both horses to the hunt.”
“She did but I’m waiting to see what her financial condition is—I’ll sell the horses to help if she needs it.” The van pulled out of the farm road onto the state road. “I heard that Crawford made an offer on the business. Nerve.”
“Especially if he killed Fontaine,” Doug replied.
“Do you think he did?”
“I don’t know.”
Other trailers and vans rumbled along ahead of them. Doug checked the rearview mirror; more were coming up behind. In the distance in the opposite direction, trailers were turning onto the Whiskey Ridge Road.
“Going to be a hell of a turnout.” He grinned.
“Oh yeah, they’re waiting for another murder. Probably hoping it’s me because I’ll be in front and everyone will get a good viewing. I wonder if they’ll tallyho?” she sang out.
“How about ‘Gone to ground’?”
They both howled with laughter, a bad situation bringing out the best in them.
Doug flicked on his left turn signal, waited for the Franklins to turn in from the opposite direction.
“You know what crosses my mind? Odd. Remember when we saw the Reaper or the Angel of Death or whatever it was?” Doug nodded that he remembered. “You were on the other side of Hangman’s Ridge, picking up hounds. Well, I wonder if Fontaine saw it, too. I wonder where he was.”
“He did. Maybe.” Doug’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t thought of that. I saw him drive by. That is too weird.”
“Do you think we’re next or can you see Death and he doesn’t take you?”
“You’re giving me goose bumps.”
“If I had any sense, I’d be afraid but I’m not. I’m more afraid of how I will face death than I am of death itself but I’ll fight. Not ready to go. I don’t know what the hell we saw that sunset. Plus there’s a black fox out there—as shiny as coal.” She surveyed the sea of trailers and vans as they cruised into the meadow at the base of Whiskey Ridge. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
“Think of the cap fees,” he gleefully remarked, since those people visiting the hunt had to pay a fifty-dollar fee to go out.
The cap fees helped defray the hound costs, which averaged about eighteen to twenty thousand dollars a year.
As Doug cut the motor and they disembarked, people doffed their hats, calling out, “Good morning, Master.”
As tradition dictated, the master nodded in return or, if carrying her whip, would hold it high.
“Doug, I need to touch base with Shaker for one minute. Be right back. Oh, your stock tie pin is crooked. Get Cody to fix it for you.” She noticed Cody walking over to help Doug unload the horses.
“Morning, Master.”
“Morning, Cody.” Sister hurried to Shaker, who parked a bit off from the crowd.
“I count one hundred and eleven rigs.” Shaker bent over to rub an old towel on his boots.
“I keep telling you, the secret is to use panty hose. Better shine.”
“I’m not going into a drugstore to buy panty hose.”
“That’s right,” Sister mocked him. “Someone will think you’re a drag queen and you’d be so pretty, too.”
“Yes, Master.” He bowed in mock obedience.
“Shaker, I want you to do something today. Should the pack split, stay with the larger body even if the smaller is in better cry.”
His eyes narrowed. “Better not split.”
“Not if the whips are on. Doug up front, of course. Betty on the left. How about Cody on the right. I’m keeping Jennifer in the field. The Franklins have to just get through this as best they can. Or more to the point, Jennifer has to face it down.”
“Makes me glad I never had children,” Shaker grumbled.
“Don’t say that, brother. Children are a gift from God even when you’d like to brain them,” Sister quietly but emphatically told him.
“I’m sorry.” He had forgotten that Walter Lungrun was Raymond’s natural son. Relationships baffled Shaker. Walter’s parentage made him think of Ray Junior. He’d known Junior and liked the boy. He liked the father less. He knew about Walter because once in a confessional moment, a tortured moment after Junior’s death, Ray sobbed out the whole story. Shaker didn’t think Walter knew who his real father was and he was certain Sister knew nothing about her husband’s affair and subsequent child. He wondered if she would find out. He felt he could never tell her. She’d lived this long without knowing. Why disturb her?
She put her arm around his neck. “Don’t worry about it. I remember the good times. Like the Thanksgiving hunt when Junior was ten and he viewed. He stood in his stirrups and was so excited he couldn’t speak. His pony took off and he fell flat on his back, got up, and finally said, “Holloa.”
“Tough little brat. Like his momma.” He watched Crawford pull in with his brand-new Dodge dually pulling his brand-new aluminum four-horse trailer with every convenience known to man or beast. “Can’t believe that man is showing his face.”
“Better his face than his ass.”
Staff, mounted, surrounded the hounds. Sister rode through the trailers, welcoming people. Her presence made them move along a bit faster. Georgia Vann had forgotten her hair net. She bounded from trailer to trailer until she found a woman carrying an extra.
Finally, everyone was up.
Lafayette remarked to Oreo, carrying Bobby, “On time. A bleeding miracle.”
“O-o-o,” Oreo grunted. “He’s put on more weight.”
“Might want to loosen your horse’s girth,” a rider said.
“Might want to loosen his,” Betty called out as she sat by the hounds.
“I want everyone to know that I’m above all this,” Bobby joked, glad that people were willing to let his daughters work out their own problems. He felt a little extrasensitive today so the joking made him feel better. People weren’t laughing behind his back but he noticed that few would talk to Crawford or stand near him as Sister addressed them.
“Happy Thanksgiving. Thank you all for coming out and we hope the foxes will come out also. As you know, we lost a faithful supporter, a generous man, and one of my best friends. I hope Peter Wheeler, young again and strong, is mounted on Benny, his big chestnut, and they’re both looking down at us, wishing us well.” She paused a moment. “Huntsman.”