Ben considered this. “Good point.”
She dropped into a lower gear as the road narrowed, beginning the switchback climb up the eastern slope of the mountain. “Seen enough?”
“Sure.”
She turned around, sliding. She’d learned to drive in snow before four-wheel drive. “Ben, there are many ways to circumvent the law. For instance, if someone wants to poach bear on my land, they can take their license plates off, shoot the bear, say up by Hangman’s Ridge, and even if I stop them what do I have? No I.D.”
“I know. You foiling Arthur’s line, are you?” The corner of his mouth turned up as he used the hunting term.
“No. There are, however, greater sins than making moonshine. Do I think he makes it? Of course. Do I know where? No. Nor do I want to know. Ignorance is protection. If I don’t know, then I’m not in a position of covering up, right? I don’t cotton to lying for someone.”
“I understand.” And he did.
“You know, Ben, there are a lot of things I don’t understand. Seems to me you spend just as much energy breaking the law as you do making an honest living. You know we have thousands of years of evidence to prove the wisdom of the Ten Commandments. They’re broken every minute.”
“Yep.” He turned his head to the right as they passed the pillars and lone fireplace near them again.
“Then there are things you learn on your own.”
“Such as.” He was interested.
“Anyone who refuses love is a fool. Every now and then the gods give us the chance to open our hearts.”
He placed his forefinger on the sensitive skin just above his upper lip, a habit when thinking. “I hear you.”
She laughed. “The worst that can happen is you’ll have a great story to tell when you’re my age. The best that can happen is you achieve paradise.”
CHAPTER 11
Jefferson Hunt took out hounds on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, weather permitting. This Tuesday, January 3, the weather was permitting but the footing tried the patience of all the giving saints. However, the fixture card read Tattenhall Station, 9:00 a.m., and Tattenhall Station it would be.
Hunts varied their meeting times to adjust to the light and the temperature. Cubbing days would begin at 7:00 a.m. or 7:30 a.m. As fall gained strength, Sister moved the time to 8:00 a.m.
For cubbing most hunts did not print a fixture card. A fixture card was a handy list of times, dates, and places, called fixtures, usually printed on heavy stock paper, the print perhaps in the hunt’s colors. Traditionally, a fixture card should fit into a jacket pocket.
Some hunts dispensed with tradition, issuing fixture cards in varying sizes and even on lightweight paper, which meant the card couldn’t hold up to the rigors of a season.
In the family scrapbook, Sister could read fixture cards used by her grandparents.
A stickler for tradition, Sister, the fifth master since 1887, had printed Jefferson Hunt fixture cards exactly like those from 1887.
The Franklins’ printing business had dies from that time.
Fixture cards were usually received by mail before Opening Hunt. They could also be personally handed to a member by the master. This was considered a proper invitation to hunt.
Sans fixture card, a person rode as the guest of a member. The member’s social obligation was to call and inform the master.
Someone who landed in Sister’s hunt territory without knowing a member could write or call to ask permission to cap on a particular day. A cap was the amount of money a visitor paid to hunt that day. It can be collected by a field secretary or dropped in the offered field master’s cap. Recently people had begun to e-mail to request permission. Strictly speaking, this was not a 100 percent correct way to ask the master.
Sister would inquire if they were a member of a recognized hunt. It not, had they capped at other hunts or ridden with farmer packs?
The point of these queries was to gather information so as not to overface the rider. The last thing any master wanted was for people to risk injury or to scare the bejabbers out of themselves.
If callers truly were neophytes, Sister suggested they go out with the hilltoppers. If their schedule was flexible, she’d suggest a day when territory was more forgiving.
Riding was necessary for foxhunting, but not sufficient. A foxhunter needed to know the fundamental law: hounds always have right-of-way.
The old siding lot at Tattenhall Station originally existed for mules and the baggage carts they pulled. As the mules disappeared cars began to park there. In the early 1960s, railroads abandoned unprofitable spur lines. This fate befell Tattenhall Station. The tidy, dark mustard board-and-batten buildings that housed the switchmen, the fireboys, various laborers, and the all-important telegraph operator looked picturesque covered with snow.
Their condition was a tribute to Norfolk & Southern’s solid construction.
The few residents of the pretty little community around the old spur line faithfully plowed out the parking lot, still called the siding.
Nine rigs and the party wagon came out on Tuesday.
Ronnie Haslip and Henry Xavier rode up behind Sister. Charlotte Norton, Bunny Taliaferro, Dr. Jason Woods, Tedi, and Edward trudged through the snows. Bobby Franklin followed with Garvey Stokes and Lorraine Rasmussen in tow.
However, after an hour, Shaker and the hounds doing the best they could under clear skies, Shaker called it a day. No point in frustrating the hounds.
The worst the field could complain about—if they were in the habit of complaining, which, praise Jesus, they were not—was that they enjoyed a bracing winter’s ride among good company.
Back at the trailers, Ronnie Haslip, a childhood friend of Ray Jr. and treasurer of Jefferson Hunt, surprised everyone. He had hired one of the silver-quilted food trucks, Jack’s Snacks, that visit construction sites to stop by.
Hot coffee, hot tea, hot soup, hot dogs, and hamburgers warmed everyone.
“Ronnie, that is the classiest thing any member has ever done.” Xavier held up a Styrofoam cup to toast him.
The others joined in.
Ronnie, shoulder to shoulder with Sister, asked, “Does Gray want my job?”
“No; do you want out of it come May?”
May 1 was the general meeting date on which master or masters were elected, along with administrative officers.
“No.”
“Are you baiting me?” She smiled at Ronnie, two inches shorter than herself, whose turn-out was always impeccable.
“A little.” He grinned, for he loved gossip, any manner of personal information. “Isn’t this his first day at Garvey’s?”
“It is,” she laughed. “You’ll notice Garvey is here, so he doesn’t have to deal with it.”
Jason, who had devoured an entire bowl of chili and was glowing from the warmth, joined the conversation, “I’ll probably have to prescribe tranquilizers for Iffy this afternoon.”
Ronnie’s eyebrows raised. “She’s always been high maintenance.”
Jason thought a moment. “Even people who aren’t high maintenance can become that way if they’re sick or injured.”
Sister agreed. “People need extra reinforcement.”
“Attitude.” Ronnie pronounced judgment. “Attitude is everything.”
“Medicine helps,” Jason wryly smiled.
Betty walked over. “Ronnie, spectacular idea!”
“Thank you.”
She turned to Sister for a moment. “The weatherman predicts the temperature will climb into the high fifties tomorrow. All this will start to melt, then freeze over every night. But he said it will be a short January thaw.”
“I know.” Sister frowned. “If it’s really bad, I’ll cancel Thursday’s hunt, but I’m not going to worry about it until seven Thursday morning.”
She put changes to the day’s hunting on the Huntline two hours before the time posted on the fixture card.