Let Sleeping Dogs Lie (21 page)

Sister noticed Alida Dalzell, again Freddie Thomas’s guest, in the field. Sooner or later, a Jefferson Hunt man would lose his head over that woman.

Addressing the group before taking off, she cited our Founding Father’s birthday and simply encouraged them, “When you drink the water, don’t forget the people who dug the well.” With that, a nod to Shaker, and “Hounds, please,” they headed due east.

Cora with Diana led the pack. Twenty-two couple hunted today, for the temperature promised good scenting. The clouds covered them like a gray blanket, the frost was melting, and the mercury at 36°F promised to climb into the low forties. The breeze was tolerable but shifty. In central Virginia the winds usually come down from the northwest. If wind blows from the south, often it brings moisture from the Gulf of Mexico. Rarely does it blow steadily from the east, a slashing easterly wind meant a storm off the sea, the true nor’easter.

A little gust bent over broom sage. The untended fields at Orchard Hill were reverting back to the yellowish-tan broom sage. Bad for pasture but good for cover.

A gray fox named Gris heard and saw the trailers so he prudently moved toward his den, about four miles east. A young fellow, he had not yet found a mate, so he had roamed a bit out of his
territory. Earl, the red fox on Old Paradise, secured one vixen, but Gris knew there was a girl out there just for him.

Right now there was a pack of foxhounds looking just for him. They trotted through Orchard Hill briskly, no scent, not even feathering. Crossing the railroad tracks, they climbed a small bank into Mud Fence.

“How about if I steer toward the right?”
Diana suggested.
“The tree line ought to yield something.”

Cora, nose down, said,
“I’ll move that way, too, but you be furtherest out. We don’t want Shaker to think we’re skirting.”

Huntsmen from the British Isles, often strict about skirting, will call a hound or have a whipper-in push them back. They want the pack more tightly together. Often huntsmen from the old countries aren’t familiar with American hounds when they first arrive on our shores. They want to hunt them like an English pack. But American hounds exhibit independence just like American humans. If they trust you, even if they go into woods and you can’t see them, they will come back. Some English and Irish learn this lesson, others do not, but most of our cousins on the other side of the Atlantic learn how very, very good those American noses are. Golden.

Highly intelligent and driven, Diana put her nose down, following the line of the woods. She could detect woodcock scent and squirrels, which were everywhere. She passed over a bobcat line and wasn’t interested. Then she picked up rabbit, promising because often rabbit scent or the rabbit himself can lead to fox scent. Same with turkeys. The only thing better would be a cornfield with lots of leavings or blackberry bushes in late fall. In February food becomes more scarce and all animals forage in wider circles unless humans feed them. She passed over deer scent, keeping on the rabbit line that faded, it being a very light odor. Disappointed but determined, she continued on, then stopped at a large fallen tree trunk. She leapt onto it, following a definite fox scent.

“He’s been here and not long ago
!” Diana sang with excitement.

The entire pack trotted her way, many of them following as she walked on the tree trunk. What a sight!

Then Diana jumped off, barreling straight into the woods. Everyone followed, hounds beginning to open.

Long snaky vines dangled from trees and the underbrush. These slowed the horses but the hounds found ways under or through them.

Betty, per usual, on the right, had ridden down to the east/west tertiary road to run along the grassy strip. Behind her and across the road, the fire station receded quickly as she clipped along.

Sybil rode along the edge of the woods as Shaker went straight in along the field. Sybil, a complete whipper-in, possessed game sense, which she was well rewarded for as Gris popped out fifty yards in front of her. She counted to twenty, for one must always give the fox a sporting chance, and then called at the top of her lungs, “Tallyho!”

Shaker didn’t hear her but hounds sure did. They trusted Sybil but also knew to keep on the line. Field members could tallyho golden retrievers, cats, sundry animals. With Dreamboat alongside, Diana did not rush to Sybil. They kept on the line, which veered to the north and intensified.

Within two minutes of Sybil’s sighting, the pack burst out of the woods, followed by Shaker, then the First Flight.

Shaker called, encouraging them on. Hounds lived to hear their huntsman’s excitement. So did the horses and humans. Next, Bobby Franklin blew out of the woods, with Ben Sidell close to him.

A bystander would see the panorama unfold with human riders in the same dress they donned during the reign of William and Mary. For some viewers this was a step back in time. And if they could overlook the attire, they could even step all the way back to
Homer’s time. Hunting on horseback has been consistent for millennia whether the quarry is chased by sight hounds or scent hounds.

Scarlet coats dotted the subdued winter landscape. The horses added more color: bays, chestnuts, a few grays, cream-colored horses, and even a paint or two. Each animal was groomed to perfection, coat shining, tack clean but not for long, as a bog lay straight ahead on both sides of a quirky little stream that widened, then narrowed.

Gris knew scent better than hounds. Naturally, he dashed through the swamp—not so difficult for him as he weighed about seven pounds. He could hop from fallen branch to moss-covered tree trunks, usually avoiding the water. Hounds blew in and sank right up to their bellies.

“My coat is a mess!”
Twist grumbled.

“Stop being a priss!”
ordered her littermate, Thimble.
“Next you’ll want your nails painted.”

Hounds knew about canine beautification from the TV in the kennel office. Occasionally Shaker or Sister would allow small groups in while they did chores. The hounds especially like advertisements featuring animals. A certain Pedigree food ad was their current favorite.

The struggle of the hounds to slog through the bog was nothing compared to the horses. They had to blast off their hindquarters, leaping up, then drooping down—tiring work. They crossed the stream only to hit the bog on the other side. Everyone emerged with slick gray hindquarters, for the gray muck flew upward. People wore mud on their faces, coats, and, of course, every pair of boots in the field was now slimed up.

Once out of this, they flew straight into Tollgate with its new fences, new gravel on the farm road, and new equipment sheds.

Sister saw an unfamiliar figure fly by riding a gorgeous steel
gray Thoroughbred. The horse made Sister recall Buddha, a gray racing Thoroughbred some years back.

“What the hell?” She couldn’t help herself and then she saw over the rise Crawford’s pack of hounds in front of this woman. The black and tans were in front of her but out of sight until they charged up over the swale.

The woman had the sense not to blow her horn. She would only spoil a good run. Sister noted that. Whoever this was, she knew hunting and was a lovely rider.

The interloper sailed over a seven-board coop. Sister soon followed. She always thought a jump existed to keep stock out or stock in and you only needed one big enough to fulfill that function. The new owners of Tollgate—three-day eventers—built big jumps for training. She thought they were at a show this weekend. Sister was grateful, for she didn’t know how they would take this impromptu joint meet on their land.

Hounds stopped. Cast themselves. The woman, perhaps midthirties, her face already a bit weatherbeaten, but she had good features, rode up to Shaker.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir. They came to your horn.”

He nodded. “You must have just been hired by Crawford Howard.”

“Yes, sir. I’m new, but Sam Lorillard went over maps with me. I know this is off-limits. I truly apologize.”

“God help you.” He smiled. “Come on, girl. Stick with me. Your hounds will hunt with mine.”

As hounds, now forty couple strong, all opened, she had little choice. Crawford’s Dumfriesshires, not as racy as the Jefferson hounds, nonetheless hung right in the middle of the pack. What a vision, black and tans with Jefferson’s tricolors.

Hounds circled in the front meadow and hurried behind the spruced-up house. Sister did not follow too closely because she
didn’t want to tear up what was lawn. She circled at the edge just as the pack dove back into more woods.

This run lasted for an hour and a half, but the pack had switched from Gris, who dropped them. Hounds knew. The humans did not, but the gray, clever fellow had ducked into a den where a red fox had been while that fellow had also been out courting.

Now both packs, screaming, headed back through Mud Fence, back through Orchard Hill, past Chapel Cross itself, and crossed the road west of the Gulf station to tear through Old Paradise.

As the two huntsmen reached the old tobacco barn, far away from the main barn and the ruins of Old Paradise, Crawford Howard, his wife, Marty, and Sam rode toward them. When their pack had flown out of their hearing, they had been trying to find it again. Sam had followed Shaker’s horn but the huge loop somewhat confused them.

Beet-faced, Crawford rode toward the two huntsmen now calling hounds back.

Marty spurred her horse to come alongside him. “Honey, don’t fire that girl. Please don’t. It was her first time out and our pack heard the other hounds. We couldn’t, but they did.”

“Goddammit!”

“Crawford.” Her voice became stern. “It takes a long time for a pack to trust and know its huntsman. She needs the summer to work with them and don’t you dare embarrass me by cussing her out. Do you hear me? Gentlemen don’t cuss women in Virginia!”

Only Marty could speak to him like this.

His color began to fade. He slowed Czpaka.

Sam prudently rode behind.

Very close to him, Marty leaned over. “You be civil or you won’t get any for a month.”

This threat reached him. “All right.”

“I love you. I will not let you make a fool of yourself. Give this girl time.”

He took a deep breath, rode up to Shaker. “I see you’ve met my new huntsman, Cynthia Skiff Cane.”

Shaker inclined his head toward the woman. “She rides like a Valkyrie.”

Skiff blushed. “I’m sorry, sir.” She addressed Crawford. “I—”

Crawford interrupted, Marty right by him. “No need. What I want to know is how did they hunt?”

“Well,” she replied.

Mindful of the situation and having dealt with Crawford for years now, Shaker added, “You’ve done wonders with them, sir. They hunt as a team.”

Marty inwardly sighed relief, grateful to Shaker.

A mud-splattered Sister rode up. “Good to see you, Marty, Crawford, Sam. How I wished you’d been with us. I think we picked up your main barn fox but somewhere on this hill we lost him. What a run.”

Marty immediately replied, “One of these days we’ll just put them together.”

“Indeed.” Sister said this in a welcoming voice. “Kasmir has put together a wonderful hunt breakfast at Tattenhall Station. Please come. We’d love to have you.”

“We’ll be there as soon as we get the hounds and horses up.” Marty beamed. She missed her old Jefferson Hunt buddies.

Riding back to Old Paradise, Jefferson turned in the opposite direction toward the train station, and Crawford knew he was outnumbered.

Marty said, “Honey, I’m proud of you and you know I’m proud of our hounds.”

“They did sound great coming up the hill, didn’t they?” He felt somewhat vindicated.

“Did, and I think this girl will work out. She’s a gentle soul and
the hounds like her, as does Sam. I trust his judgment.” Marty smiled at him.

True to their word, Crawford and Marty came to the breakfast. Sam and Skiff took the hounds and horses back to Beasley Hall, Crawford’s estate.

Kasmir, warmth itself, greeted the Howards when they walked through the door at Tattenhall Station. Gray zipped to the bar along with Ronnie Haslip, who knew Crawford well. Actually many of them did, as he used to hunt regularly with The Jefferson Hunt. Gray had a drink in Crawford’s hand in about three minutes.

“Scotch on the rocks, as I remember.”

“Thank you, Gray.”

“Marty, your vodka tonic.” Ronnie gave her a drink.

Kasmir clapped his hands. Gray whistled and the large noisy gathering fell silent. “Join me in a toast to our first joint meet with our neighbors.”

“Hear! Hear!” Phil Chetwynd raised his glass.

After that, even Crawford enjoyed himself as everyone did their best to say something nice to him. They all liked Marty, so that part was easy.

Mercer, once he had Crawford’s ear, wanted to know more about the Thoroughbred ridden by Skiff. “The gray?”

“Son of Holy Bull.”

“Ah, Crawford, you do have an eye. I always wondered why you didn’t get into the game.”

“Mercer, I learned long ago the way you make a million dollars in racing is to start with ten million.”

Although he’d heard that line, sadly true, for decades, Mercer laughed. Crawford relayed that he’d heard the burial was special and the slate memorial had a tribute to the dog. Mercer, of course, replayed every detail from the pogonip hunt. On his second scotch with a plateful of food, some of it Indian, Crawford listened.

Freddie came up as Mercer left. “Good to see you and looking so well. May I introduce my friend from North Carolina, Alida Dalzell.”

Of course she could.

Food, drink, and the company of a beautiful woman put Crawford in an excellent mood. Marty didn’t mind a bit. She was in the middle of people she liked and had been terribly upset to leave when Crawford had yanked out his support when not chosen as Sister’s Joint Master.

Younger, less egotistical, Walter had been the right choice. He would guide The Jefferson Hunt in the spirit unique to it. He lacked Crawford’s fortune but his other qualities ensured careful leadership. Walter was also the outside son of Sister’s late husband, Ray, which she didn’t know until shortly before she had chosen Walter. Walter’s father, if he knew, ignored this, and had raised Walter as his own, which emotionally, he was. Truly, let sleeping dogs lie.