“Thank you.”
“Get that fox outta here,”
the chickens complained bitterly from under the chicken coop.
“Actually, why don't I hold open the door.” She did and Comet scooted right out.
“You're a good dog,”
he called to Raleigh in passing.
Golly backed down the tree and Rooster howled from the tack room, deep distressed howls.
Taking a deep breath, Sister returned to the stable, where Doug was putting sweat sheets on the horses. “I'll go pick up the trailer later. Did Cody say when she would bring back Keepsake?”
“Tomorrow. I told her to take him home for tonight. Easier.”
“Good.” He whistled.
“Doug. Cody killed Fontaine.” He stopped whistling as she continued. “She admitted it and she will turn herself in to Sheriff Sidell this evening. She's telling her parents and Jennifer now.”
He rested his head on his hand, which was on Lafayette's neck; then he looked up. “I did it.”
“No, you didn't.”
“I did. I hated that she slept with him.”
“Nice try.”
“She confessed because she knew a black man wouldn't stand a chance. As a woman she can throw herself on the mercy of the court.” He breathed hard.
She put her arms around him. “Honey, I'm sorry.”
“I did it!”
“You're too smart to kill like that, Doug. I'm sorry she did it. I'm sorry for you, too. I don't know what will happen. With a good lawyerâ” She released him. “Go to her. I'll finish the horses.”
“Thanks,” he whispered.
As he left, Sister checked the sweat sheets. She finally let Rooster out of the tack room.
Shaker came in from the kennel to discuss the hunt. She told him. “She could have lied and made it worse. But she didn't.”
He shook his head. “Crazy. People do crazy things.” He sat on a tack trunk. “Maybe it's better not to feel much.”
“I don't know, Shaker. I just don't know. I liked Fontaine. I'm horrified he sold drugs and used drugs to seduce these girls. My God, it's sordid.”
“Had a leak in his soul.” He crossed his leg over his knee. “How'd you know?”
“Process of elimination. Had to be one of my whips or you, and I could see you all the time. But you are the only people who ride well enough to have pulled it off. That narrowed it down to Betty, Cody, and Doug. When Dean Offendahl started talking, then I figured it was probably Cody.”
“Her mother?”
“Too stable.”
“Jennifer.”
“I don't think Jennifer could have executed the plan. She's a beautiful girl but she's a thirty-watt bulb in a hundred-watt socket.”
“There is that. Doug?”
“Well, he had reason but in the end, character tells. He might have gotten into a fight with Fontaine once he knew the story but I don't think he knew the whole story until Dean spilled his guts. What a smarmy kid. He'll grow up to be just like his father. But Doug, he wouldn't kill a man for that even if he wanted to do it.”
“Bobby?”
“Can't ride well enough to lay the drag, then fire through that ravine. Although Bobby could kill.”
“I expect any of us could if we had to.” Shaker sighed. “It's been quite a day.”
“Yes. Thank you for a good hunt. Hounds did well.”
“Not so well. Dragon took a few with him.”
“My fault. I've been putting out corn for days. I needed to get Cody back into the ravine. I didn't know if it would work. Anyway, there were so many foxes out today it's a wonder the pack didn't split before then. I even saw a black fox up in a tree when I was in the ravine.”
“I see her now and again. You could have told me about the corn.”
“No. I had to do this alone. I'm sorry for her even if she did kill Fontaine. It will take me longer to forgive her for killing the foxâI know that sounds awful but it's truly how I feel. It's a Greek tragedy without the gods.” She paused. “But then I suppose they are always with us.”
“Oh, don't go into these weighty matters, Sister. Zeus. God. Allah. All the same to me.”
“You're right. Well, how about fresh coffee? Come on up to the house.”
“Thought you'd never ask.”
The two old friends walked across the leaves, crunching underfoot. Raleigh, Rooster, and Golly raced around them. The chickens settled down again in their house.
As she made coffee she glanced at the photograph of Raymond, Ray Junior, and herself, in full regalia at the start of a hunt, years ago. It was the last year of Ray Junior's life. She thought to herself that she didn't know if the gods were always with us or not. She hoped they were or that something kind was out there but she felt, often, that the people she had loved in this life, her mother and father, her husband and son, and now Peter Wheeler, were with her. Love never dies, she told herself and a pain, deep and sharp, caught her breath. If only she could pass on what she had learned to young people. If only she could have stepped in and turned Cody away from the drugs, the downward slide. What love had been given her she wished to give to others. Most times they didn't much want it but hounds, horses, cats, and dogs did and they were a gift from the gods, too.
Back in Target's den, Target, Charlene, Patsy, Aunt Netty, and Uncle Yancy felt a satisfaction that Reynard's killer would pay the price.
After full discussion, including the help of the grays, especially Inky, the foxes dispersed to their separate dens.
When they were alone Charlene said,
“Sister thought like a fox.”
“I suppose.”
He sighed.
“But you know, I'm about as amused by humans as I care to be.”
SOME USEFUL TERMS
AWAYâA fox has “gone away” when he has left the covert. Hounds are “away” when they have left the covert on the line of the fox.
BRUSHâThe fox's tail.
BURNING SCENTâScent so strong or hot that hounds pursue the line without hesitation.
BYE DAYâA day not regularly on the fixture card.
CAPâThe fee nonmembers pay to a hunt for that day's sport.
CARRY A GOOD HEADâWhen hounds run well together to a good scent, a scent spread wide enough for the whole pack to feel it.
CARRY A LINEâWhen hounds follow the scent. This is also called “working a line.”
CASTâHounds spread out in search of scent. They may cast themselves or be cast by the huntsman.
CHARLIEâA term for a fox. A fox may also be called Reynard.
CHECKâWhen hounds lose the scent and stop. The field must wait quietly while the hounds search for scent.
COLORSâA distinguishing colorâusually worn on the collar but sometimes on the facings of a coatâthat identifies a hunt. Colors can be awarded only by the master and can be won only in the field.
CUB HUNTINGâThe informal hunting of young foxes in the late summer and early fall, before formal hunting. The main purpose is to enter young hounds into the pack. Until recently only the most knowledgeable members were invited to cub hunt since they would not interfere with young hounds.
COVERTâA patch of woods or bushes where a fox might hide. Pronounced
cover
.
CRYâHow one hound tells another what is happening. The sound will differ according to the various stages of the chase. It's also called “giving tongue” and should occur when a hound is working a line.
DOG FOXâThe male fox.
DOG HOUNDâThe male hound.
DOUBLEâA series of short, sharp notes blown on the horn to alert all that a fox is afoot. The “gone away” series of notes are a form of doubling the horn.
DRAFTâTo acquire hounds from another hunt is to draft them.
DRAWâThe plan by which a fox is hunted or searched for in a certain area, like a covert.
DRIVEâThe desire to push the fox, to get up with the line. It's a very desirable trait in hounds, so long as they remain obedient.
DWELLâTo hunt without getting foward. A hound that dwells is a bit of a putterer.
ENTERâHounds are entered into the pack when they first hunt, usually during cubbing season.
FIELDâThe group of people riding to hounds, exclusive of the master and hunt staff.
FIELD MASTERâThe person appointed by the master to control the field. Often it is the master him- or herself.
FIXTUREâA card sent to all dues-paying members, stating when and where the hounds will meet. A fixture card properly received is an invitation to hunt. This means the card would be mailed or handed to you by the master.
GONE AWAYâThe call on the horn when the fox leaves the covert.
GONE TO GROUNDâA fox who has ducked into his den or some other refuge has gone to ground.
GOOD NIGHTâThe traditional farewell to the master after the hunt, regardless of the time of day.
HILLTOPPERâA rider who follows the hunt but who does not jump. Hilltoppers are also called the “second field.” The jumpers are called the “first flight.”
HOICKâThe huntsman's cheer to the hounds. It is derived from the Latin
hic haec hoc
which means “here.”
HOLD HARDâTo stop immediately.
HUNTSMANâThe person in charge of the hounds in the field and in the kennel.
KENNELMANâA hunt staff member who feeds the hounds and cleans the kennels. In wealthy hunts there may be a number of kennelmen. In hunts with a modest budget, the huntsman or even the master cleans the kennels and feeds hounds.
LARKâTo jump fences unnecessarily when hounds aren't running. Masters frown on this since it is often an invitation to an accident.
LIFTâTo take the hounds from a lost scent in the hopes of finding a better scent farther on.
LINEâThe scent trail of the fox.
LIVERYâThe uniform worn by the professional members of the hunt staff. Usually it is scarlet, but blue, yellow, brown, or gray are also used. The recent dominance of scarlet has to do with people buying coats off the rack as opposed to having tailors cut them. (When anything is mass-produced the choices usually dwindle and such is the case with livery.)
MASKâThe fox's head.
MEETâThe site where the day's hunting begins.
MFHâThe master of foxhounds; the individual in charge of the hunt: hiring, firing, landowner relations, opening territory (in large hunts this is the job of the hunt secretary), developing the pack of hounds, determining the first cast of each meet. As in any leadership position, the master is also the lightning rod for criticism. The master may hunt the hounds, although this is usually done by a professional huntsman, who is also responsible for the hounds in the field, at the kennels. A long relationship between a master and a huntsman allows the hunt to develop and grow.
NOSEâThe scenting ability of a hound.
OVERRIDEâTo press hounds too closely.
OVERRUNâWhen hounds shoot past the line of scent. Often the scent has been diverted or foiled by a clever fox.
RATCATCHERâThe informal dress worn during cubbing season and bye days.
STERNâA hound's tail.
STIFF-NECKED FOXâOne that runs in a straight line.
STRIKE HOUNDSâThose hounds who through keenness, nose, and often higher intelligence find the scent first and who press it.
TAIL HOUNDSâThose hounds running at the rear of the pack. This is not necessarily because they aren't keen; they may be older hounds.
TALLYHOâThe cheer when the fox is viewed. Derived from the Norman
ty a hillaut
, thus coming into our language in 1066.
TONGUEâTo vocally pursue the fox.
VIEW HALLOO (HALLOA)âThe cry given by a staff member who views a fox. Staff may also say tallyho or tally back should the fox turn back. One reason a different cry may be used by staff, especially in territory where the huntsman can't see the staff, is that the field in their enthusiasm may cheer something other than a fox.
VIXENâThe female fox.
WALKâPuppies are “walked out” in the summer and fall of their first year. It's part of their education and a delight for puppies and staff.
WHIPPERS-INâAlso called whips, these are the staff members who assist the huntsman, who make sure the hounds “do right.”
Read on for a preview of
HUNT BALL
by Rita Mae Brown
Coming in September 2005
from Ballantine Books
CHAPTER 1
A shining silver shroud covered the lowlands along
Broad Creek, deep and swift-running. The notes of the huntsman's horn, muffled, made his direction difficult to determine. Three young women, students at prestigious Custis Hall, followed the creek bed that bordered a cut hayfield. A gnarled tree, bending toward the clear water as if to bathe its branches, startled them.
“Looks like a giant witch,” Valentina Smith blurted out.
They stopped to listen for hounds and the horn. Smooth gray stones jutted out of the creek, the water swirling and splashing around.
“Can you hear anything?” Felicity Porter, slender, serious, inquired.
“If we move away from the creek, we'll hear better.” Valentina, as senior class president, was accustomed to taking charge.
Anne “Tootie” Harris, one of the best students at Custis Hall, was just as accustomed to resisting Valentina's assumed authority. “We'll get even more lost. Broad Creek runs south. It divides the Prescott land from Sister Jane's land. If we keep going we'll eventually reach the big old hog's back jump in the fence line. If we turn right at that jump we'll find the farm road back to the kennels.”
Angry that she hadn't paid attention at the jump to where the rest of the riders disappeared into the fog, and now angry that she hadn't paid attention to the flow of Broad Creek, Valentina growled, “Well, shit, Tootie, we could go into menopause before we reach the hog's back jump!”
“One dollar, potty mouth.” Felicity held out her hand with grim satisfaction.
“Felicity, how can you think of the kitty at a time like this? We could be lost for days. Why, we could die of thirst andâ”
“Val, we're next to Broad Creek,” Tootie deadpanned.
“You two are ganging up on me.” Val tossed her head; her blonde ponytail, in a snood for riding, swayed slightly.
“No, we're not.” Felicity rarely ran off the rails, her focus intense. “The deal when we started hunting with Jefferson Hunt was that each time one of us swore, one dollar to the kitty. I'm the bank.”
Valentina fished in her tweed jacket. “You'll probably end up being a banker, F. I can see it now when you make your first million. You'll count the money, put it in a vault, and not even smile.” She did, however, hand over her dollar.
Felicity leaned over to reach for the dollar, their horses side by side. She folded it in half, neatly sticking it in her inside jacket pocket. Felicity knew she wasn't quick-witted. No point in firing back at Valentina.
With Felicity and Valentina it was the tortoise and the hare. With Tootie and Valentina it was the hawk and the hare, two swift-moving creatures with opposing points of view.
“Come on, I'll get us back to the kennels,” Tootie promised.
In the far distance the hounds sang, voices ranging from soprano to basso profundo, from tenor to darkest alto. The heavy moisture in the air accounted for the variation in clarity. The girls would hear the hounds moving toward them, then it would sound as though the hounds were turning.
“Coach will tear us a new one.” Valentina did not reply to Tootie's suggestion, speaking about the coach's wrath instead.
“Coach? What about Mrs. Norton?” Felicity thought the headmistress's disapproval would be more severe than Bunny Taliaferro's, the riding coach, although Bunny naturally leaned toward censure.
“Wonder if they know we're not with the field? I mean, it's possible they're still in the fog, too. Sister Jane would get really upset if she thought we were in trouble.” Valentina inhaled deeply. “If they don't know, let's swear never to tell.”
“The Three Musketeers.” Tootie half-smiled.
“All for one and one for all.” Valentina beamed.
“But you always manage to be first among equals, Val. It's not exactly all for one and one for all. It's all for Valentina and then maybe Val for all,” Tootie said, shooting a barb.
“Tootie, you can really be the African queen when you're in a mood. You know?” Valentina raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, right.” Tootie, an exceptionally beautiful green-eyed African American, shrugged it off.
“Will you two get over yourselves? If we don't find our way back, we're in deep doo-doo. If we do find the field, we're still in deep doo-doo but maybe not as deep.”
“Felicity, say shit and be done with it.” Val took out some of her discomfort on her sober classmate.
“One dollar.”
“I could learn to hate you.” Valentina fetched another crinkled dollar, fuming as Tootie hid a smile behind her gloved hand.
“Thank you.” This time Felicity snatched the money.
Hounds sounded as if they were swinging toward them; the notes on the horn played one long note followed by a series of doubled and even tripled notes, one long note and the process was repeated.
“All on,” Tootie remarked.
Bunny Taliaferro drummed the basics of foxhunting into those students she selected as proficient enough to ride hard over big fences and uneven ground. The show-ring riders who panicked outside of a flat ring where they counted strides could never join the chosen few. This caused tensions because often the show-ring girls looked much prettier on a horse. Unfortunately, flying down a steep hill usually meant they popped off their horses like toast. The sound of “ooff” and “ohh” punctuated the hoofbeats on those occasions.
Valentina, Tootie, and Felicity performed well in the show ringâthey'd made the school teamâbut they excelled over terrain, so had earned the privilege to hunt. Each girl could handle sudden situations calling for split-second decisions, and each girl could usually keep a horse between her legs even when the footing was slick as an eel. What Bunny prized most about them was they were bold, keen, go-forward girls.
“All on and heading our way.” Felicity recognized the horn call, straining to make sure her ears weren't playing tricks on her.
“Christ, they'll all see us!” Valentina worried more about saving face than getting chewed out.
“One dollar.”
“Christ isn't swearing.”
“Christ isn't swearing. You are.” Felicity in a rare moment of dry humor held out her hand.
“Not fair.” Valentina bit her lip.
“Oh, pay up. You've got more money than God anyway,” Tootie half-laughed.
“Sure,” Valentina said sarcastically.
All of the girls came from wealthy families, but Valentina received the largest allowance and was the envy of the other students. To her credit she was generous.
She forked over the dollar bill.
“Look, they really are coming this way. Let's slip back into the mists. We can bring up the rear right after they cross Broad Creek,” Tootie suggested.
“Fox could turn.” Felicity considered the gamble.
“Yes, but if he doesn't, the crossing is up past the trees. We'll hear them. If they turn, we'll keep going until we find the hog's back and then head toward Sister Jane's.”
The kennels were at Sister Jane's farm, Roughneck Farm. Jane Arnold had been master of the Jefferson Hunt Club for over thirty years. Her late husband had also been a master.
“Vote.” Felicity thought this would short-circuit Valentina's protest since Valentina hated agreeing readily with Tootie.
“You don't have to vote.” Valentina turned toward Tootie, mist rising a bit, swirling around the beautiful girl. “It's a good plan.”
“I can't believe you said that,” Tootie giggled. “F., we'd better remember this day.”
They would, but for quite different reasons.
They backtracked fifty yards from the creek crossing.
“Why?” Felicity asked.
“Because the other horses will smell ours,” Tootie sensibly replied. “Go on back a little more.”
“Tootie, we'll lose them again.” Valentina was more worried about Bunny and Mrs. Norton, the headmistress, than she cared to admit.
“No, we won't. Let me be in front this time.”
Tootie rode tail during the entire hunt, which is one of the reasons they got lost. Felicity, in front, didn't have the best sense of direction. When the whole field jumped a black coop in the fog, they landed into a woods, ground covered with pine needles. Those needles soaked up the sound of hoofbeats. By the time Tootie got over the fence, Felicity had turned left instead of right with the others. It was too late to catch them. For ten minutes they couldn't hear a thing, not the horses, not the hounds, not the horn. So Tootie led them south along Broad Creek since she could hear the water.
Neither Valentina nor Felicity argued, since both knew Tootie was a homing pigeon.
They quietly waited.
A splash sent the ears of all three horses forward. The humans heard it, too.
Comet reached their side of the bank, shook, then sauntered toward them.
“You three are as useless as tits on a boar hog,”
the male gray fox insulted them.
“Tally ho,” Felicity whispered as though the other two couldn't see the fox sitting right in front of them.
Tootie glared at her. One should not speak when the fox was close or when hounds were close. The correct response would be to take off your cap, point in the direction in which the fox would be traveling, and point your horse's head in that direction also.
“Tally human.”
Comet flicked his tail, tilted his head. He could gauge the sound of the hounds far more accurately than the three girls before him.
“Well, chums, think I'll motor on. You look ridiculous sitting here in the middle of the covert, you know.”
He vanished.
“He barked at us!” Valentina was thrilled.
“I've never been that close to a fox.” Felicity was awed and a little scared to look the quarry square in the eye.
The beautiful music of hounds in full cry came closer. The girls stopped talking, almost holding their breath.
Moneybags, Valentina's big boy, started the chortle that leads to a whinny. She leaned over, pressing her fingers along his neck, which he liked.
“Money, shut up.”
He did just as the head hound, a large tricolor, Dragon, vaulted off the far bank into the water. Trident, Diana, and Dreamboat followed closely behind the lead hound.
Within a minute, the girls heard the larger splashing sound of Showboat, the huntsman's horse, fording the creek, deep, thanks to recent steady, heavy rains.
Another four minutes elapsed before Keepsake, Sister Jane's hardy nine-year-old Thoroughbred/quarter horse cross, managed the waters. After that the cacophony of splashing hooves and grunts from riders, faces wet from the horses in front of them, filled the air.
“Come on,” Tootie said as loudly as she dared.
The three crept forward just as the noise seemed finished. Crawford Howard suddenly crossed, though. He'd fallen behind. He was startled to see the three young women riding out of the mists, as was his horse, Czpaka, who shied, unseating Crawford right in the middle of Broad Creek.
“Oh, shit,” Valentina said low.
“One dollar.” Felicity truly was single-minded.
“Not now, F. We've got to get him up, apologize, and get with the field before we lose them again.” Tootie hopped off Iota, her horse, handing the reins to Valentina.
“Mr. Howard, this is my fault. I am so sorry.” She waded into the creek, cold water spilling over her boots down into her socks.
Swiftly, she grabbed Czpaka's reins, still over his head. Czpaka considered charging out and leaving Crawford. A warm-blood, big-bodied fellow, he wasn't overfond of his owner.
“Whoa,” Tootie firmly said.
“Oh, bother. I hope he freezes his ass.”
The horse did stand still, though.
“Then he'll kick yours,”
called out Parson, Felicity's horse.
“I can dump him anytime I want,”
Czpaka bragged.
“The only reason I let him sit up there like a damned tick is I like following the hounds and being with all you guys.”
Tootie led Czpaka out. He stepped up on the bank. Crawford sloshed out. While he could be pompous on occasion he did see the humor of his situation. Besides, foxhunters had to expect the occasional opportunity to show off their breaststroke.
The mist rose slowly, the sun higher in the sky now on this brisk October day. But one could still only see fifty feet. Tootie looked for a place where Crawford could stand to mount his big horse. The huge knees of the gnarly tree wouldn't do. They'd be slippery, adding insult to injury.
“Val, you hold Czpaka while I give Mr. Howard a leg up.”
Valentina, at six feet one inch, one inch taller than Sister Jane, was stronger than Tootie, who stood at five feet four inches. “You hold. I'll give him the leg up.” She handed Iota to Felicity and Moneybags, too.
“Girls, I'll be fine,” he demurred.
“Well, your boots are wet and the soles will be pretty slippery, sir. It's only cubbing. No reason to risk an injury before the season really starts.” Tootie's judgment belied her years. She'd always been that way, even as a little thing.
“Good thinking.” He reached up to grasp Czpaka's mane with his left hand, resting his right on the pommel of his Hermès saddle with knee roll. He bent his left leg as Val cupped her hands under it, lifting him as he pushed off with his right leg.
The tall blonde was grateful he pushed off. Some people, like sacks of potatoes, just stand there and you have to lift all of them up. Hernia time.
Tootie held the right stirrup iron to steady the saddle, releasing her hand and the reins once Crawford was secure.
Both young women gracefully mounted up, except that water spilled from Tootie's right boot when she swung her leg high and over.
Hounds, screaming, were moving on at speed.
“Let's put the pedal to the metal.” He clapped his leg on Czpaka, who shot off like a cannonball.
Moneybags, Iota, and Parson gleefully followed.