“Crush up pokeweed stalks and throw them around. That will foul scent.”
“Maybe. Cora won’t be fooled for long. I think what I’d better do is sleep here tonight in one of these dens. In the morning I’ll walk in the middle of the creek until I find a tree close enough I can jump to. I don’t mind sitting up there for a few hours, especially with all this corn toeat before I get up there.”
“Why don’t you take that den there.” Netty indicated a den on the east side of the ravine not far from the pool.“I’ll take this one on the west side. I’ve investigated them. Lots of exits.”
“Until tomorrow, then.” Inky headed toward the den.
CHAPTER 64
Foxhunters adore Thanksgiving hunt. The light-to-medium frosts of the night before promise a silvery morning, scent sticking to the ground. Low gray clouds hold hope of long, long runs but even if the day dawns bright and clear as a baby’s smile, the cool temperatures and the late November frost ensure a bit of a good run no matter what.
Hunters prepare their dinner the night before, as much of it as they can. If no one is home to watch the turkey, then the oven isn’t turned on until the horses are turned out. Traditionally, foxhunters eat Thanksgiving dinner in the early evening. This most American of holidays, the most uncommercial of holidays, rings out with toasts to high fences, good hounds, great runs, and much laughter over who parted company from their horse.
Since Thanksgiving is a High Holy Day, horses must be braided. Those who played football, those whose jammed fingers invited pain, those upon whom arthritis visited, cursed as they wrapped the tiny braids with even tinier rubber bands, weaving yarn on those same braids.
Doug, as first whipper-in, was responsible for braiding staff horses. A quiet man, he couldn’t help but boast about his tight braids. Doug’s idea of a boast was to say, “They stay put.”
Lafayette, Rickyroo, and Gunpowder, for Shaker would be riding Fontaine’s big gray, gleamed so brightly that Sister laughingly suggested she needed sunglasses just to mount her horse.
Hounds, always excited before a hunt, sensed the additional emotions of a star hunt.
Dragon bragged,“I got a fox for opening hunt. I’ll get one for Thanksgiving.”
Dasher sniffed at his brother.“You picked up a shot fox. I’d hardly brag about that.”
Dragon turned his back on him.
Shaker backed the hound van into the draw run. Double sliding gates ensured that he could back in, then roll the gates to each side of the van. Shaker, an organized man, left little to chance. He prided himself on never being late to a hunt.
Since the first cast would be at Whiskey Ridge he had only to pull out of the farm and turn right as the state road curled around Hangman’s Ridge. Two miles later, at the end of the long low land between the two ridges, he’d turn left and go to the back side of Whiskey Ridge. He particularly liked to cast at the base of the ridge or at the abandoned tobacco shed but the field liked a pretty view, so they generally started at thetop, working their way down in no time. Often the fox would cross the road, a lightly traveled road, but any road strikes fear into the heart of a huntsman. He was careful to post a whip on the road to ask cars to slow down if hounds were running in that direction. Once across the road it was anybody’s guess. But then foxes, being the marvelous creatures that they are, could just as easily bolt down the other side of the ridge, heading for the flattish lands even farther east. Whereas the land between Hangman’s Ridge and Whiskey Ridge was rich and traversed by a strong creek, the lands tothe east of Whiskey Ridge rolled into the Hessian River, named for the mercenaries of King George who bivouacked there during the Revolutionary War. This river eventually fed into the James River.
Jefferson Hunt territory proved a test of hounds and staff. The soils changed dramatically from the riverbeds to the rock outcroppings. Rich fertile valleys gave way to flinty soils. Lovely galloping country spiraled down into ravines or up into those same rock outcroppings. Every good hunt breeds hounds specifically for their territory.
A place where the land is flat or rolling, good soils, can use fast hounds with good noses. A wide-open place, like Nevada, needs hounds with blazing speed. Hounds don’t need to hunt as closely together as they would back east.
The Jefferson territory demanded an all-round hound, a bit like the German shorthaired pointer, which is an all-round hunting dog. The Jefferson hound needed great nose, great drive, and great cry because light voices would be lost in the heavy forests. Speed was not essential. So the hounds were big, strong-boned, quite impressive, and fast enough to hurtle through the flatlands but not blindingly fast like the packs at Middleburg Hunt, Piedmont Hunt, and Orange County Hunt. Jefferson Hunt hounds were a balanced mix of crossbred and American hounds. Sister kept four Penn-Marydel hounds for those days when scent was abominable. The Penn-Marydels never, ever failed her. Being Virginia-born and -bred, Sister Jane loved a big hound. She thought of the Penn-Marydel as a Maryland or Pennsylvania hound and like any Virginian she felt keen competitiveness with those states but most especially Maryland. This hunting rivalry stretched back before the Revolutionary War, each state straining to outdo the other, thereby ensuring that the New World would develop fantastic hounds.
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.