“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 trailersand 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 thislong 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.”
His cap in his hand, he nodded to the master. Putting his cap on his head, he asked the hounds,“Ready, children?”
“Yes!” they spoke in unison.
“Come along, then.” He quietly encouraged them, turning his horse toward the top of Whiskey Ridge for the scenic first cast.
“Jennifer.” Sister motioned for the girl to ride up. “Keep an eye on Crawford, will you? Talk to me after the hunt.”
“Yes, Master.” Jennifer pulled back, waiting for a few first-flight members to pass her. Then she fell in behind Crawford and Martha. She wasn’t sure what Sister wanted but she was pleased to be given a special mission. At least Sister liked her and trusted her with responsibility.
The top of Whiskey Ridge was rounder then Hangman’s Ridge off in the distance, the giant black oak stark against the silvery rising mists. The sides of Whiskey Ridge feathered and softened down to the creek bed, a small valley on the west side. The grade was even smoother on the east side; the Hessian River was visible across the rolling terrain, a cauldron of mist hanging over the snaking river.
Frost silvered each blade of grass, each leaf, the exposed roots of the old trees.
Shaker, voice low but filled with excitement, leaned down.“He’s out there. Get ’im. Get ’im.”
“Yay!” The hounds dashed away from the huntsman. Noses to the ground, sterns upright, they wanted a smashing Thanksgiving hunt.
Down on the east side of the ridge Uncle Yancy picked up a trot. He heard hounds above him and felt no need to provide them with a chase. He recalled seeing Patsy out before dawn, so just to be sure he swerved from a direct path to his den, crossed Patsy’s scent, and then scampered the half mile to his cozy home.
Up on the ridge Sister hung back about fifty yards from her hounds. Since she wasn’t sure what direction they’d finally take she sat tight.
Dasher’s tail looked like a clock pendulum, back and forth. Finally, he spoke.“Check this out.”
Cora and Diana came over.“Faint but good. Let’s see where it leads.”
Within minutes the hounds coursed down the eastern slope of the ridge, reached the grassy bottom streaking across the well-maintained hay fields, a beautiful sight for the field to behold, since the pack was running well together, Cora in the lead, Diana securely in the middle.
Although the grade was gentle, one rider, frantically clutching her martingale, flipped ass over teakettle when the martingale snapped. Georgia Vann, on mop-up duty, stopped to make certain the lady was breathing.