Out of this mix came an American hound much like the American human: tough, quick, filled with remarkable drive to succeed. The American hound was of lighter weight than his English and French brothers. His clear voice could be heard in the virgin forests covering Virginia and Maryland even if he couldn’t be seen, and this remains a prime virtue of the American hound.
The Revolutionary War slowed down the remarkable progress that had been made up to that point. After 1781, foxhunters returned to their passion—a passion undimmed even at the dawn of the twenty-first century.
When Sister took over as the fifth master in the hunt’s history she was grateful that she inherited a great pack and she didn’t have to start from scratch. She knew her hound history. She simply had to be reasonably intelligent so as not to screw up Double H’s original plan.
The home fixtures—Roughneck Farm, Foxglove, Mill Ruins, After All, and Beveridge Hundred—nourished the diverse creatures who had been living there since before the white man settled in Virginia in 1607. Decent soil, a wealth of underground and overground water, and the protection of the Blue Ridge Mountains a few miles west conspired to make this a kind of heaven on earth.
Not even a hot, muggy, buggy day like today diminished the glory of the place. Each and every resident believed that she or he lived in God’s country. To make it even sweeter, most of them liked one another. And those few who qualified as flaming assholes were appreciated for providing ripe comment and amusement for the others.
As Sister’s mother used to say, “Nobody’s worthless. They can always serve as a horrible example.”
One such specimen was just puttering down the road.
Alice Ramy stopped her Isuzu truck with a lurch. The four workers sitting under the chestnut tree looked up, composing their features so as not to look discomfited at the lady’s arrival.
Alice’s unhappiness seeped through every pore, marring her pleasant features.
“Sister, if you or your hounds come near my chickens I am taking out a warrant!”
Alice delivered this message at least twice a year. It was usually the pretext for something else.
“Now Alice, my hounds have never so much as glanced at your fine chickens.”
“No, but that damned dog of Peter Wheeler’s killed three of them. Dog should have followed Peter to the grave.”
Rooster, Peter’s harrier, had chased Aunt Netty, an especially fast and sneaky fox, into and then out of Alice’s chicken pen. But poor Rooster—the pen door slammed shut and he was stuck with the corpses of two Australorp chickens. Netty, a small fox, dragged off the other one. No easy task since the beautiful black chickens were quite plump.
“Hello, Mrs. Ramy.” Shaker smiled.
“Mrs. Ramy.” Doug touched his head with his forefinger in greeting.
Doug, skin color that of coffee with cream, was experimenting with long, thick sideburns.
“Alice, good to see you,” Walter lied convincingly.
“Hmmph.” Alice’s reply sounded like a balloon deflating.
“You know, Alice, we’re building coops here. We could build one for you.” Sister’s eyes brightened.
“Ha! Don’t you dare set one foot on my land.”
“How about a hoof?” Sister felt mischievous.
“Never.”
“Well, Alice, I know you’ve lost more chickens and I know Peter’s harrier hasn’t been off my farm. Now just what or who do you think is dispatching your chickens?”
Alice generally ignored what she didn’t wish to hear, and she did so now. Unbeknownst to her, Aunt Netty was sauntering through the hayfield at that very moment. When she heard Alice’s strident voice she stopped to listen.
Aunt Netty thought Alice a pluperfect fool because she shut her chicken yard gate but she never poured concrete along the edges of the pen. Digging under was a cinch. Netty considered the Ramy residence one big supermarket.
Strolling down the fence line from the opposite direction was Comet, a gray fox, Inky’s brother. He, too, stopped when he caught a whiff of the nearby humans.
“You’ll say anything to hunt!” Alice curled her lip, heavily impacted with hot pink lipstick.
“Of course, Alice, I’m a master.” Sister laughed, but good-naturedly.
She’d known Alice most of her life and while she had never really liked the woman, she’d grown accustomed to her.
Alice put her hands on her rounded hips.“I know what you all are thinking. I know what everyone is thinking. You think Guy killed Nola. He didn’t.”
“I don’t think that for a minute, Alice. Sit down here on the grass with us and have a Co-Cola.” Sister reached into the cooler and handed an ice-cold can to Alice, who accepted the Coke but not the seat.
Aunt Netty’s ears swept forward when she heard the pop of the can’s pull tab. She liked sweets, considering Coke a sweet. She wondered if she could open the cooler when the humans returned to their coops. Might even be doughnuts or brownies in that cooler. Wouldn’t hurt to look.
“Well, a lot of people did.” Alice’s voice softened. “But you didn’t. I remember, you didn’t.”
A slight breeze rolled down over the mountainside, causing the leaves to sway. The old chestnut tree was so huge, Alice was sheltered in its shade even standing yards away from the workers.
Walter spoke in his most soothing baritone, which could be hypnotic.“Mrs. Ramy, finding Nola has shocked everyone. With the advancements of forensic science, we might learn more now.”
“What good does it do?” Alice betrayed more anguish than she wanted.
“I don’t know.” Sister stood up and put her arm around Alice’s shoulder, patting her. “Maybe it will bring peace to Tedi and Edward.”
“Well, it won’t bring peace to me. No one will believe me unless Guy is found. People think he’s in”—she shook her head—“Berlin or Quito or”—her tone darkened— “in this county I hear everything. And I know plenty of people think Paul covered up for Guy. If Guy had killed her, Paul would have brought him in. His own son.” Alice finally decided to sit down.
“I believe he would,” Sister replied.
“Has Ben Sidell visited you?” Walter asked.
“Yes. Impertinent. Ohio.” She uttered “Ohio” as if it were a communicable disease.
“Good farms there.” Sister wished she could think of something to say to make Alice feel better and to go away.
“If they’re so damned good, then let those people go back to them. He accused me of covering for my son. Oh, not in so many words, but that’s what he meant. I should have knocked him down.” She drank her Coke in five big gulps.
Comet crouched down, slinking through the hay, and nearly bumped right into Aunt Netty.
He giggled.
“Hush.”Aunt Netty glared at him.
Comet did stop giggling, but he still had a silly grin on his face. Reds thought they were superior to grays. Comet, a gray, couldn’t have cared less but he did respect Aunt Netty. Her speed and tricks were legendary among foxes.
“He’s been calling on all of us, even people who were children back in ’81,” Sister said.
“I don’t know any more today than I did that September. I never saw Guy again after that Saturday. Never.” She breathed in deeply. “Why can’t the past stay in the past?”
“Never does,” Sister simply said.
“You lost a son and a husband. We’re both all alone.” Alice blurted this out. “Nobody cares what happens to old women.”
“Now, now, Mrs. Ramy, people do care. They do.” Walter was gallant. “And raking up the past, well, it sets teeth on edge. Don’t worry about what people say. They love to talk, don’t they? And the sillier they are, the more they gossip. And furthermore, Mrs. Ramy, you don’t look your age. Don’t call yourself an old lady.” His voice conveyed sympathy and warmth.
“Damn right!” Alice stood up, brushed off the back of her khaki Bermuda shorts. “You know, Jane Arnold, I could never for the life of me imagine why you’d want to be master of the hunt. Too much work and too much danger. But now I know why you do it.” She walked away a step. “You’re surrounded by such handsome men.” With that she climbed over the fence and drove off.