“Worse in the cold and now I only have one.” Arlene shrugged. “Well. Let’s make a loop. Get down on the southernmost path and walk back. I don’t think anything has come down since we’ve been here. The snow was three inches, not much wind. It’s the wind that does the damage when there’s been a lot of rain or snow.”
“Sure does. How did you become interested in beagling?”
A big smile crossed Arlene’s face. “I come from Michigan. No beagle or basset packs there. When I was accepted to the University of Kentucky, my roommate hunted with, as it was then called, Fincastle. So I went out with her and really liked it. Then when I was in the Army for five years I was stationed in England. Hunted with every beagle pack I could. Then with the Agency I was based in Washington and I discovered the Fouts, Orange County, hunted with them, and I’d drive up to Apple Grove Beagles in Unionville, Pennsylvania.” She stopped a moment. “What I loved about Middleburg-Orange Beagles is that I had to bring a child to be admitted. I borrowed everyone’s children I could think of and the parents were usually quite happy for me to take them and wear them out. I always thought the Fouts were so smart to do that, to allow the young up front.”
They both laughed, finally reached the southern footpath, the dogs at their heels. As they approached a rise, the two dogs stopped. The ghost beagle, on the rise, watched them. As the humans passed, the fifteen-inch fellow fell in with Tucker and Pirate. He remained silent but kept up.
A long, low mound, mostly covered with bracken and some trees, hove up on their right.
“Isn’t that where some of the limbs are supposed to be buried?” Harry inquired.
“So they say.”
“God knows how many people are buried in this place.”
Exactly.
9
April 15, 2018
Sunday
Everyone kept at it. The trials would be April 27 to 29.
The ground, soggy, clung to work boots, making every step heavy. Apart from the kennel crew, two work parties moved through the grounds. The weather, still cool, would numb fingers if one pulled off gloves. Wisely, everyone wore layers.
The cats, patrolling the barn, kept out of the slight wind, plus they had those luxurious fur coats. Still, Pewter would occasionally curl up in scattered straw while Mrs. Murphy hunted for mice.
“There’s a chill.” The gray cat draped her tail over her nose.
“If you’d hunt mice, you’d stay warmer.” The tiger cat crouched by a mousehole, mouse not budging.
“I killed so many mice last week, there can’t be many left.” Pewter noticed an old cobweb, dead flies still imprisoned therein.
“There are enough left. The mule will be stabled here. No point in the mice eating her grain.”
“If she would chew properly, like cats, she wouldn’t spill much grain.”
“Of course, you’re right”—Mrs. Murphy uttered those golden words—“but horses and mules can’t help the way their teeth are made. They grind down sideways on grains and grasses. We tear and chew.”
“Quite right.” Pewter was startled when a chickadee flew into the barn, perching overhead on a rafter.
“Whatcha doin’?” the little bird asked.
“Looking at you.” Pewter narrowed her eyes to appear fearsome.
Didn’t work.
Mrs. Murphy looked up at the black-capped, white-throated bird, asking, “Do the owls ever come in here? They’re good hunters.”
“Not so much anymore. There are so many fancy barns in the area, lots of mice, leftover sandwiches, stuff like that. They’re spoiled now. The owls don’t want an old barn. Has to be new. And I suppose the new ones are better built, so their high nests are toastier.”
“You live here? At the Institute?” Mrs. Murphy gave up on the mouse, and the minute she walked away, tiny black whiskers appeared at the mousehole.
Just checking. The mouse stayed put.
“I do. My wife and I have lived here for years. No eggs yet. The weather has been too strange, but once all this passes we’ll raise our babies. We do a lot of good, you know. Chickadees eat bugs and larvae.”
“Do you live in the barn?” Pewter decided to be social, even if this was a bird.
“No, we have a tidy and tight bird box. Some of the beaglers and basset people put out bird boxes. We used to live in a tree but then we got into an argument with nuthatches who said it was really their home. Wasn’t, of course, but as luck would have it, the humans had just put out bird boxes. So the nuthatches can sit in the tree and listen to everyone talk, watch other birds hang upside down from branches. It’s uncivilized, I tell you.”
The little fellow, a born gossip, chirped away, and Mrs. Murphy found herself liking him. “Mr. Chickadee.”
“Bud.”
“Nice to meet you, Bud. I’m Mrs. Murphy and this is Pewter. Tell me, have you ever seen the ghost beagle?”
“Ruffy. Yes. He walks about but he’s not very talkative. Nice enough.”
“He told us he was here because of his friend,” Mrs. Murphy replied.
“That’s what he’s told me, but nothing else. I get the feeling that whatever happened isn’t over. Ruffy has a mission.”
While the cats and chickadee talked about everything and anything, Harry, Susan, Arlene, Jason, and Mary Reed all struggled with a large tree blocking a narrow trail. This was not visible from the wider walking trails and riding trails, but if the beagles did find a scent, heading in this direction, it would take the humans too much time to find their way around the obstacle, as woods surrounded the trail. The judges would be stymied. Worse, the pack would possibly get so far ahead, the whippers-in couldn’t manage them, and the judges wouldn’t be able to see the work of the hounds.
Arlene sawed off limbs so Jason, Harry, and Susan could cut up the trunk. Mary Reed studied the upturned roots, quite large, protruding and taking up a lot of space.
“How can we cut the roots with all the mud?” Mary asked.
“Can’t,” Harry responded.
“So?” The Master of Bassets peered at the mess.
“We have to cut just above the roots.” Jason took charge of the problem. “We can roll away the pieces of trunk we’ve cut into smaller sections. But to pull away the roots, we’ll need a tractor and chains. And then, where do we drag it?”
The women, any of whom could have taken charge, didn’t much mind that Jason did. All four ladies operated on the theory, “Keep them working.”
After an hour, the large tree had been shorn of all limbs, the thick trunk cut into pieces and rolled to one side in a rough pile.
“Well?” Susan faced the huge root system, then looked upward. “We’ll run out of sunlight.”
“I have an idea.” Mary could be counted on to think things through. “Let Jason go back for the tractor and chains. The four of us can go in each of the cardinal directions to find a suitable place to haul the roots and maybe some of these trunk pieces.”