Рита Браун - Out Of Hounds

They looked at one another, then Walter spoke. “Surgically removed sometime in the past?”

“I would have to say yes. Clean amputation.”

“What in the world?” Betty exclaimed.

Sister, taking this all in, clearly stated, “That’s too unique not to mean something, not for those two to be connected in some fashion even if they didn’t know each other.”

“Well, Sister, how can two missing fingers be connected?” Betty exhaled. “That’s too bizarre.”

“Bizarre, yes, but I say trust your instincts and don’t expect life to be logical.” She held her glass up to the others as a toast.

CHAPTER 20

February 26, 2020 Wednesday

“Sure is a lot of suds.” Tootie sprayed the power washer on the walls and floor of the kennel.

“Could peel the paint off a car, there’s so much force, but I’ve yet to find anything that can clean a kennel like a good power washer, or as inexpensively.”

“Once a week.” Tootie nodded.

“Well, I did go over the top when I bought two. Thought it would save time. Just have one with the cleaner in it and the other with clear hot water. I maybe saved some time but probably not enough to justify the expense.” Sister stood by her clear water power washer while Tootie finished up with the sudsy one.

The two women worked side by side and had been at it since nine that morning. Weevil and Betty walked hounds without them so they could do the indoor runs first. The outdoor runs were picked up, the poop thrown into a manure spreader, which also had straw bedding in there, which was changed whenever needed. Sister, a stickler for proper kennel practices, might let the straw go a week if the weather wasn’t awful but that was it. Every outdoor condo, as they called the big boxes on stilts, was rebedded once a week in winter. No straw in summer to help keep hounds cool. Some mornings in the winter, Sister would walk out to see what looked like steam rolling out of the condos’ small open doors.

The condo runs, huge, narrowed to a chain-link walkway to the main kennel and a push-open door, should hounds prefer to be in the kennel. However, the animals exhibited strong likes and dislikes so some kept to their social group in their condo, sort of like a sorority or a fraternity. Others enjoyed the camaraderie of the indoor housing. Best to let them tell you which, was Sister’s attitude about all animals. Golly, the long-haired cat, would sashay down to the kennels, parade along the outside runs, and denigrate the hounds within. They ignored her, which Raleigh and Rooster could not. As it was, she now reposed in the kennel office, fire crackling in the fireplace, for it had been built before indoor heating, later added. The roar of the power washers disturbed her equilibrium.

This did not disturb the two humans, happy with how the kennels sparkled. After the washing was done each woman pushed a large mop so the floor dried out quickly. The mops, carried to the industrial sink by the storage closet, were rung out, not such an easy task, then placed inside the closet, mop-head up. Both women washed their hands, dried same, then rubbed cornhusker oil on their hands.

“Stuff works. My hands don’t crack, I hate the cold on my hands and feet. Feels worse if your hands are cracked.”

“Hate it, too,” Tootie agreed, then added, “they’re on a long walk.”

No sooner had she said that than the iron gates to the outdoor draw run could be heard opening. The two women had also washed that concrete floor.

“Come along,” Weevil’s voice rang out.

“Barmaid, skiddle, daddle, do,” Betty urged the youngster to hurry up.

Then the door opened to the inside of the kennels, girls first into their side of the kennels then the boys. Everyone finally settled, the door opened into the large feeding room.

“Brisk.” Weevil rubbed his hands together. “It’s sixty degrees one day then thirty the next. I don’t know if I will ever get used to it.”

“Weevil, I was born and raised in Virginia and I’m not used to it,” Betty teased him. “Girls, this place looks practically perfect.”

“Those power washers do the job,” Sister replied.

“Given what you paid for them, industrial strength as I recall, they should. What was it? Three thousand dollars, and that was five years ago. God knows what they are now.”

“Let’s go into the office. Warmer there. Both of you are cherry red.” Sister placed the back of her hand on Betty’s extra-rosy cheek. “Cold.”

Once inside the office, a nice room with the Louis XV desk in the center, they sank into chairs.

“Where did you all go?” Tootie inquired.

“The huntsman here,” Betty nodded Weevil’s direction, “thought a climb to Hangman’s Ridge would be good for their engines.”

Betty called the hindquarters of any animal the engine, which included humans. Those glute muscles drive one.

“Well?” Sister raised her eyebrows.

“My engine knows I climbed that grade, as do my calf muscles. Usually we ride up there. It’s a haul but hounds enjoyed it.”

“I suppose, but that place is creepy,” Weevil admitted. “It’s the steepest grade we have but when I get up there on that plain, the thick branches of that hangman’s tree sway and it kind of gets me,” he confessed.

“Gets all of us,” Betty agreed.

Golly, stretched on the leather top of the gorgeous desk, lifted her head. “The dead men are still there, unquiet. We can sometimes see them. You humans can’t. It’s not a good place.”

Sister, sitting behind the desk, rubbed the cat’s ears. “Eighteen people were hanged there, men. Each one had a trial even then, rule of law although it was harsher, of course.”

“Do you think people believe in the law?” Tootie, often quiet but always thinking, asked.

“They say they do,” Betty replied, “until they get caught.”

“Doesn’t matter what country, what century, not much changes on that issue and the laws are made by those who can read and write and we take that for granted.” Sister thought about this then changed the subject. “Shaker called last night from Cleveland.”

“How is he?” Betty missed their huntsman of decades who had suffered a neck injury last winter season.

“As long as he doesn’t pound himself, his words, he’ll be fine. He won’t talk about it right now but if he hunts that’s a pounding. Even a smooth canter is a pounding. Once he gets home I’m hoping Skiff can talk sense to him. He won’t listen to me, I know it.” Sister pressed her lips together.

Skiff Kane, Crawford Howard’s huntsman, had become Shaker’s girlfriend. They spoke the same language. He had flown to Cleveland for the expert medical diagnosis and care there, and stayed with friends. Jefferson Hunt paid for this, of course. He was reluctant but he did go, as it was his last chance. Six months ago, neck still out of line, Sister sent him to a specialized clinic in Houston. They felt he was as good as he would be. Since he couldn’t accept that, burning to once again carry the horn, Sister sent him to Cleveland.

“You’re the master.” Tootie obeyed a vertical hierarchy but she knew Shaker and all who hunted understood.

“I learned a lot from him.” Weevil had whipped-in to the big hunt outside Toronto, before that, then wound up in Virginia, serendipity.

“Weevil, much as we all admire and even love Shaker, I don’t see how he can ride hard. It would scare me half to death,” Sister admitted. “No one necessarily wants to see a great huntsman give up the horn due to age and injury, but it’s how it works. We all are happy with your work and hounds love you.”

“I don’t want Shaker to think I’m conniving behind his back,” Weevil said.

Betty quickly responded, “He’s not like that. Stubborn, opinionated, but he is fair-minded, and remember he took over the horn when Ray died. It’s the way it happens.” She named Sister’s late husband, who died in 1991.