Рита Браун - Scarlet Fever

Sister’s attitude was if you don’t trust your horse, don’t ride him. If you don’t trust your hounds, don’t hunt them. The problems were always with the people, for some evidenced not one grain of sense. No way you could trust them in the hunt field or elsewhere. But those tried and true over the years, like Betty or the young Tootie, you’d go to the wall for such people and they for you.

Twenty minutes passed as they trotted along. “Faint.” Angle, a young fellow, inhaled.

“Yeah.” Zandy concurred. “The fellow who lives here won’t be bolted. Sticks in that den.”

“He doesn’t know the territory but so much.” Asa, the oldest hound hunting, spoke. “In time he’ll give us some runs once he knows all the hideaways.”

“I thought this was breeding season. Why isn’t he out? ” Pookah asked.

“Good question.” Taz wanted to find scent.

“Lots of competition around here and too much rain. Nonstop rain or snow,” Parker, a hound now in his prime, offered. “Foxes at Crawford’s barn and outbuildings. Foxes at Mud Fence Farm and Tollbooth Farm and tons at Tattenhall Station. If we push past Tattenhall, due south, there are all those foxes around Beveridge Hundred and the farms farther south. He needs to settle in.”

Diana stopped, nose down, slowly following a teasing trail that was warming up. “Somebody. Don’t know who.”

Hounds opened, moved forward at a trot, for the scent wasn’t heavy. If they ran too fast they might lose or overrun it. On a day like today, better to be prudent.

“Push your fox,” Weevil sang out to them as he watched Tootie glide over a stone wall on her beloved Iota, a horse she’d had since private school.

Bobby led his charges to a gate. Ben dismounted, unhitched the gate, opened it. Everyone rode through. Freddie Thomas, a strong rider in her fifties, on a new horse today, stayed. No one should be left alone at a gate because most horses when they see other horses move off will move off, too. One shouldn’t be left holding the gate, only to be dragged along holding on to reins. That promised a surefire bad outcome.

“Thanks, Freddie.” Ben tapped his crop to his cap. “How do you like the horse?”

“So far, so good. Alida found him for me.”

“You can go to the bank on Alida.”

Freddie laughed. “Believe I will.”

That fast the hounds opened, the humans shut up and squeezed on. They needed to catch up to Second Flight, which had broken into a gallop. People in Second Flight could ride but they did not take the big jumps. A log or something perhaps two feet they’d jump but other than that they kept all four feet on the ground.

“Jeez,” Ben muttered, trying to catch his breath.

Up ahead the hounds charged through the last big field belonging to Close Shave, stepped into a woods that would eventually back up to the old Gulf station at the crossroads, but the fox had other ideas.

Pickens, Parker’s littermate, crossed the asphalt road, barreled into a new estate being built from land cut off from the Gulf station, which had holdings on both sides of the road. Since the Gulf station’s owner and his brother sat in jail, Millie DuCharme, wife of Binky DuCharme, had sold off the land. She said she couldn’t take care of it. Well, she could, or her son could, but she was showing signs of greed in her old age despite her pleasant personality. She sold everything else to Crawford Howard.

A large sign, deep maroon background, gold letters in script, announced Crackenthorpe, the name for the estate that was not yet built. At least everyone knew the name, although it was not the name of the owners. That story would be told sooner or later. Every place in Virginia had to have a story. As the colony was founded in 1607, stories covered the Old Dominion. Some of them were even true.

Checking the road, Sister trotted across, slid down the small embankment onto Crackenthorpe land, then galloped on. The fox was turning toward the chapel that sat on the northeast corner of Chapel Cross.

The hounds pressed on then swerved east, then stopped.

“Unfair!” Audrey whined.

Was, too, for the fox had hurried to where a bulldozer sat, there to clear ground. He had run right through the oil slick.

Hounds milled about but the oil stink filled their nostrils.

Cora, moving away, circled the area, paused, then called out, “Tollbooth. He’s headed for Tollbooth.”

On they ran. Tollbooth and Mud Fence were east of the church, abutting each other beyond the church lands. By the time they reached Tollbooth, Gris, the hunted fox, was secure in his den with his partner, Vi. Their den utilized the old hay shed; doors closed, it was cozy. They enjoyed being in the shed itself, for there was old hay scattered about, half in the shed and half out. Tunnels had been dug underneath, too, just in case a human left the doors open.

“Blow ‘Gone to Ground,’ ” Shaker fussed in the truck.

Weevil was dismounting to do that as Tootie rode up to hold Matchplay’s reins.

Weevil blew the happy song then patted the hounds’ heads. “Well done. Well done.”

“Tricky.” Cora stuck her nose back into the den entrance.

“Come on, girl.” Weevil effortlessly swung back up.

He drew for another hour but the drizzle intensified into a light steady rain, footing worsened, so they trotted back to Close Shave. A cold rain seems colder than a falling snow. People were glad to dismount, their feet stinging when boots hit the ground. Sheets were tossed over horses. Many people loaded their horses, feed bags hanging inside, to keep the animals out of the rain.

As most sheets, called rugs if they are heavy, are waterproofed, the horses would have been okay in the rain but it was thoughtful.

The people then walked to an outbuilding that had a gas fireplace at one end, for it was formerly a repair shop for farm equipment. Della and Lamar set out tables, chairs, and the bar. Everyone pulled up chairs, the warmth felt wonderful, for the rain chill seeped into their bones.

Sister, thirsty, gulped a tonic water with lime.

“Refill?” Ben Sidell asked.

“Sheriff, thank you, no. How are you?”

“Sit with me for a moment. I need your insights.” He pulled up a chair for her.

“Now, what woman could resist flattery like that. Insights. Shoot.”

“You’ve known generations of people here. I’m learning. You probably heard that we picked up Bainbridge Taylor with a bagful of silver. His name was not made public. The officer who found the car thought he was drunk, and the officer didn’t know who he was. Turns out he was on Oxycontin plus booze. He’s in the hospital.”

“Lucky to be alive, I would guess.”

“And lucky to be apprehended by a young officer who doesn’t know the family. The doctors used Naloxone. They’re getting accustomed to this, I’m sorry to say. I expect Bainbridge will be identified in this afternoon’s paper. The reporter will certainly know the Taylors, I think.”

She nodded. “I’m sure someone must have told you his father, Morris, ran through a fence at Cindy Chandler’s.”

“They did. Thinking of either father or son driving is unnerving. But here’s the thing, the son swears he did not steal the silver and he did not take a drink. He admits to the pills. And, of course, his uncle paid off the media. So is this a young man who has not had to suffer for his misdeeds?”

“To a point.” She drew in a breath. “Bainbridge is a failure in his father’s eyes. Drew says Morris still knows his son. They don’t speak. Bainbridge discovered drugs instead of education at private school. It’s a well-worn path.”