Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

“But Aunt Daniella, why? You knew Weevil. Do you know how he died?”

“No. When Weevil walked with me that sunset day, he unnerved me, as he truly looks, sounds, even moves like Weevil. But even though I believe there are spirits, people can conjure them down, but then can you conjure them back? He seemed so alive—and he is. I believe you’re right.”

“Then he must know something about how his grandfather disappeared.”

“Maybe not. Maybe he just has an idea and he thinks he can scare it out of people.”

“But Aunt Daniella, wouldn’t the guilty parties be dead?”

“Sister, perhaps there is more. He needs proof, and being a ghost is a good way to weasel it out of people. Why now, who knows?”

“All we do know is that he’s spoken to you and Tom Tipton.”

“True. But he may have showed himself to other people who fear talking, and he may be relying on Tom and me to talk. I just don’t know.”

“Do you think he’s dangerous?”

Aunt Daniella immediately responded, “Not to us.”

“I see.” Sister folded her hands together thinking. “Time. I need time to figure this out.”

“Honey, in time, even an egg can walk.”

CHAPTER 31

A thin blade of wind slid across Sister’s face. Fall had truly arrived, for last night, Friday, a frost, not hard but not light, silvered the pastures. Today, October 21, a lowering sky promised not much rise in the temperature, which at nine-thirty A.M. hovered at 45°F. No doubt it would climb into the 50s, but those clouds just might hold scent down. Given that the breeze was stiff, this would be desirable.

Tuesday’s and Thursday’s hunts saw a couple of good runs. The first hunt, held at Skidby, proved bracing. Thursday’s hunt at Mousehold Heath was going along just fine until the neighbor’s herd of goats managed to break through his fencing. Poor hounds. Goats everywhere. Horses upset and some people now on the ground. Sister and Shaker had no choice but to call hounds together, walk them back to the party wagon, and put the horses back in the trailer. The young couple who owned Mousehold Heath, Lisa and Jim Jardine, were both at work. They didn’t have much by way of money, doing most of the work on the old house themselves, including their own fencing—and it wasn’t their fence that was breached. But the damned goats would tear up Lisa’s garden and God knows what else. The hunt stalwarts—and Thursday’s crew was maybe twenty people—set out on foot to round up the goats, herd them back onto their property, and then repair the fence as best they could. Helping landowners, a foxhunting tradition, often tested the ingenuity and muscle power of hunt clubs. Fixing the fence so it would hold had members cutting down tree limbs. Ronnie Haslip kept a small chain saw in his tack room. He swore it upped his butch credentials. Using baling twine, people pieced the breach back together. It would hold until the neighbor fulfilled his responsibility and truly restored the fence. Such things were crystal clear in the country.

After both Tuesday’s and Thursday’s hunts, all heard the cowhorn call. But as she left the fence on Thursday, Tootie, lagging behind, looked back down the small rise to see Weevil, on his hands and knees, adding to the fence. She stopped and whistled. He looked up, waved, and whistled back.

Back at the farm, Sister called Jim Jardine at work. He worked for a large plumbing company; those skills were very useful at home. He was grateful to the club. Sister liked the young couple, as did everyone, and people hoped the day would arrive when Jim would strike out on his own.

Hounds, having been stymied on Thursday, were eager to go on Saturday. Kasmir wanted everyone back at Tattenhall Station at least one more time before Opening Hunt, which loomed on the horizon, each year taking place at After All Farm, a tradition since 1887.

Sister asked Crawford to join them, but he politely declined as he wanted to be at Old Paradise that afternoon when old, reclaimed lumber would be delivered. He did allow Skiff and Sam to join the hunt, leaving their hounds at Beasley Hall.

“Some of these gusts have to be fifteen miles an hour.” Shaker leaned toward Sister before they took off.

“If we get low that will help.” She stated the obvious.

“Sure, and the fox will run high the minute we get his scent.” Shaker shrugged.

“Oh, I bet we get a run or two.”

Tootie waited on the left of the pack while Betty, as usual, covered their right.

As they moved south from the train station over the restored pastures, good orchard grass still green, people ducked their heads due to the wind. Even with gray skies, the vibrant reds, pulsating oranges, clear bright yellows announced high fall. To their right, the Blue Ridge Mountains exploded in color, although the top ridgeline trees were now denuded. Higher and colder, it was already early winter up there.

Hounds, noses down, moved across the pasture. They worked under no illusion that they’d strike a line. Up ahead woods beckoned. Maybe there.

Once in the woods, treetops swayed but lower it wasn’t too bad. Riders who wore heavier coats were grateful, and most everyone had slipped on some kind of warm underwear. Sister would pull on an ancient white cashmere sweater, over which she would button her crisp white shirt. Her keeper’s tweed coat repelled just about any type of thorn as well as wind blasts. Keeper’s tweed, a greenish heathery tightly woven fabric, proved a godsend. She tied a colored stock tie, silk maroon with tiny yellow polka dots. Her gloves were unlined. Usually one didn’t need lined gloves until the mercury dipped to the 30s. Her oxblood, highly polished field boots, two pairs of socks on her feet, finished off the kit.

A few riders yanked up their collars to ward off the wind. Once in the woods, though, one could concentrate on hunting, not battling the weather.

Hounds patiently made good the ground. It wasn’t until they dipped down toward the swift creek that Pookah spoke.

She’d proven herself last year, so hounds honored her. They all trotted on a line that they and the staff hoped would warm up.

It did.

A wily red foraging in Tattenhall Station Woods heard hounds ten minutes back. Not wishing to work too hard, he took off, leaving a tantalizing signature.

Hounds spoke louder now. The pace quickened. They ran along the path by the creek. Then the line moved up toward the thick woods. Slowed a bit, they pressed on.

A good run followed this, and the pack emerged at the southern end of Kasmir’s property. An in-and-out jump divided his land from Beveridge Hundred. Two coops in the fence lines provided one jump, and three strides later, another jump, hence the name in-and-out. Not everyone kept their leg on their horse; some became stranded between the jumps. This rarely added to good fellowship, and Freddie Thomas found herself yelling for Sam Lorillard to give Keith Minor a lead or the whole field would be backed up.

Horses, eager to move forward, gave their riders fits as people had to pull up while Sam tried to get Keith over the second jump.

According to rules, Keith should have ridden down the fence line, allowed everyone else to take the in-and-out, then come back and try again. But he was undone by the task, so Sam took the first jump.

“Keith, slide behind me. Your mare will pop right over. Look up!”

Keith managed it. Freddie cleared the jumps, followed by everyone else. Freddie, too much of a lady to cuss Keith like a dog, simply blew by him once in the open without a backward glance.

Walter Lungrun, riding tail this Saturday, swept up the leavings as he put it. Everyone did get over, but this left Bobby Franklin with a hell of a run alongside the fence, out onto the road, and finally onto Beveridge Hundred. The entire field thundered past Yvonne’s tidy rental house as she watched in amazement and decided she’d follow by herself in the car. She thought she’d learned enough to do so. Within minutes she was creeping along the road in the Continental.