Рита Браун - Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

They walked another half mile to the base of Hangman’s Ridge, turned back, puddles still frozen, strips of snow deep in crevices, lining the north side of any kind of rise. But it felt so good to be outside. A little slip and slide only added to the adventure.

Back home, hounds waited in front of the big draw pen to the side of the kennel office. Shaker called each one by name. When that hound came forward, he swung open the tall door to allow the hound inside.

Once inside, everyone received a treat. Again, each hound’s name was called when boys were separated from girls. Tootie then walked the girls to their various runs while Shaker led the boys.

Like any hunt, The Jefferson Hunt divided animals by sex to ensure no fights because the boys could tell when a girl was coming into season long before a human. This made for a happy atmosphere and no kennel fights, plus there were no unintended pregnancies.

Shaker and Sister studied individual hounds, knew hound families, and when possible, tried to hunt with other hunts to observe their hounds in action. One of the glorious things about The Jefferson Hunt was that six excellent hunts fell within an hour or hour and a half radius. And if willing to travel longer, one could hunt with another fifteen crack hunts. Sister loved watching other hounds, closely observing staff work as well. Seventy-three she may have been, but she was always learning, and one thing she was sure of was that she would never know it all.

The rumble of a huge diesel engine caught their attention.

“Oh, it’s the horses from Broad Creek,” said Sister. “Shaker, do you need Tootie right now?”

“No. We’re done.”

“Come on, girl.” Sister walked outside just as the stable’s big rig turned in the large circle before her barn.

“Ignatius, how did they load?” she asked.

“Good. Phil’s had us working on it, they’ve had some natural horsemanship lessons. Once they understand what you want, they are pretty willing.”

“If you need a hand you tell me, but you know what you’re doing.” Sister appreciated a good horseman and thought it best always to get out of the way.

“Where’d you like these two?”

“Let’s put them in this smaller paddock here. Stretch their legs a bit. Tootie and I will bring them in to their adjoining stalls in an hour.”

Ignatius walked up the rubber-covered ramp, slipped the butt bar, and untied the slipknot, bringing Midshipman off first, which set Matchplay to screaming.

“Don’t leave me! What’s happening?” the flashy chestnut whinnied.

Midshipman neighed back, “It’s a pretty place. Don’t worry.”

“Ignatius, I’ll hold this fellow so you can get the other one,” said Sister. “No point in more stress.”

“Righto.” He bounced back up, yanked the slipknot. It was a good thing he had the lead rope securely in hand because Matchplay didn’t back off the trailer. The athletic gelding leapt backward, Ignatius hanging on.

Sister couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, if I ever have to jump backward, I believe he can do it.”

The sensitive horse quickly nuzzled his buddy, being instantly reassured.

“Tell you what, they are both athletes, but this guy …” He glanced up at Matchplay. “Quick, quick, quick. Once he’s in work, I bet you he could turn under you in a skinny minute. Good you’ve got a long leg.”

Sister led Midshipman, Ignatius took Matchplay, and she responded truthfully, “Ignatius, that long leg is attached to a seventy-three-year-old body.”

“You ride like you’ve always ridden.” He flattered her but it was mostly true. Sister was tough.

“You are kind.” She changed the subject. “Tootie will be working with these fellows and Sybil Fawkes will come over.”

“Sybil’s good. I used to bug Phil to use her to catch ride but he wanted men.” Ignatius mentioned the practice whereby young people or journeymen jockeys ride whatever is available at a stable. Often those horses were difficult.

“I can understand that since most jockeys, whether on the flat or over fences, are men. Some good girls get in the game now. I don’t know what the percentage is but it’s all to the good. I figure a good rider is a good rider.”

“Me, too, but you know how Old Man Chetwynd used to grumble about a horse being woman-broke.”

“Yeah, I know. He’d point the finger at me and complain, ‘You’re too soft on them. Too soft.’ ”

Tootie opened the gate to the paddock. Sister and Ignatius walked the two horses in, turned them to face them, then slipped off the halters. That fast, they wheeled around to run. Why walk when you can run? Same with children.

After five minutes of this, with the humans watching, the two snorted, slowed down, then stood and looked at the other horses in the larger paddocks and back pasture.

Lafayette, the senior horse, called out, “You two listen to me. You are lucky to be here. No biting. No kicking. You are at the bottom of the totem pole. You hear? And furthermore, don’t you dare hurt our Sister.”

“I’ll take a chunk out of you if you do,” warned Matador.

“They’re fine.” Sister put her hands in the pockets of the old flight jacket. Even with gloves, her hands got cold fast.

“Phil’s got all the paperwork—you know, all that stuff, transferring ownership from Broad Creek to you.”

“I do.”

He climbed back up in the cab, grabbed a folder already a little greasy, and handed it down to her as he stepped down.

“Jockey Club papers in there, too.” Phil had registered the two horses with the national organization.

Sister flipped it open. “How about that? He went all the way back to the foundation stallions. Past breeding papers in here. That’s helpful.”

“Phil never does anything halfway.” Ignatius grinned. “Plus those foundation stallions put Broad Creek on the map.”

“Yes, they did. Well, Midshipman goes back to Navigator, which makes sense. Do you remember a ’chaser Broad Creek once ran, called Bosun’s Mate?”

“Could jump the moon, turn on a dime, and give you a nickel’s change.” Ignatius grinned.

“By now, Broad Creek has to have used up every naval term imaginable.” Sister smiled back.

Ignatius pointed to Midshipman’s pedigree and his Jockey Club name, Nelson’s Midshipman. “This is the sixth generation with a Midshipman in the name. Oh, the farm’s gone through them all.”

“Easy to remember.” Sister handed the paper to Tootie, who read it.

Ignatius put his forefinger on Matchplay’s papers. “Goes all the way back to Spendthrift.”

“Becomes an addiction, studying bloodlines.” Sister took the paper back from Tootie. “We can study these in the house. Ignatius, wait up a minute. I have the check for Phil.”

As she trotted into the tack room, the place where years fell away and memories flooded in, Ignatius and Tootie chatted.

“How do you like it here?” he asked.

“Mr. Donaldson, I love it. I’m learning so much.”

“Tootie, call me Ignatius. I think the last time I was called Mr. Donaldson was when I sat in the recruiter’s office just out of high school. Navy.” This was said with pride.

“My father was in the army. He always said it made a man out of him,” Tootie responded.

“Sure did for me. And now women can go in and do something other than nursing and personnel. Even when I was young, I thought that was kind of narrow.”

“How did you wind up with horses?”

“I grew up here. I learned a lot in the navy, saw a lot, but then I wanted to marry and see my kids grow up. So I came home and Phil hired me. I knew a little bit about horses. Learned a lot more. Ah, here comes the Master.”