Рита Браун - Fox Tracks

They drove up to a large metal-sided building, color faded, roof good, windows still intact.

They stepped from the warm truck into the cold.

Art, with conviction, said, “No broken windows after all these years. You know nobody comes back here.”

“Sometimes the hunt does,” said Donny, “but no one goes in the building. Well, let’s get the stuff out of here.”

Art slipped his key into the big metal lock and opened a side door. The two men then carried twelve-by-twelve-inch cartons over the concrete floor from the building. The truck’s back door was rolled up and they loaded the cartons onto the bed of the box.

Donny pulled himself inside the truck’s rear compartment as Art continued bringing cartons. Donny walked to the back, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a beeper, like one would use to open a car or truck door. Pressing its button, he heard a click and a beep. A flat door, what looked like the back of the truck, opened, revealing a three-foot-wide space spanning the width of the truck.

Donny rapidly packed the cartons into this space. Art brought out the last ones, then climbed aboard dragging a small metal step-ladder over to Donny. He handed him cartons as Donny stacked them all the way to the top of the hidden space.

“They’re tight as a tick,” Donny remarked from the top of the ladder.

“Yeah, but let’s use the cords.” Art stooped to retrieve long, flat, heavy woven plastic cords, which the two men fastened into recessed large eyelet screws inside the hidden door. They tightened three bands of the plastic, further securing the boxes.

Once finished, Donny pressed the beeper and the false back closed. He handed the beeper to Art.

Back in the truck, Art leaned over Donny and opened the glove compartment where he placed the beeper, which had a long black ribbon attached.

“Cut the motor on, Art. It’s colder than a witch’s tit.”

“How would you know?” Art sassed him. “You haven’t been to bed with any witches.”

“How do you know?”

Art cut on the motor and the mid-sized truck engine rumbled to life. “You’re right. Sometimes I wonder about you.”

“Well, Art, every time I open that door inside the box, I think, damn, you did a good job,” said Donny. “You can do just about anything with a car or truck. I never wonder about you.”

“Hey, that’s my line of work, but building a false bottom or back or compartment is pretty easy. The trick is hiding the seams, fooling or diverting the eye.”

They bounced back down the awful road.

Once out on the decent two-lane highway, Donny asked, “When do you want to deliver this?”

“Let me call and double check, but I figure middle of the night Sunday.”

“I’m good with that.” Donny unzipped his heavy jacket as the truck heater worked its magic. “People are saying you’re running the still again.”

“Mmm. Don’t worry about it.”

“If there’s enough talk, Ben Sidell might have someone stop you on the road.”

“Donny, don’t worry about it. No cop is going to find the hidden compartment and I know every byway so we can avoid the weigh stations. Haven’t gotten caught yet.”

“Right.”

“And you’re making money. Good money.” Art reached for the round can on the seat of the truck for a dab of chew. “What are you going to do with all that money?”

Donny smiled broadly. “I got plans.”

Art smiled back. “Me, too.”

CHAPTER 6

Snows had been light that winter. The last day in January felt cold and damp. Leaves hadn’t mashed down enough to turn into humus. Dried leaves even this old sent off a distinctive odor.

Atop her trusted thirteen-year-old gray Thoroughbred, Lafayette, Sister Jane watched as the hounds soldiered through the wind devil, a tiny tornado spinning upward for perhaps two minutes, then vanishing as quickly as it came. There was a cold, low-pressure front coming in, the ground was tight, the day held promise. A wide allée in hardwoods on the eastern edge of Old Paradise provided a little protection from the increasing wind. The heavens looked as though they might unzip at any moment.

Sister Jane led First Flight, those riders who flew the fastest taking the jumps. Bobby Franklin led Second Flight, and he was welcome to it in Sister’s mind. She thought this group harder to lead than her own because the ability of the riders and their mounts varied. A good rider might be back there with a green horse, the best place to bring along the animal. Those members smart enough to have bought a made hunter, one who knew the sport, themselves not made at all, also filled the Second Flight ranks. An experienced horse took care of them so the rider could learn much faster. Hunting could be complex, especially for green riders on green horses, a mixture not conducive to confidence.

Organizing a hunt was like producing an elaborate Broadway show, only you didn’t know if your star, the fox, would show up.

Today, he sure appeared, and right on time. When hounds cast at ten o’clock, a glossy, medium-bodied, red, dog fox shot out from the sagging barn at Old Paradise, a once great estate. The dog fox headed straight for the sun.

When he broke covert, Sister sighed with relief. Hunting forced human, hound, and horse to focus intently. The cares of the day vanished, providing the energy and hope to successfully address them in one’s own good time.

Shaker Crown, Huntsman, urged the pack on. Sleek Diana took the lead, a most intelligent hound. Shaker barely had time to get the horn to his lips, for the pace was scorching. He blew “Gone Away” more for the humans than the hounds.

On her beloved quarter horse, Outlaw, Betty Franklin whipped-in on the right while Sybil Hawkes, another long-serving staff member, covered the left on her Thoroughbred, Bombardier.

The grounds at Old Paradise demanded cool judgment. The terrain varied from sweet rolling pastures to thick hardwoods, and then there were sudden drops into crevices. These invariably led to or fed little streams into one of two bold creeks. Every time it rained, the crossings deepened or filled up, the latter more dangerous than the former. Years ago, Sister and Keepsake, another one of her horses, sunk in almost up to the animal’s flanks. You don’t soon forget such an experience. Had the water been any deeper there would have been nothing to forget. She would have most likely drowned. Both she and Keepsake knew it.

The wind played tricks on you here because Old Paradise backed up smack to the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. While it might be 42°F and calm in Charlottesville, out here twenty miles west, the mercury could suddenly plummet like a crazed bobsled competitor.

The wind, fifteen miles an hour at this moment, was already creating havoc. It switched directions and spun up wind devils. It slowed, then gusted.

The scent from the dog fox blew away from him to the left so the hounds followed that line, even though the fox could clearly be seen thirty yards to the hounds’ right. But hounds knew their business. Foxhounds hunt by nose, not sight. Blessed with tremendous drive, the Jefferson Hunt pack would not surrender that line until the last molecule of eau de vulpus disappeared.

Once the fox blasted into the eastern woods, the line of scent returned to the fox’s heels since the wind couldn’t sweep over the forest floor, though it sure could bend the tops of the trees.

The hounds lost the scent. They cast themselves again. Sister held up and waited. Although a Tuesday, the field was large: thirty people, about half of them in Second Flight.

An eerie silence was broken by the moans of the trees. Branches rubbing on their neighbors created long strange creaks.

A hound of wisdom, Cora trotted over to the younger Diana. “It has to be here somewhere.”