Рита Браун - Fox Tracks

Sister left him a few tidbits, then retraced her steps, again clambering over the coop. She stopped and looked up toward Hangman’s Ridge.

“You know, boys, I’d like to see it in fresh snow, but I don’t feel like that climb.”

“Let’s go home. I don’t want to go up there,” the Doberman said.

“Me neither. Full of ghosts. Full of misery.” Like the other animals, Rooster could feel and sometimes see what humans denied.

“Interesting,” she informed her dogs. “It’s protected here, the snow stayed on the branches. When we reach the places exposed to winds, they’re cleaned off. It’s always good to remember these things when I’m hunting.”

“Right.” Raleigh agreed.

“Those two foxes know where the wind currents are. If they run headfirst into them, the odor goes straight to the hounds. If they hook a turn, they move their scent. You know, I will never know what the fox knows, I will never know what you two know with those incredible noses.”

Having come to Sister as an adult, Rooster complained. “People think we’re dumb dogs.”

“Not her, but think about it,” said Raleigh, “she knows things we don’t. She can look at a piece of paper and know things.” Raleigh loved his person.

A large shadow overhead made all three freeze. Athena, the huge Great Horned Owl, two and a half feet tall, flew right between them and the sun. Her feathers were built for silence. She had startled all of them.

Another owl, Bitsy, had to flap her wings much more than Athena, but she still flew silently. Bitsy was only eight and a half inches tall, the large bird’s sidekick. Swooping past, both owls regarded the ground animals.

Sister waved. She might have looked stupid, but she didn’t feel stupid.

“Golly is such a liar.” Raleigh stared at the talons on Athena’s feet. “She swore she scared the big owl off.”

“My favorite is when she charges into the pastures just when the horses are running around,” said Rooster. “She puffs up, tail and everything, then she turns and says she made them all run. You can’t believe one word that comes out of that cat’s mouth.” He said this with forceful conviction.

“Maybe we could convince the owls to turn around and chase her.” Raleigh skipped a step at the thought. “Except the horses love that rotten cat. They’ll talk her up when she visits the stalls. They even come over when she sits on a fence post. I like horses, but they can’t be but so smart if they’re taken in by her.”

Finally, they reached the house. Sister hung her gear on a Shaker board with pegs. The dogs walked over a thick sisal rug, which cleaned their paws.

“All right,” said Sister. “I have to make this call.”

Before she could pick up the landline phone in the kitchen, however, it rang. The caller ID signified it was Tootie’s cell phone.

“Tootie.”

“Oh, Sister, I’m so glad to hear your voice.”

“You doing okay? I guess you must have heard about the murder in Boston.”

“Yeah, weird, exactly like what we found.” Tootie paused and Sister heard Val in the background.

The two were roommates, a feat in itself, since Tootie planned ahead and Val left everything until the last minute, including every paper she had ever written at Custis Hall. Princeton proved no different.

“Snow up there?” asked Sister.

“Still is. I love to hunt in the snow. You taught me that.” Tootie paused. “Can I come down and hunt with you this weekend?”

“Of course, you can. I’m assuming you’ll drive. Can the car make it?”

“It can.”

“Is Val coming?”

“She’s spending the weekend with Derek.”

“Ah.”

A long silence followed this, broken only when Tootie tearfully begged, “I want to hunt with you and I don’t want to come back here.”

Val heard this, came over, and spoke into the phone. “She’s being a big wuss.”

“Shut up, Val.” Tootie moved away from her roomie. “I don’t belong here,” she told Sister.

Hearing the tears, Sister simply replied, “Sweetie, come on down. We can talk about all this when you get here. It’s a long drive. Be careful.”

“I will,” Tootie promised.

After hanging up, Sister sat at the kitchen table for a time. Golly jumped up in her lap. Absentmindedly, she stroked the calico fur, so soft. “Let’s hope I get the whole story this weekend.” Sighing, she dialed Walter, who should be home by now.

“Hey.” He, too, had caller ID.

Sometimes Walter’s voice startled her for he sounded so much like her late husband Ray, whom a series of circumstances had revealed to be Walter’s natural father. However, Walter’s mother and her husband had always pretended otherwise. Sooner or later these things do see the light of day. Sister had found out a few years ago. Walter, who loved her, feared the truth would result in distance between them. On the contrary; it made her closer to him.

Sexual peccadilloes rarely affected Sister, but screwing around with her hunt territory sure did.

The bottled-up frustration of dealing with Crawford’s under-handedness for the last two years poured out as Sister told Walter about the Old Paradise problem, her fears about other farmers whose land they hunted, the whole nine yards.

“Well, we’d better get over to the DuCharmes’,” said Walter. “Shall I call them, or would you like to do it?”

“Oh, I will. I’ve known both brothers since the earth was cooling. We’ll have to see them both on the same day, too, or one will inflame the other because he was chosen first.”

“Exactly. You know my schedule. I’m ready when you are.” He thought for a moment. “We probably won’t hunt tomorrow, right? It’s at the old Lorillard place and those back roads will be treacherous in this weather. They’re calling for more snow tonight.”

“I’ll cancel. I do so love to hunt in the snow, but I don’t like hauling horses in it. We should be roadworthy by Saturday, though.”

“Right.”

“Walter, forgive me for spewing fury. Old Paradise has been a fixture of this hunt club for over one hundred years. Since 1887.”

“I know. You’re right that all of us should sit down and identify what landowners might be shaky.”

“We will. Next week if all goes well.”

“February is starting off like its usual dismal self.” He laughed. “It’s the longest month of the year.”

“Actually, I like it. But this landowner thieving, I sure don’t. You know, I had what Raymond used to call a volcanic moment and then I had to remember he’d say: ‘Resentment is taking poison and expecting the other person to die.’ ”

Walter thought about it, then laughed. “A volcanic moment?”

“His term, not mine.”

“Women are supposed to have volcanic moments.”

After she hung up, Sister didn’t know how to take that.

CHAPTER 10

Driving into town on Thursday, Sister was glad she had canceled the day’s hunt. Although it had been well ploughed, Soldier Road, a two-lane east–west road, proved slick in spots. The sun lit up the eastern side of Hangman’s Ridge. It loomed a quarter of a mile to Sister’s right. She was by the western side, still dark. Angled on a northeast, southwest plane, it rose one thousand feet above the rolling wild meadows surrounding it. With the sun behind it, shining through the black branches, she could clearly see the enormous old hanging tree.

Forever windswept, if foxes ran up the ridge they always gained at least ten minutes. Also, generations of foxes had expertly dug rangy dens up there, some impressive, others just places to duck into when pursued. She wondered if these present-day foxes were descended from foxes who had seen the hangings. In the early days of the Virginia colony, a corpse would be left up there to swing and decay as a warning. By the mid-1750s, the relatives were allowed to cut down the criminal and give him a proper burial. If he had repented prior to his hanging, his body could be buried in consecrated ground.