Рита Браун - Fox Tracks

The hounds moved along more deliberately than before, but they stuck to it, even while Sister and the two fields of hunters could hear the splinter pack of hounds just screaming.

“Should we go to them?” DeDe asked.

“No, we should not,” Asa firmly replied.

Sybil, riding next to those hounds, was having one of the best hunts of her life. The red fox burst out in front of her, crossed a narrow path in the woods, then crossed back up ahead. Fox, hounds, and Sybil found themselves out on that same high meadow as the main group but a good half mile farther down.

All of a sudden, the sky filled with crows flying low over Sybil’s fox. The crow called St. Just hated foxes. He led the squadron of birds, but the fox easily evaded them, dropping into the sunken farm road. Crossing the old rutted mess, the red fox shot out on the other side of the road, circled partway and then, at last, took refuge in an old shed.

Within five minutes, the fox hunted by the main pack also ran into the shed.

Fortune smiled on Jefferson Hunt this day. If the foxes had not come back together, who knows when or how the pack would have been reunited?

Riding up to the shed door, Shaker saw it was locked.

Walter dismounted, and pulled a heavy key ring from his pocket. He tried the key that was to fit this lock. Didn’t work.

“This isn’t my lock,” Walter said to Shaker.

“It’s okay,” said Shaker. “I don’t need to get in there. I’ll blow ‘Gone to Ground’ out here.”

Walter swung back up on Clemson, riding over to Sister as Shaker blew the magic notes.

Once done, Walter said, “Sister, something’s wrong here. I’m going back, and I’ll take someone with me if you don’t mind. I need to cut the lock.”

“Fine. Take Gray.” She turned, calling to her boyfriend. When Gray heard the request, he rode back with Walter.

Shaker smiled at Sybil, picked up the hounds and the two whippers-in, and the pack walked down the rutted road to the creek. Whenever there’s a mill, there’s water for miles—certainly more than enough to satisfy a pack of thirsty hounds.

Walter and Gray reached the stables in twenty-five minutes. They untacked their horses, wiped them down, threw down some hay, and hung up fresh water buckets.

“You’ve got bolt cutters?” Gray asked.

“Yeah, I do.”

Once equipped, the two men piled into Walter’s Jeep, drove out the main drive to head west toward town. Close to a mile down the state road, they came to the bumpy farm road at the edge of Walter’s land. Bouncing and sliding back to the shed, they reached it without too many head bruises. A seat belt could only do so much.

Walter was large and powerful like Sister’s Big Ray had been. He easily snapped the hardened lock throat. He swung it around, dropped it out of the lock slot to open the door.

The two men stepped inside the cavernous space.

At the end, two large den openings announced good living for foxes.

Gray lifted his head and inhaled much as the hound Asa had done at the beginning of the day’s hunt. “Tobacco,” he declared.

Sniffing, Walter shrugged. “Yeah, but why?”

Gray looked down to where it appeared boxes had been stacked. A few little squiggles of shredded tobacco dotted the floor. He knelt down, took off his gloves, and pinched the slivers between his thumb and forefinger. He stood up, dropping the meager find into Walter’s hand.

Walter smelled it, then held it under Gray’s nose.

“It’s pretty good tobacco.” Gray shrugged as he faced the physician.

About twenty years apart in age, the two fit men stood in the large space, pondering the possibilities when a vixen carefully peeped out of her den.

Neither man noticed, so she remained still to better study this oddly built species. Why they all didn’t fall flat on their faces she didn’t know.

Walter again smelled the tobacco. “I don’t get it.”

“Contraband,” said Gray. “Sister’s been doing research since that fellow was murdered in Manhattan. There are millions of dollars to be made—that are being made—on contraband tobacco. Smuggling cigarettes into states with high cigarette taxes appears to be a profitable black market.”

“Jesus Christ.” Walter whistled. “Why the hell are they using my shed?”

Gray replied, “For one thing, it’s far out here and you don’t use it. The road testifies to that. As to how long they’ve been using it, who knows? But I would figure the tobacco is prepared in one location, rolled, packed, brought here. When a seller needs more, I guess it’s shipped to them. They are likely finished here or we’d find more evidence: shredded leaf or empty packs, stuff like that.”

Walter scraped the concrete floor with the toe of his boot. “Keeps the moisture out.”

“Right. This is a good place to stash goods.”

Walter dropped the shards of tobacco into his pocket. “Well, it’s someone who knows the territory.”

“I’m thinking it’s someone who hunts,” said Gray.

“This isn’t a poacher,” said Walter. “Like what happened on your place—that could have been the work of poachers. I don’t have poachers.”

“Actually, Walter, I was thinking this is the work of someone who foxhunts.”

CHAPTER 23

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Donny growled at Art, sitting behind the wheel of his truck.

“But you said you all moved off.”

“We did,” said Donny, shifting in the passenger seat. “We got on another fox, but Walter and Gray rode back to the house. I know they came back to the shed. I told you this.”

“I’m not stupid!” snapped Art. “But I want to make sure. That big shed is perfect. You didn’t see anyone there.”

“No, and I couldn’t very well ride back there by myself and make sure, could I? Come on, Art, think. I also couldn’t ask Walter and Gray what they were up to. We’d better find another place.”

Art, sitting inside his truck, Donny in the passenger seat, fiddled with the vehicle’s radio, tuning in a twangy song about bad luck. “I hope the boss doesn’t find out,” he said.

They talked in Art’s truck, motor running, at Roger’s Corner. People often bought fried chicken, potato salad, and brought it back to their vehicle to eat. There was no place to sit at the convenience store. Donny’s half-ton 1992 Ford F-150 van was next to Art’s Topkick.

Donny reached over to turn down the country-and-western station. “Listen to me. Shut up. If he finds out anything, it will be because Walter and Gray talked. Then we can say we didn’t want to bother him about it, he’s got a lot on his mind. Listen to me, Art. Don’t turn up the goddamned radio station! Shut up. Act normal. We need to find another place to store the cigarettes until it’s time to ship them. Let me think.”

“Kasmir Barbhaiya has so much property he doesn’t know what to do with it, and it’s close. Or there’s Tattenhall Station.”

Donny stroked his chin. “Tattenhall Station is vulnerable.”

Art was getting surly. “Why?”

“Too many people drive by,” said Donny. “It’s a crossroads and the railroad tracks slow them down. If we’re seen there too many times, it might tip off someone. Also, sometimes Jefferson Hunt is allowed inside.”

“Walter and Gray don’t know what’s going on. They’ll forget this in time.”

“I hope so. We have a couple of choices. We can rent a large storage unit. People come and go in those places all the time. The problem is that tobacco in such large quantities even though boxed throws off a strong odor.”

“Where else could we put it?”

“We could buy up some rolls of insulation. It’s light, easy to lift. The main barn at Old Paradise is in good shape. Maybe Margaret goes in there, but I doubt it. Alfred doesn’t bother it either. That road’s so-so. It’s passable. Better than the road to Walter’s shed. Also, people expect you to be on the property.”