Рита Браун - Fox Tracks

“I’ve heard them say, ‘Blowing smoke up your ass.’ ” the owl sagely noted.

The fox blinked, then giggled. “But how could they do that while driving a car?”

While Art and Donny unloaded cigarettes, on horseback, Crawford, Marty, Sam, and the young huntsman, Patrick, cast hounds behind Crawford’s house. Tariq and Marty consisted of the field. A few desultory flakes twirled down. The big black-and-tan hounds picked up scent and a decent run followed.

Tariq followed Marty. She was a good rider, confident over all the various jumps Crawford had built. It was like a cross-country course, and gave Tariq occasion to be grateful to his borrowed horse.

Crawford’s huntsman Patrick missed a chance to swing his pack into a southerly wind, which might have helped them after they lost the first fox. A warmer wind could send forward some scent as the temperature was dropping. But that was the day and Tariq knew the only way he’d find the kind of hunting he liked would be to occasionally go down to Deep Run or up to Piedmont, if he could cap there. Not that this was bad, just slower than he enjoyed and much of the fun was being with other people.

Nonetheless, afterward, he thanked the master, chatted with Marty for a bit, untacked and cooled down the horse borrowed from the Howards, then headed back to Custis Hall.

Sister also hunted on Tuesday. Crawford picked Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays to purposefully conflict with her schedule. Adjoining hunts, if possible, tried to select days different from their neighbors. Not Crawford.

In most respects, the Jefferson Hunt had the same kind of day that Crawford did, although the hounds found a second fox, thanks to the long experience of Shaker, as well as a bit of luck. Ultimately, any hunt is up to the fox.

In order to save gas, Sister rode in the horse trailer with Betty while Tootie rode with Shaker in the hound trailer. Sister preferred to follow with her truck or Jeep. Should a hound need to be rushed to the vet, it was easier. Otherwise, she’d have to find an unhitched vehicle or unhitch one of her trucks, which meant the horses or hounds would have to await her return. Fortunately, few accidents occurred. Given rising expenses, she played the percentages and rode in the truck on weekday hunts, although on Saturdays she would drive her personal truck or Jeep. As there were always so many people, you never knew when a last-minute errand would be in order.

Cruising along in the big dually, Sister unbuttoned her coat. They stopped at a convenience store. She and Betty liked the barbeque there so they bought up a mess to eat back at the farm. Sister opened the cigarette case, pulled out a credit card, and paid for their purchase.

“That’s a good idea,” Betty noted as they crossed the parking lot.

“I take this with me everywhere now,” said Sister. “It’s my good luck charm.”

“Umm. Where do you think we lost that second fox?”

The two hopped back into the truck, which then slowly pulled away.

“I don’t know where that fox went,” said Sister. “I heard hounds go silent when I got up on the hill. What about you?”

“I was below you, but that’s where I think we lost him. He ran up on high ground where the wind and little flurries wiped out scent.”

In another twenty-five minutes, they’d reached the barns. A half hour after that, the horses were put up, clean and dry, faces buried in hay flakes.

The four of them gathered at the house for the barbeque.

“Did you look at the weather?” Shaker asked as he piled his plate high with barbeque, a touch of vinegar evident.

“Did,” Sister replied, from the table. “Thursday cold, Saturday snow, but it’s not supposed to get heavy until evening.”

Sitting across from her, Betty smiled. “I love to hunt in the snow.”

“Don’t you think the hounds love it?” Tootie asked Shaker as he took a seat next to Betty.

“They do. Hounds have a lower ideal temperature than we do. We like it in the low seventies. And for horses, it’s much lower.”

“I love to see them play,” said Sister, “throw up the snow with their noses, jump up to catch snowflakes.” She could get just as excited as they could. “Hey, you all, don’t forget it’s St. Valentine’s Day.”

“I bought Bobby five sessions with a personal trainer,” said Betty. “He is losing weight, but I think working with another man will push him along.”

“Why?” Tootie asked Betty.

“Competitiveness. He doesn’t want to lose face in front of another man.” Betty prodded Shaker. “Am I right?”

Shaker smiled devilishly. “I don’t know. I never have to lose weight.”

The three women gave him the raspberry, then laughed.

“What’d you get Gray?” Betty asked.

“A box of Cohibas. Real Cuban Cohibas.” Sister held up her hand. “Don’t ask.”

When everyone finished, Sister asked them to leave the dishes—she’d do them—but to hold up for one minute. She ran up the back kitchen stairs, coming down with Golly in tow, who awoke too late to be a pest at the table.

“You missed the barbeque,” Rooster said, grinning with glee.

“I could care.” The cat leapt onto the counter to lick out the cartons, immediately making a liar out of herself.

Sister placed a small box in front of each person. “Good luck.”

Tootie tore hers open. “St. Hubert!” She held up a pretty medallion.

Betty opened hers. “Mine is red enamel. Yours is green. Hurry up, Shaker.”

“Blue.” He held up his medallion.

“Didn’t you get one for yourself?” Betty asked.

Sister pulled a chain out from her shirt. A bright baby blue St. Hubert’s medal hung on it.

The ladies kissed their master. Shaker gave her a bear hug.

“I want everyone safe and sound,” said Sister. “St. Hubert’s been watching over people for over one thousand years, so I think we’re in good hands.”

That night, under clearing skies, Art texted his boss, who texted back to call. Security was better with a landline and if one was technologically smart, which Art was, he knew the lines were clear, no taps. He called from home.

He and the boss texted in code for pickups and deliveries so Art knew the call would provide more information.

“Hey, boss.”

“Art, can you go up next Tuesday?”

“Sure can.”

“Donny?”

“He’s a good hand.”

“That’s what you said about Carter. I trusted you and I’m still trusting you, but if Donny proves shaky, we got a problem.”

“He’s solid,” said Art. “Also, he doesn’t drink. I didn’t know Carter fell off the wagon.”

“For good.”

That was the end of the conversation. When the sheriff had questioned Art, he told Ben some of what he knew about Carter. Not all, of course. He was afraid to ask the boss about the journeyman’s end. Now his fears were confirmed. He sat there wondering if he could get off the merry-go-round. As long as he did his job, kept his mouth shut, asked no questions at pickups or deliveries, he thought he’d be okay. But what if something went wrong?

CHAPTER 28

“I apologize for citing Tariq Al McMillan as a member of the Muslim Brotherhood,” said Congressman Rickman, looking utterly distressed. “In my zeal to root out terrorists, I have done a disservice to fellow Christians. As a born-again Christian, I was not aware of the Coptic Sect. Although their religion is in many ways unlike Western Christianity, they are still Christians, and are under assault. The Coptic Christians comprise about 10 percent of Egypt’s population but the official figure given is 8.6 million. I apologize for being unaware of the scale of persecution.

“As a member of the United States Congress, I will use my office to do what I can to help besieged Christians everywhere.”