Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

Bits of brightness from firefly abdomens punctuated the light. Lanterns and flashlights pulled together were held by the stewards of all the rings. The last pack to show would have a rough go. There weren’t enough flashlights to cover the large area.

The judges waited. The incoming pack wasn’t in sight.

Finally, a steward, Sherry Buttrick, an ex-MFH, hopped in a golf cart to see if she couldn’t push up the master and hounds.

Stalls could be rented for the show, and Stone Mountain, the hunt in question, had leased one, unlike Jefferson Hunt, which used their trailer.

Sherry, tiny, efficient, and good at herding people along, cut the motor. No master or whippers-in appeared. The other hunts who had rented stable space had already packed up their hounds.

“Anyone home?” Sherry called, as she entered the stable. The lights were off. That was strange, she thought. She hit the switch by the entrance door. “Yoo-hoo!”

Dammit. She knew for sure she was facing some sort of problem.

She reached the stall. Hounds, groomed and sleek, looked at her.

“Anyone home?”

“Nope.” A tricolor dog hound replied.

Sherry walked the length of the stable, checking every single stall: nothing amiss. She thought she’d better check the restroom in the next building and ran over, ducking under the dripping eaves.

Stopping at the door marked men she rapped. Nothing. Tentatively, she opened the door and checked: nothing.

Not a person given to fancy or wild flights of imagination, Sherry felt a creeping unease. She ran back to the stable.

Carefully opening the door, she spoke kindly to the hounds. As the pack moved about, she noticed a wallet on the floor. Without thinking, she picked it up.

It was Grant Fuller’s, filled with cash and credit cards. However, Grant had been helping Hillsboro Hounds, not Stone Mountain.

She flipped open the mobile phone and called the judge. “We’ve got a problem.”

After explaining the dilemma, she clicked off the phone. It was then that she cursed herself because she realized she’d put her fingerprints all over the well-worn leather. There wasn’t a doubt in Sherry Buttrick’s mind that this could be a problem.

Within a few minutes a bedraggled Stone Mountain whipper-inran to the stall.

“What’s going on?” Sherry demanded.

“Edwards had an angina attack,” Miriam, his whipper-in, informed her. “Did we miss the pack class?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.”

“Where’s Grant Fuller?” Sherry asked.

“I don’t know. He’s got nothing to do with us.”

Edwards, with the help of his wife, a nurse, who was the other whipper-in, managed to get through his angina attack.

Grant Fuller, however, had vanished into thin air—or, in this case, thick, moist air.

CHAPTER 11

To be foxhunters, humans, hounds, and horses need to be physically tough, possess stamina, and exhibit a healthy sense of humor. The horses seem to have the best senses of humor, knowing exactly when to discomfit their rider to achieve maximum humiliation.

Gunpowder, old but still fit and strong, was healing rapidly. The swelling was down and he was bored shitless standing in a stall, so bored he kicked the walls, despite his injury, and was all the more furious when he couldn’t chew on the stall doors or windows; they had iron bars. He tried one chomp, which put an end to that.

Since no one rushed to baby him, he thought screaming might help. It did.

Dan Clement called Sister, informing her that Gunpowder was recovering enough to be ugly. He’d still need to finish his antibiotic cycle, but please could she carry him home?

Although tired from Sunday’s events at the hound show, Sister pulled the rig out but then thought better of taking off alone. She might need Shaker just in case Gunpowder decided not to be grateful for her efforts to save him.

Shaker cut off the power hose, changed from his wellies to his trusty old mulehide Justin boots, and hopped in next to the boss.

The big diesel engine of the dually rumbled as they pulled out of the circular drive at the stable.

“I still can’t believe a deluge worthy of Noah about washed us away up at Morven and here not a drop.” Sister shifted up.

“Central Virginia has its own weather system.”

“Well”—Sister was fascinated by weather—“Virginia truly is the buffer between north and south. Our swath here in the country is the true boundary between two different weather cycles, soil differences, crop possibilities. Lakes of air jam up next to the mountains, then slide off, hit Hangman’s Ridge, creep over, and slide down to us before heading east. I mean, we could have a weather report just for us.”

“It is strange,” said Shaker. “Twenty miles south of here they can grow Bermuda grass and it will winter through. We can’t. Twenty miles north and they can plant certain kinds of alfalfa and orchard grass that would burn to a crisp here in the summer.”

“We’ve been pretty lucky with the alfalfa and orchard grass. I study those seed catalogs.”

“I don’t have the patience for it. Hounds use up all my patience.” He settled back in the comfortable seat. “Nothing more about Grant Fuller?”

“Nope. Barry called this morning. The sheriff ’s department hasn’t found him; his car sits in the parking lot. No crime has been committed.” She breathed deeply. “They say.” She downshifted for the sharp curve ahead. “Very weird. Two bizarre occurrences at hound shows.”

“I’m glad we’re not going to Bryn Mawr’s show—just in case.” Shaker sighed.

“You know, I am, too.” Sister pulled around behind the stables and cut the motor. “Shaker, it’s going to be strange without Hope.”

Dan Clement walked out from the stables. Sister had called before leaving.

“Dan, how are you doing?” She hugged him.

“I feel like I’m sleepwalking.” He hugged her in return. “Lisa’s been great. Our clients have, too. Every equine vet in central Virginia has called to help with the workload, and Reynolds Cowles”—he named a prominent equine vet—“gave me the name of a young vet just out of Auburn who might be worth hiring.” His eyes moistened. “People have just been wonderful.” He grabbed Shaker’s extended hand, and the two men hugged briefly. “Well, come on. He’s ready to go and I’m ready to see the last of those hindquarters.”

The second Gunpowder heard Sister and Shaker’s voices, he started complaining. “You’re here. At last you’re here. I want to blow this joint!”

Dan had already put on the Thoroughbred’s halter. He walked in the stall with the cotton lead rope, easier on the hands, snapped the hook into the ring—and Gunpowder tried to pull him out of the stall.

Quick as a cat, Shaker grabbed the dangling end of the lead rope. “Where are your manners?”

“I want to go home.” Gunpowder dropped his head, pushed Shaker, and then reached over to nuzzle Sister.

As he walked toward the trailer, Sister bent her knees to look at the wound. “Amazing.”

Dan said,“He’s an amazing horse. Do you know his bloodlines?”

“I do. Ultimately they trace back to Domino, a stallion at the turn of the last century. It’s staying blood. Now I’m not saying that all you need is Domino in the pedigree, but if you do your homework you can find who carried it, over the last century plus. If you keep weaving together the traits that impart stamina, soundness, and—hopefully—brains, you’ll get a great horse.”

“A science”—Dan paused—“and an art. He’s being a lamb now.” Then he laughed. “Glad I don’t have to throw a leg over him.”

Inside the trailer, windows open, Shaker tied a slip knot by the hay bag. “He’s a great ride, Dan. Bold. Not a chicken bone in his body.”