Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

“Go forward,” ordered Sister, having been in this situation before.

The person at least had the sense to obey and not try to wedge his horse back into the woods. So he galloped in front of the master until they came back to the zigzag jump. He turned to the side, Sister sailed over, and he waited until his turn into the line, thinking he’d done the right thing. Given the tight quarters, he should have taken the jump before the master and then gotten out of the way. As it was, some horses balked at seeing another horse standing there and then had to go to the end of the line. This rankled the rider. Finally Ronnie Haslip called up to the new member, “Come back with me. You’re spooking horses.” So both men slid along the line, with Ronnie trying in few words to explain what the fellow should have done.

It was already out of Sister’s mind as she and Rickyroo charged over the pasture, affording them another view of their quarry with the pack closing and together.

“Come on, boy, get into the covert,” Sister whispered to herself.

Rickyroo answered, “He will.”

Sure enough, the red hit the covert and popped into his den, where he had to consider this new event. Over time he would give it a lot of thought.

All the hounds crowded the den. Shaker dismounted, threw Kilowatt’s reins over his head, and fought his way into the covert. The sight of all the hounds surrounding an impressive piece of fox habitation, a big pile of bones and feathers off to the side of the entrance, was worth the scratches and thorns which always managed to embed themselves in his face.

He blew the wavy notes of Gone to Ground, patted each head, and walked out, again fighting what he hadn’t pulled down on the way in.

Sister, next to Kilowatt, held the horse’s reins.

Shaker looked up, took the reins, and said, “Not much of a housekeeper.”

They laughed, then turned northwest as the cloud cover was coming down, a blanket of deep rich gray with streaks of cream.

They stayed out for another hour, picked up a gray fox, enjoyed another good run, a big figure-eight, then turned back to the house and the sumptuous breakfast awaiting them.

The only fly in this ointment was that Giorgio wouldn’t give up a line he had found, and off he ran.

The breakfast, a triumph, capped a perfect morning. Sister, crowded with people, couldn’t tell who was coming and who was going. After forty-five minutes she did see Barry come in for the breakfast, wearing another tweed. This, too, if one is being strict, is proper. You don’t wear your hunting coat to the breakfast since it may be muddy and plastered with thorns, importing the smell of horse sweat as well as your own.

Sister wore a light green tweed, not the jacket she hunted in. She noticed that most people had changed.

“Good on them.” She smiled inwardly.

“What a way to christen Skidby!” Barry came over just as Gray reached Sister and handed her a tonic water with lime.

Sister often never made it to the table. Occasionally she was so famished she had to ask people to give her a moment to eat. Then they could talk.

“What a morning!” Barry held up his drink.

All three clinked glasses.

A cheer went up when Shaker, Betty, and Sybil finally walked in, having gotten up all the hounds but Giorgio. In American hunts, servants eat with members. Very often in the British Isles, the distinction between servants and members keeps them apart socially. Shaker didn’t care about all that. He usually missed breakfasts because he wanted to get the hounds back. Sister brought back the horses.

But today was special and he knew Sister would want him to say a few words to Mitch and Lutrell personally.

He found Lutrell and thanked her. He didn’t see Mitch, so he grabbed a ham sandwich, a whole fat sandwich, not a ham biscuit, wrapped it in a napkin, and pushed his way through to Sister.

“Shaker, well done.” Sister kissed him on the cheek.

Barry shook his hand. “Don’t worry. I won’t kiss you.”

Shaker laughed and Gray clapped him on the back. “Me neither, but if I had to kiss a man, I’d kiss you. You did a great job today.”

“Thank you.” Shaker smiled, truly happy with the morning. “Boss, I can’t find Mitch to make my manners. I need to take hounds home. I’ll come back for Giorgio. But would you blow for him a few times before you leave?”

“I’ll do better than that; I’ll stay and hitch a ride home with someone. Betty can drive the rig back and Lorraine can help her in the barn; I don’t think she’ll mind.”

The breakfast kept going, turning into a party. But an hour and a half later, no Mitch was in sight yet.

Lutrell began to worry; Sister reassured her.

“I’m going out to look for a hound. With all these people, he’s probably been in and out of the house and we haven’t noticed. But I’ll look for him, too.”

Sister walked outside, waving her goodbyes, and blew the horn. In the distance, northwest, she heard Giorgio. Light drizzle started.

Skidby had good farm roads. She went back in the house and asked Lutrell if she could borrow the farm jeep.

A minute later she cranked up the iconic vehicle, which had been giving service since World War II, and drove northwest. Weather often came in from that direction, and soon the drizzle had become a light rain.

She stopped, rolled down the window—no fancy buttons on this machine—and blew the horn. Giorgio answered, but he was young and confused. The answer carried worry.

She put the jeep in second and drove on. As the road smoothed out, she popped into third. As she gained attitude she downshifted again. Ahead of her, now visible through the silver veil of rain, were the Skidby caves.

She stopped and blew again. Giorgio was up somewhere behind the caves.

Putting the jeep in creep gear, she climbed higher, the road now rockier. She noticed Mitch’s handsome stag-handled crop on the front seat, so he must have been driving the jeep on coming in or at least tossed his crop inside.

At the foot of the caves, a small smooth place marked the end of the road. She turned around, the jeep having a pretty good turning radius, to park nose out. She got out, blew the horn.

Giorgio was coming closer. She opened the door, yanked out the huge nine-volt flashlight on the floor of the passenger seat. Mitch, like most all country people, kept a flashlight in each vehicle as well as a Red Cross kit.

As Giorgio was coming down toward her she kept calling him. He’d be a couple of minutes so she thought she’d stick her head into one of the caves. She’d never been in them before. The wind kicked up. She thought she heard a clanking sound but dismissed it.

Walking into the one closest to her, she flashed the light around. Old campfires, dug in the ground, remained. Initials, with names and occasional military ranks, had been carved on the walls. She walked out, calling again.

“Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.” Giorgio was coming closer.

She thought she heard a far-off motor as she walked into the second cave.

“Good God!” She came up behind Mitch Fisher, stripped naked, chained to a post by an iron band around his neck, a handkerchief stuffed into his mouth. His wrists were cuffed and chained by two feet of heavy links.

She yanked the handkerchief out. “Are you all right?”

He nodded. It was clammy in the cave, especially with the rain, so she took off her coat and threw it over Mitch’s shoulders. She had no way to unlock the chain, but she thought she might be able to wriggle the stake free. She worked on it and he tried to help, having limited use of his hands. He pulled with her. Wouldn’t budge. Also, the coat kept falling off.

“Who did this?”