Рита Браун - The Hounds And The Fury

Iffy owned a small piece of land, thirty acres, give or take, south of Beasley Hall, Crawford’s large, pretentious estate. Iffy’s place rested twelve miles from Sister’s farm, but twelve miles on treacherous roads could take a half hour or longer.

When Sister finally pulled down the plowed drive, the sun had fully cleared the horizon. Snows glistened bloodred.

Black and tan hounds aimlessly ran about.

She stopped the truck, put the hunting horn to her lips, and blew three even long blasts. Hounds lifted their heads to stare at her. She blew the “come in” call again.

They trotted over the crusted snow toward her. A few heavier hounds broke through, leaping forward and up as snow sprayed in front of them.

“Good hounds,” she called to them in a cheerful voice.

She opened the door to the party wagon. They hopped in.

“That’s a blessing,” she thought to herself.

If they’d been shy, she’d now be on a wild-goose chase. She put up three couple of hounds, then continued down the drive. No more appeared. She stopped and knocked at Iffy’s back door. She could hear her thumping tread, then the door flew open.

“Happy New Year again, Iffy.”

“Bullshit! Did you get those damned hounds?”

“I picked up six. How many did you see?”

“I don’t know. Step in a minute. I’ll catch my death of cold.” Iffy motioned for Sister to step into the kitchen.

Sister noticed the .22 revolver on the kitchen table. She also noted that Iffy was moving along without her cane.

“I have never seen these hounds. They don’t have tattoo marks in their ears, and they don’t have collars either.” Sister forced a smile. “Our pack is tricolor, Iffy. These are black and tans, but they’re in good flesh. Someone has cared for them.”

Iffy did not thank her for picking up someone else’s hounds. “You’re the hound queen. You’ll find out who owns them before I do. I was ready to shoot them if one of them so much as bared a fang at me.”

“Did it sound as though they were hunting?”

“I don’t know. All I heard was my garbage cans knocked over.”

“I’ll pick up the mess,” Sister volunteered. “No point in you going out in the snow.”

“Some days are better than others. Most people stiffen up in the cold, but I have more trouble in the heat. Maybe it’s the medicine. I don’t know.” Her features, a little puffy, brightened. “Jason’s putting me on a new program for the New Year. He said my resolution is to build the strength back in my legs and”—she sucked in her breath—“lose the weight.”

“He takes good care of you.”

Iffy’s lower lip quivered. “I’m not even forty. I want my old self back. Jason’s lining up a physical therapist and a nutritionist.” She brightened again.

Sister put her hand over the old brown porcelain doorknob. “If I find out who these hounds belong to, I’ll let you know in case they come this way again.”

“Do that.” Iffy’s voice was friendlier.

Sister walked outside, careful on the steps. She walked to the side of the house. One can, lid off, had garbage strewn about. The others, on their sides, had the lids on tight. She scooped up the debris: orange rinds, coffee filters and grinds within, soup cans, and one large bottle—no label, but a whiff informed her it contained something potent. She gave thanks for the freeze. Made the task easier, and easier on the nose, too.

Given that the road to the barn hadn’t been plowed out, she trudged back there. No hounds.

As she drove out she pondered where to put these hounds. Since she had no idea as to their vaccinations or health records, she didn’t want them near her hounds. She reviewed hunt club members who might have a vacant stall in their barns or a secure outbuilding. She saw, coming in the opposite direction, Sam Lorillard.

She flashed her headlights. He flashed. They both stopped. The shoulders had snow piled up. They couldn’t get off the road. Fortunately, there wasn’t traffic on this back road.

One of the hounds yowled.

“Sister, where did you find them?”

“Iffy’s. Three couple. Crawford’s new pack?”

“A pack of escape artists. Got most back. Only one couple out now that you picked these up.”

“You might suggest that the boss appease Iffy as well as anyone else.”

“Yeah.” Sam looked from her party wagon to his small trailer. “Think we could get them in the trailer?”

“Better not take the chance, Sam. They might piss off again. How about if I take them to Beasley Hall? You follow me. Where do I put them?”

“The old unused barn in the back. Rory’s there patching up where they chewed through the rotted wood. Crawford has no sense.”

“Well, no hound sense. We’d know not to put them in there.”

Within twenty minutes the three had unloaded the hounds at Crawford Howard’s barn.

Struggling with ready-mix concrete, Rory tried to get it to the right consistency to slap over the chewed place. “Pretty hopeless in this cold.”

“Yeah. Got any riprap?” She named a large type of stone most quarries carried.

Sam piped up. “We do. Leftover from when Crawford put in the culverts.”

“My suggestion,” said Sister, “and it’s only a suggestion—you gentlemen do as you like—would be to take heavy-duty page wire, run it along the sides, curve in the bottom of the page wire, and put down riprap at the edges until you can properly pour concrete or sucrete.”

“It’s going to be a bitch to dig through this frost to get the wire down in the ground.” Sam did not relish this task.

“Yeah, it is; and bending it forward is no picnic either. Crawford might not want to spend the money on page wire and concrete. He’s going to build a new kennel, right?” Sister inquired.

“Right,” Rory answered.

“You can’t have these hounds running all over the country. Apart from the bad will it creates, some will get killed. They don’t know where they are yet. This is going to be hard as hell to patch up until the temperature is in the high forties at least. I think you’re going to have to spend the money on cinder blocks against the wall and some kind of grid like Equistall for the floor. You’ve got to secure these hounds.”

Crawford had walked in behind them.

Sister turned when she heard the bootsteps. “Happy New Year, Crawford.”

“She brought back three couple of hounds that were at Iffy Demetrios’s,” Sam quickly apprised his boss.

“Iffy is, well, Iffy.” Sister shrugged. “I’ll be getting on home. If I see any more, I’ll pick them up.”

It pained him, but Crawford was man enough to utter “Thank you.” He then puffed out his chest. “They won’t get out again.”

“Dumfreishire blood?” Sister asked sharply, knowing from their looks that the hounds had that type of Scottish blood. Although originally hunted in Scotland, the Dumfreishire was classified as an English hound.

“Right.” Crawford nodded.

“Handsome.” She left them to their labors and thought how foolish Crawford was thinking he could handle this type of hound.

The Dumfreishire, a large handsome hound, would be less high-strung than an American hound, but the good-looking black and tans would rapidly discover that Crawford knew nothing. They’d hunt on their own, discounting him. Also, their nose, not quite as good as that of the American hound, would frustrate him.

The English hound developed in a land of abundant moisture and rich soils. The red clay of central Virginia, occasionally enlivened by Davis loam, put the picturesque English hound at a disadvantage. Crawford would blame the hound, not himself.

On those perfect scenting days, this pack would hunt with brio. The other little thing Crawford would discover the hard way is that English hounds, as a rule, don’t have the cry that American, crossbred, or Penn-Marydels do. Again, given where they were developed, they didn’t need it to the degree that the New World needs a big booming sound, for much of the English countryside is open. One can see the hounds working.