Рита Браун - The Hounds And The Fury

“I just heard that Jason Woods made an offer on this land.”

“Good God.” Sister’s silver brows shot upward. “He’ll have his work cut out for him. Binky and Alfred won’t agree to sell.” She added, “Offer must be less than a day old. I usually hear about those things. It’s hard to keep a secret in this county.”

“I think it’s a place of secrets.”

She considered this. “Maybe you’re right. The little secrets leak out. The big ones—well, some escape like evils from Pandora’s box. And others we’ll never know. I’m thinking about Nola Bancroft buried near the covered bridge for all those years.”

Tedi and Edward’s oldest daughter had been murdered and buried at the site where the bridge was being built. Decades later her skeletal hand, huge sapphire still on the third finger, had broken through the surface, ultimately pointing to her killer.

“That was one of my first big cases on the job.” He glanced at the hunt club map again. “That’s when I learned to listen to you.”

“Go on.” She smiled.

“Forgive the pun, but you know where all the bodies are buried.”

“Some. Not all.”

“The brothers live simply?” Ben inquired.

“In dependencies, buildings that used to house workers like the farm manager. Smaller ones housed slaves. They live at opposite ends of the farm, so they don’t have to pass and repass too much, as we say. Oh, one other thing, Arthur maintains all the machinery.”

“Mechanical ability runs in the family,” he noted.

“Right.” She nodded. “What Margaret does is mechanical in a way.”

“Do you think Arthur keeps a still on the property? I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”

Sister, not one to tell on people, replied, “Arthur wouldn’t be that stupid. There are so many hollows with clear running streams as you get right up next to the mountains, he’d do it there. Arthur wouldn’t jeopardize Paradise.”

Ben considered this. “Good point.”

She dropped into a lower gear as the road narrowed, beginning the switchback climb up the eastern slope of the mountain. “Seen enough?”

“Sure.”

She turned around, sliding. She’d learned to drive in snow before four-wheel drive. “Ben, there are many ways to circumvent the law. For instance, if someone wants to poach bear on my land, they can take their license plates off, shoot the bear, say up by Hangman’s Ridge, and even if I stop them what do I have? No I.D.”

“I know. You foiling Arthur’s line, are you?” The corner of his mouth turned up as he used the hunting term.

“No. There are, however, greater sins than making moonshine. Do I think he makes it? Of course. Do I know where? No. Nor do I want to know. Ignorance is protection. If I don’t know, then I’m not in a position of covering up, right? I don’t cotton to lying for someone.”

“I understand.” And he did.

“You know, Ben, there are a lot of things I don’t understand. Seems to me you spend just as much energy breaking the law as you do making an honest living. You know we have thousands of years of evidence to prove the wisdom of the Ten Commandments. They’re broken every minute.”

“Yep.” He turned his head to the right as they passed the pillars and lone fireplace near them again.

“Then there are things you learn on your own.”

“Such as.” He was interested.

“Anyone who refuses love is a fool. Every now and then the gods give us the chance to open our hearts.”

He placed his forefinger on the sensitive skin just above his upper lip, a habit when thinking. “I hear you.”

She laughed. “The worst that can happen is you’ll have a great story to tell when you’re my age. The best that can happen is you achieve paradise.”

CHAPTER 11

Jefferson Hunt took out hounds on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, weather permitting. This Tuesday, January 3, the weather was permitting but the footing tried the patience of all the giving saints. However, the fixture card read Tattenhall Station, 9:00 a.m., and Tattenhall Station it would be.

Hunts varied their meeting times to adjust to the light and the temperature. Cubbing days would begin at 7:00 a.m. or 7:30 a.m. As fall gained strength, Sister moved the time to 8:00 a.m.

For cubbing most hunts did not print a fixture card. A fixture card was a handy list of times, dates, and places, called fixtures, usually printed on heavy stock paper, the print perhaps in the hunt’s colors. Traditionally, a fixture card should fit into a jacket pocket.

Some hunts dispensed with tradition, issuing fixture cards in varying sizes and even on lightweight paper, which meant the card couldn’t hold up to the rigors of a season.

In the family scrapbook, Sister could read fixture cards used by her grandparents.

A stickler for tradition, Sister, the fifth master since 1887, had printed Jefferson Hunt fixture cards exactly like those from 1887.

The Franklins’ printing business had dies from that time.

Fixture cards were usually received by mail before Opening Hunt. They could also be personally handed to a member by the master. This was considered a proper invitation to hunt.

Sans fixture card, a person rode as the guest of a member. The member’s social obligation was to call and inform the master.

Someone who landed in Sister’s hunt territory without knowing a member could write or call to ask permission to cap on a particular day. A cap was the amount of money a visitor paid to hunt that day. It can be collected by a field secretary or dropped in the offered field master’s cap. Recently people had begun to e-mail to request permission. Strictly speaking, this was not a 100 percent correct way to ask the master.

Sister would inquire if they were a member of a recognized hunt. It not, had they capped at other hunts or ridden with farmer packs?

The point of these queries was to gather information so as not to overface the rider. The last thing any master wanted was for people to risk injury or to scare the bejabbers out of themselves.

If callers truly were neophytes, Sister suggested they go out with the hilltoppers. If their schedule was flexible, she’d suggest a day when territory was more forgiving.

Riding was necessary for foxhunting, but not sufficient. A foxhunter needed to know the fundamental law: hounds always have right-of-way.

The old siding lot at Tattenhall Station originally existed for mules and the baggage carts they pulled. As the mules disappeared cars began to park there. In the early 1960s, railroads abandoned unprofitable spur lines. This fate befell Tattenhall Station. The tidy, dark mustard board-and-batten buildings that housed the switchmen, the fireboys, various laborers, and the all-important telegraph operator looked picturesque covered with snow.

Their condition was a tribute to Norfolk & Southern’s solid construction.

The few residents of the pretty little community around the old spur line faithfully plowed out the parking lot, still called the siding.

Nine rigs and the party wagon came out on Tuesday.

Ronnie Haslip and Henry Xavier rode up behind Sister. Charlotte Norton, Bunny Taliaferro, Dr. Jason Woods, Tedi, and Edward trudged through the snows. Bobby Franklin followed with Garvey Stokes and Lorraine Rasmussen in tow.

However, after an hour, Shaker and the hounds doing the best they could under clear skies, Shaker called it a day. No point in frustrating the hounds.

The worst the field could complain about—if they were in the habit of complaining, which, praise Jesus, they were not—was that they enjoyed a bracing winter’s ride among good company.

Back at the trailers, Ronnie Haslip, a childhood friend of Ray Jr. and treasurer of Jefferson Hunt, surprised everyone. He had hired one of the silver-quilted food trucks, Jack’s Snacks, that visit construction sites to stop by.