Рита Браун - The Hounds And The Fury

The smell of Absorbine filled the air, a strong but pleasant odor. Czpaka opened his eyes from his reverie.

Sam sponged some Absorbine onto Czpaka’s back.

“That feels so good.” The horse groaned.

Sam smiled as he worked his fingers along the big guy’s spine.

“You two have been very helpful.” Ben glanced back to see Crawford on the phone. Lowering his voice, he said, “We miss you.”

“It’s a five-boarder,” Rory replied.

“Beg pardon.” Ben, an Ohio boy, didn’t recognize the expression, which referred to the number of boards in a fence panel.

“Bad. More to fix,” Rory answered.

“Yeah, I think it is, too,” Ben replied. He turned to leave, paused, walked across the center aisle, and knocked on Crawford’s door. Crawford looked up through the large-paned window from which he could observe activities in the stable. He motioned for Ben to enter.

The sheriff patiently waited while Crawford finished his call.

When Crawford had touched the off button, Ben stepped forward. “I’m sorry to bother you again. Did you ever try to buy Iffy’s farm?”

“Once. She refused.” Crawford’s voice was even.

“It’d be nice to have Iffy’s farm, since it touches yours.”

“It would. She was adamant.”

“’Course, it’s close to town. Be a great development site.”

Crawford, irritated, declared, “Not my forte.”

Once Ben had driven out, Crawford called Jason. He’d heard Jason had gone back out with Jefferson Hunt.

Before he had a chance to rip him apart, Jason coolly circumvented the anger. “I know, I hunted with JHC. Crawford, one of us needs to be on the good side. If we can go forward at Paradise, some of those members will be resource people.”

“They won’t buy.”

“No, but they might have a friend in California who will. We can’t burn all our bridges.”

“Have you talked to the sheriff?”

“He called on me concerning my patient.”

“Oh, say Iffy, for Christ’s sake. I know perfectly well it was about Iffy,” Crawford erupted. “Why else would he see you? Did you say anything about Paradise?”

“No, of course not.” Jason was angry now.

“He asked me if I wanted to buy Iffy’s farm and develop it.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You and I need to talk about Jefferson Hunt. Face-to-face.”

“We will. It’s been hectic.” Jason begged off.

CHAPTER 25

Iffy’s remains provoked slight controversy among her distant relatives, none of whom felt sufficiently close to pay for interment. Garvey, pity overtaking anger, paid for cremation and picked up the shoe box of her earthly remains, an I.D. sticker on the sides. His wife, horrified at the idea of baked bones in the house, told him to dump Iffy on the rosebushes, reminding him that ash is good for roses.

As the bushes slumbered under the snow, the tops visible, it made no sense to squander the ash on the snow.

For all his troubles, Garvey retained his sense of humor. He gave the ashes to Gray and asked him to scatter Iffy on Hangman’s Ridge: “For if we dispensed justice as once we did, she’d have probably been hung.”

Iffy, placed on a shelf in the kennel feed room, awaited Sister and Gray’s return from today’s hunt, Tuesday, January 17.

Gray had brought her to Roughneck Farm Monday night, and neither he nor Sister wanted to go up to Hangman’s Ridge. They told each other it was because the farm road was icy. They couldn’t use darkness as an excuse, since the moon was just past full.

Slapping Iffy on the shelf, they promised to scatter her ashes and read a prayer. They would not speak ill of the dead.

At this exact moment, this impending pathetic ceremony didn’t enter Sister’s mind.

Riding Matador for the first time in a hunt, she thought this would be a good day to try him. Usually hunting was slack for a few days after a full moon, animals weary after the heightened activity of the time. It affected humans, too, hence the term “lunatic.” Tuesdays the fields were small, another good reason to test Matador. He wouldn’t be overwhelmed with other horses.

After the visit last summer by Sister and Walter, Franklin Foster up in Fairfax had said yes to allowing the Jefferson Hunt on his land. Since the hunt would clear trails, build attractive jumps in old fence lines, and keep an eye on this one thousand acres without charging him a penny, it didn’t take a genius to see the advantage to himself. The land abutted Paradise on the north and west; it was rough but rich in game.

Sister hadn’t pursued this fixture during the years when Binky and Alfred’s disagreements had flared up. One would say the hunt could use Paradise; the other would say no. She’d steered clear. There was no point in hunting Mr. Foster’s land if hounds ran into Paradise. One brother, at least, would be mad at Jefferson Hunt. Last year, Margaret, working as hard as a shuttling diplomat, had secured Paradise once more for foxhunting. That’s when Sister and Walter drove to what they considered Occupied Virginia: northern Virginia.

The Jefferson Hunt now had a fixture of seven thousand acres, counting both places together plus odd pieces surrounding those two large parcels of land. This more than made up for the loss of Beasley Hall except that Crawford had groomed his estate, built all the jumps, and been a generous host during his years of membership.

It takes a year to learn your foxes on a new fixture. It takes years to cut the trails according to the manner in which your foxes run. It’s a foolish master who rushes into a new place, squandering people’s time, energy, and money, opening trails, cutting brush and trees, and building jumps only to find that the foxes use a different highway.

That meant today she rode in thick woods, ravines unfolding before her. The deer trails proved useful. Discarded farm roads, saplings lacing through them, could be followed slowly.

Out for an hour. Nothing. Matador, walking along calmly, swiveled his ears each time Shaker blew the horn. She felt disgust about Iffy’s murder. She wondered, too, about the mound of frozen blood she’d found on Crawford’s land. Gave her the creeps.

Tootie rode Keepsake. Apart from wanting Tootie to hunt, Sister thought Matador would feel better if a stablemate rode with him. She had horse sense.

Tootie finished her term paper, but no one else at Custis Hall could keep up with her. Bunny wasn’t going to trailer one student and her horse to a hunt, so Sister had picked Tootie up Monday night. She and Gray laughed at Tootie’s stories; she laughed at theirs. Even better, she rose at five-thirty in the morning without being called three times. Tootie readied the horses while Sister made a light breakfast.

Listening to the horn, appreciating the silence behind her, Sister realized she loved Tootie. She loved being a mother again, even only a part-time mother.

Tedi and Edward, those stalwarts; Gray; Ben; and Tootie constituted the field. Walter usually worked on Tuesdays.

The mercury wouldn’t budge over thirty degrees.

“What kind of foxes do you think live here?” Trinity asked Asa.

“Lots of rabbits. Lots of everything. Both. Grays and reds,” he answered, his nose down.

“Hard day,” Delia said.

She’d put on a little weight, thanks to her extra rations. Sister and Shaker thought she could get back into the game today, as it appeared the pace would be slow.

Nothing is sure in foxhunting.

“Look at it this way, if we do find anything in this cold, it will be red hot. We’ll be on good terms with our fox,” Diana, always pushing for scent, said optimistically.

Dasher, who had stepped up to the plate, driving very hard now that his brother, Dragon, was laid up in sick bay with his wound, opened his mouth. “Yes.”