Рита Браун - Full Cry

Cora liked horses, although, as they were not predators, she sometimes had to think carefully to appreciate what was on a horse’s mind. She was always grateful when a staff horse informed her what was behind her; their range of vision was almost, but not quite, 360 degrees.

“Cora.”

“Oh, all right.” She grumbled as Shaker tapped her hind-quarter.

The other hounds fell silent when the lead bitch entered the trailer.

Asa said, “Happy New Year, Cora. You were wonderful today.”

The others spoke in assent.

Henry Xavier, in his trailer tack room, exchanging his scarlet weaselbelly for a tweed coat, commented to Ronnie Haslip, who had already changed and was standing at the open door, “The hounds are singing ‘The Messiah.’ ”

Ronnie, always dapper, smiled. “Damn good work today. I didn’t think we’d do squat out there in that snow, did you?”

“No.” Xavier shook his head.

“Tell you what, I’d put this pack of hounds against any other pack out there.”

“Me, too. I wish Sister pushed herself more. You know, would go to the hound shows and publicize our club more. People don’t know how good Jefferson Hunt is until they cap with us.”

Ronnie nodded in agreement. “When Ray was alive, she did go. She needs the push, and she needs more hands. Remember, she used to have Big Ray, Ray Jr., and then until last year she had Doug Kinzer. It’s probably a little lonesome for her, you know.”

Doug Kinzer, a talented professional whipper-in, had moved up to carrying the horn at Shenandoah Hunt over the Blue Ridge Mountains. In the past, particularly during the days of slavery, many an African American carried the horn. After the War Between the States, people couldn’t feed themselves, much less a pack of hounds. When hunting with a large pack again became feasible, about twenty years after the end of the war, it was often feasible because of Yankee money. For whatever reason, having black hunt staff made the Yankees uncomfortable. Doug, an African American, carried on a long, complex, even contradictory tradition. The last great black huntsman whom folks could remember in these parts was the convivial, talkative Cash Blue. He had hunted hounds for Casanova Hunt Club way back when today’s older members were children.

“If only I didn’t have to pull those long hours, I’d love to go to the shows, wash hounds, stand them up.” Xavier straightened his stock tie.

“Yeah, but not having to pay that extra salary has put the club in the black.” Ronnie, tight and treasurer, appreciated the bottom line.

“Listen, Crawford Howard hemorrhages money when he walks to the john.” Xavier disdained him. “If Sister asked him, he’d come up with the salary. I heard through the grapevine that he offered to do so last year.”

“He did. He made sure we all knew that, but not from his lips.” Ronnie half smiled: Crawford was beginning to learn some of the round-about Virginia way. “He did, but his condition was that he be made joint-master.”

“She has to pick someone soon.” Ronnie folded his arms over his chest.

“Wouldn’t want to be in her boots. She’s between a rock and a hard place.” Xavier had known Jane Arnold all his life. Although he didn’t know it, he loved her. He was devastated when Ray Jr., his best friend, had been killed. Sister was part of his past, present, and future, as she was for Ronnie.

“You said a mouthful. Crawford’s got the money, but he’ll alienate the club or at least most of us.”

Xavier stepped down from the tack room, closing the door. “I heard that Shaker said he’d leave. He wouldn’t serve under Crawford even if she kept that blowhard out of the kennels.”

“Heard that, too.” Ronnie straightened the blanket on Xavier’s Picasso.

“Thanks.”

“As I see it, the choices are Crawford, Edward, possibly Sybil, or maybe even Bobby Franklin. Each has pluses and minuses. Clay Berry could do it, he’s making a lot of money these days, but I don’t think Izzy would go along with that. She covets social events, traveling. Being master would take up too much time for her taste. And there’s you, Xavier; there’s you. As head of that nice big old insurance company, you know everybody, and everybody knows you. Some of us even like you.” He slapped his childhood friend on the back.

“Well,” Xavier put his arm around the smaller man’s shoulders, “I would love to be joint-master. Really, I would, but right now the business is demanding. Insurance has been in a slump since September eleven. You can imagine the hit the huge carriers have been taking. Rates are changing, and that impacts even a small guy like me who deals with those carriers. I try to find my people the best rates, and even I’m appalled. I don’t know where this is headed, but I do know these next couple of years, I’ve got to keep my nose to the grindstone.”

“Sorry to hear that. You’d be good.”

“And Dee would love it.” He mentioned his wife by her nickname. “Saw our Explorer, so she’s already here and wondering why I’m not at the house. Come on.”

They walked through the snow, following the line of other hunters.

“Crawford would rile everyone but Jesus, X.” Ronnie called Xavier “X,” as did other old friends. “The pressure financially would be off. Of course, it would be off if Edward or Sybil logged on.”

“Edward is in his midseventies, and he’s glad to pitch in, but he doesn’t want the full-time responsibility. Same for his daughter. Sybil would be good, I think, but her boys are in grade school, and, truth be told, I don’t think she’s recovered from that whole gruesome mess with her ex-husband.”

“She still loves him.” Ronnie, for all his paying attention to money, did have a romantic streak.

“Jesus Christ, I hope not. What a rotter.”

“Yep. That leaves Bobby Franklin.”

They neared the front door, festooned with a sumptuous wreath, bright red berries dotting the dark evergreens.

Xavier whispered since people were close, “Bobby’s got some money. Their business has been really good this year. He knows hunting. Wife and daughter know hunting. Great family, except for the daughter in prison, but hey, she’s not the first person in America to go haywire on drugs.”

“True.” Ronnie felt quite sorry for the Franklins. Cody, their oldest girl, once showed such promise.

“He and Betty work like dogs down at the press. That’s why they’re successful, but I don’t see how he’d have the time to be a master.”

The Franklins had weathered the challenge from home printing off computers only because their work was of such high quality. They had invested in a Webb printing press back in the early nineties, which expanded their capabilities, bringing in business throughout the mid-Atlantic region.

“So we’re back to Crawford?” Ronnie thought Crawford would tone down, and he thought Shaker would come around.

“Sister will pull a rabbit out of the hat. You just wait,” Xavier predicted.

“Time’s a flyin’.”

“You just wait.” Xavier smiled, then focused on Sam Lorillard, holding a glass, whom he could see as the front door swung open. “That sorry sack of shit.”

Ronnie’s gaze fell on Sam. “He was in the hunt field behind us. Riding groom.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have to like that either, but you know the rules: you hunt with whoever is out there. Doesn’t mean I have to drink with the son of a bitch.”

“He’s dry now.”

“Oh, bullshit. He’ll be back on the sauce before Valentine’s,” Xavier predicted.

“Well, I hope not.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass. That piece of excrement cost me thousands of dollars; you know that.”