Рита Браун - Hotspur

He told her there might be a bit of ground cover October fourth or fifth. An edge of chilly air should be cutting into central Virginia then.

True to her word, she asked the membership to allow the sheriff to test their .38s. People complied with her request. Nothing came of it, which was no surprise.

She called Alice Ramy in Blacksburg and told her if any wild rumors reached her at Virginia Tech or back home, to dismiss them until they could talk.

By Thursday, October third, she felt they were as ready as they’d ever be. It was still warm with azure skies. She fretted over the weather.

That afternoon she and Shaker walked out puppies.

“Had a good look at Sari Rasmussen’s mother yet?”

Shaker rolled his eyes. “A meddlesome woman.”

“Me or Lorraine?”

“You.” He laughed. “I’ve spoken to her a few times— when she comes by to pick up Sari. I’m starting to like the days when Jennifer’s car breaks down.”

“Good.”

They walked along, praising the young ones. Clouds of butterflies whirled upward from the horse manure in the farm road. Small butterfly umbrellas of yellow, orange, milk white, and rust attracted the puppies’ attention as they passed.

“Nervous?”

“Yes,” Sister answered truthfully.

“I still think you should give Ben Sidell a heads-up.”

“I don’t know. He’d be wasting an entire morning. Nothing may happen.”

“The problem is, if something does flare up, if we do rock the killer’s world, it could get real ugly. You carry your gun.”

“I will.”

“Let’s stroll through the orchard. Won’t hurt these chillun’ to smell apples.”

The boughs of the old trees bent low, their bounty ready for picking. The Mexicans specializing in such small orchards were due next Monday. A young enterprising fellow, Concho, contracted with the small orchards, and his business was booming.

Puppies lifted their heads, nostrils wide open. The rich fragrance of apples greeted them as it did the humans. However, the hounds could also smell the different types of insects there as well as all the various types of bird droppings. Their experience of the orchard was richer than that of humans’, whose senses were duller.

The hound pads pattered over the grass, creating a rhythm. Their light panting provided a counterpoint. The heavier tread of Sister and Shaker sounded like a backbeat.

Once out of the orchard they headed back toward the kennels.

“Occurs to me we are putting down a T cross.” Shaker finally spoke.

“Uh-huh.” Sister felt the warm sun on her back like a friend’s hand, reassuring.

Sometimes, especially if the summer or fall lacked rainfall, the earth packed hard like brick. Getting a line of scent proved damnably difficult. Older hounds, having endured bad scenting conditions, stuck it out, kept trying. Younger hounds became frustrated more easily. Cubbing season coincided with rutting season for deer, so their odor was intensified and tempted young ones. If they couldn’t find fox scent why not try this other heavy, powerful aroma, so powerful even humans could smell it.

Whippers-in would crack their whips, pushing back the “bad kids” if they could reach them. The thick coverts of Virginia sometimes delayed a whipper-in and hounds skedaddled.

Staff could forgive a hound breaking once and needing to be corrected. Touching a deer twice, the proper word being touching not chasing, called for other measures.

Sister and Shaker would get the whippers-in or two trusty members to lay a T cross of scent.

Early in the morning, the dew heavy on the meadows, one person would put down fox scent. The line ended up in a glorious pile of dog cookies.

Crossing this just like a T bar would be a line of deer scent. This line led directly to a thick covert. One or two persons hid in there with noisemakers and ratshot.

Deer scent and fox scent can be purchased at hunting stores. Whoever handled the potent little bottles needed to be careful or they’d reek for days.

If hounds broke at the cross of the T and headed to the covert, an unpleasant surprise awaited them. The humans hollered at them, fired ratshot in the air. If a hound occasioned to be particularly thickheaded, persisting in pushing the deer scent, a little peppering of ratshot on the nether regions cured him.

Usually, the cacophony startled the hounds and they turned tail quickly, joining their comrades who stuck to fox scent.

By the time the group reached the cookies they knew they had made the right decision.

The foxhound is a problem solver, a most intelligent creature. It remained the province of the human to make sure that the hound solved the problem correctly and was properly rewarded for it.

“If this works and the killer goes on the false scent, you’ll be in high cotton.” He opened the chain-link gate to the puppy run. “ ’Course if that doesn’t work you are going to have a lot of people spring-loaded in the pissedoff position.”

“I know.” She shut the gate as the last young one scooted in.

“Even if you don’t see anything, by the time you get back to the trailers there will be questions. For all I know, these two actors will be back there waiting for their Oscars.”

“Well, they’re supposed to come back here.”

“Boss, Murphy’s Law.”

“Oh, shut up. Don’t you think I’ve gone over this until I’m dizzy? I don’t know what’s going to happen.” She said this in a good-natured way.

He sighed. “Maybe it’s a blessing we don’t know the future.”

CHAPTER 40

Hounds’ voices pleased hounds and humans, but Golly thought them cacophonous. Her oh-so-sensitive ears could listen to Bach or to the sound of a can of cat food being opened but not to hounds. She avoided the kennels on hunt mornings. The hounds in the draw pen exuded a state of rare excitement. The ones left behind howled piteously.

Only after everyone settled down would she venture forth, pushing open her cat door, next to the much larger doggie door. She’d sit just outside looking left, right, up, and down with an air of studied superiority. Then, every move considered, she would daintily walk to her destination.

This morning, Saturday, October fifth, she sat outside despite the noise at the kennels. This was the day the Jefferson Hunt would hunt Foxglove Farm.

Walter, Melissa Lords, and Brandon Sullivan had arrived at the barn at six-thirty A.M. Each person so resembled the deceased that the effect was startling even without a mist. And Robert Van Winkle’s forecast had been on the money. A cold front nudged through, and thin fog hugged the creeks and swales. Walter, knowing the territory, led Melissa and Brandon to their places.

Raleigh and Rooster sat with Golly, watching the activity.

“Why don’t you jump in the back of the pickup?” Rooster suggested to Raleigh, who could jump much higher than he could.

“She’d see me and make me get out.” Raleigh sneezed as a whiff of goldenrod tickled his nose.

“Dirty pool. We get stuck here and hounds get to go— and on such an important morning,” Rooster grumbled.

Golly knew her human. “She’ll put you in the tack room if you don’t behave and you won’t go anywhere. You sit tight. Once they move off you’ll have to circle in the woods, but you can do it if you want to follow.”

Rooster looked at Raleigh, who lay down, putting his elegant head on his paws. “I don’t like one thing about this.”

Rooster grumbled, “I bet those good-for-nothing red foxes won’t run. On top of everything else, a blank day.” He closed his eyes on “blank.”

Golly replied, “You never know what a fox will do. But Sister needs you.”