Fox Tracks (29 page)

The walk turned into a trot, but still no music. The woods opened up onto a rough pasture, broom straw sticking up through the cut hay stubble. It would take a good long time for Kasmir to focus his renovation labors back here—best to concentrate on the really good pastures near the roads. Also, the soil varied at Tattenhall Station. As Kasmir rode on his gorgeous Thoroughbred over the field being dusted with snow, he made a note to take soil samples back here.

Large fallen trees bore witness to high winds. Their split-open trunks showed they were old, and had weakened.

Hounds leapt over a sycamore down by a narrow stream. They crossed the stream, as did Shaker, then Sister. They met another woods, mostly hardwoods and a few pines. Hounds kept on, but still not speaking. The snow fell steadily.

The low pressure should help scent, but an old line is an old line. Shaker and the hounds hoped it would warm up. They emerged on a large eastern field, a giant walnut in the middle, so thick three men could maybe get their hands around the trunk. Its bare winter branches were black with vultures. They looked down at the horses, then toward the humans and horses moving toward them. None of them moved.

Sister had seen vultures in a denuded tree many times, although
not in the snow. Sooner or later, they’d lift off, returning to better protection. She hoped they didn’t lift off as the horses rode by, for surely it would spook a few.

The birds stayed eerily still, continuing to watch.

The hounds lost the scent in the middle of the field. They cast like spokes in a wheel from the center, which was Shaker. But to no end.

Shaker figured they might as well hunt back. They’d been out an hour and a half. With a little luck there was still hope for another run. Shaker returned to the woods at a distance from the vultures, and drew the dogs along the edge of the woods. He patiently walked along, Betty and Tootie now in the middle of that field, battling winter winds.

Sybil was in the woods. She let out a holler. “Tallyho!”

Hounds moved toward her voice, as did Shaker, finding a path in. He caught a glimpse of his whipper-in, hat off, snow already on her hair, for it was coming down fast now. Sybil’s hat and the horse’s nose were pointing due north.

Quickly, Shaker got on the deer path, moving in that direction. Sister found the wider path, tractor-wide.

Within minutes, good old Asa opened, and off they ran, due north, straight into the snow and now light wind. Sister couldn’t see and really, Matador couldn’t see all that well either.

The hounds burst out of the woods and into another large pasture, but the fox was nowhere in sight. They blew through that, cleared a coop, as did Shaker, then Sister. Betty and Tootie jumped an old tiger trap farther up the fence line, but all still ran true north. Fifteen minutes later, the hounds crossed the east–west road and flew into Orchard Hill.

An unexpected siren jolted Sister, who held up the field at the roadside jump, which was three stout logs lashed together.

At first she thought it was the fire department, but then a
squad car—sheriff’s department, sirens blasting, lights flashing, which Matador did not appreciate—screamed right by her. An ambulance raced behind.

She waited. Waited a bit more, for the snow seemed to soak up sound. Then she jumped the logs, crossed the road carefully, and jumped into Orchard Hill over a break in the three-board fence. Orchard Hill needed some help, but in these hard times so did a lot of other farms. As she moved along, she gave thanks that when she talked to the owners, they’d said they would not give way to Crawford.

Straining to hear the hounds, she finally picked up the sound. Ride to cry, which she did. Galloping through the orchard and the wide roads around the different types of apples, she made up the ground. This is when you want to be on a Thoroughbred. She scarcely felt the ground beneath his hooves, nor could she hear anyone behind her.

The hounds cut north. She caught a glimpse of Sybil, low on her horse, galloping straightaway.

Three tiers of square hay bales lashed together, now snow-covered, filled in for a jump. It was a nice jump, really. Matador had a split second of hesitation as he looked at all that white. He didn’t remember white, and horses remember everything. One good smack on his hindquarters with her crop and he sailed over, grateful that none of his stablemates had seen that split second. Matador was only a year into foxhunting so he still had a bit of learning to do. Still, his talent was above reproach, and he showed it as he flattened out.

Sister couldn’t remember the last time she rode so fast. Snow hit her more on the right side now, but she had to squint to see. She could still make out Sybil’s back as they blasted over an open field, then had to draw up and shift down into a trot. She’d run up right on Chapel Cross itself.

Hounds surrounded the foundation of the stone structure, the cross somewhat visible in the driving snow. A religious fox had dug a cozy den at the foundation. However, he wasn’t there.

Wise in the ways of hounds, the fox being chased had jumped into the unoccupied den, which had a tunnel opening farther down along that same foundation. The sly fox then hurried out and over to the graveyard surrounded by trees. If you positioned your den just right vis-à-vis the headstones, graveyard dens were cool in the summers and often warm in the winters. The hounds had no idea their quarry was only fifty yards behind them.

One by one, the field gathered behind Sister. Most had made it over the jumps. Those with faster horses kept up. Others trickled in until finally Bobby and Second Flight arrived.

Shaker dismounted, blew “Gone to Ground.” Praising his hounds, he turned his face away from the snow. The church’s sexton chose not to come out and celebrate with them, but Mr. Vega did like hunting.

“Shaker, let’s go in,” said Sister. “This thing is turning into a real blaster.”

“Righto, Boss.”

“Why don’t we walk back and through the gates?” she said. “No point in jumping if we don’t have to and that was a hard run. We’ve been out—”

He looked at his watch as she looked at her grandfather’s pocket watch, saying first, “Three hours and twenty-one minutes.”

She giggled. “I was going to say the exact same thing.”

How she loved a snowy hunt. Hounds, tails up, pranced, some even twirling around, as they made their way back to Tattenhall Station.

People in both fields laughed, talked excitedly, and shared their flasks. Nothing like a sip of spirits to warm the body and loosen the tongue.

Moving at a brisk walk, they arrived at Tattenhall Station twenty minutes later, and everyone hurried to take care of their horses.

That done, they couldn’t get into Tattenhall Station fast enough. Helped by Vajay until everyone was inside, Mandy held up Kasmir with one thing after another. Then they led him in. As he walked through the station doors, a cheer went up.

Out of her coat and into a tweed, proper for a breakfast, Sister held up a glass to toast. “To Kasmir Barbhaiya on his saint day, with thanks from Jefferson Hunt. What would we do without him?”

At that, three cheers lifted the rafters and all the women rushed to kiss him. Kasmir blushed.

He simply said, “It is an honor and a joy to be part of Jefferson Hunt and hunting over lands that Mr. Jefferson himself once knew.” He paused. “And, of course, the kisses from the beautiful Jefferson Hunt women make it all worthwhile, but I have not yet been kissed by our master.”

Grinning, Sister came over, kissed him, and gave him a big hug. She knew how lucky she was to have someone like this in the club and in her life. He was one of those men who made life deeper, more colorful. She’d long ago learned if there’s someone who robs your life of color, get rid of them. Here she was, surrounded by those who were giving instead of taking.

“I do mean it, Kasmir,” she said. “My guardian angel smiled on me the day you first rode with us.”

He whispered in her ear, “I came back to life on that day, Sister. I thank you.”

What he didn’t say was that, later that day of his first hunt with Sister, he had distinctly heard his late wife’s voice saying, as though she were in the passenger seat of his car, “Husband, I’m dead, you live and love and laugh.”

If there were ghosts at Hangman’s Tree, there were also ghosts at Tattenhall Station. Spirits who remembered stepping off a train
to greet a husband, wife, children, parents, or dear best friends. But love lingered, too, and this breakfast glowed with that, and the strong friendships in the group.

At the rear of First Flight, Ben had heard the sirens, but didn’t know one was from his department. Realizing that, Sister made her way over to him. “Ben, one squad car roared by.”

“Thank you.” He moved away, fished out his phone to call headquarters.

“Lillian, I’m at Tattenhall Station. I was told that a squad car came out here. Why?” He guessed Art got caught with his still as he waited for Lillian to read the exact call-in.

He heard the report, thanked her, and hurried through the crowd.

He found Sister. “Apologize to Sybil for me. I won’t be back at the barn to help with Nonni.”

“Of course. Is there anything I can do?”

He looked into her eyes. “Crawford Howard was shot at Old Paradise.”

A
rt looked stricken. “I walked outside, slipped, and the gun went off. It was an accident: Crawford is about to write a big check to my father. I’m not going to queer that deal.”

Still in hunt kit, Ben sat opposite the distraught young man down at the police headquarters, quiet on this snowy Saturday.

“You have a permit for the twenty-two. Checks out.”

“Sheriff, if I was going to kill someone, would I do it with bird-shot?”

“No. But can you tell me where you were on Thursday, when Jane Arnold and her hounds were shot at not far from your barn?”

“Well, I don’t know the time of that but I was in the garage most all the day.”

Ben didn’t know about the shotgun incident until Crawford had called the sheriff to loudly declare the libelous charges levied against him ridiculous. It took Ben ten minutes to find out what was ridiculous because Crawford’s telephone rant continued that long.

Later that evening, Ben called Sister, who’d made light of the
incident. She had enough trouble losing Old Paradise and she wasn’t going to do anything to cause difficulty for the DuCharmes. Whoever fired the shots wasn’t trying to harm her, Shaker, or the hounds. She assumed those shots were a warning to stay off of Old Paradise.

“Art, do you own a shotgun?” Ben asked.

“I own two. A twelve-gauge over and under, and a twenty-eight-gauge single barrel. The twelve-gauge is so loud, such a kick, I’m going to sell it. I prefer the twenty-eight when I’m bird hunting, which I rarely have time to do.”

“Did you know about what happened Thursday at Old Paradise?”

“No. Why didn’t someone tell me or Dad?”

Ben tilted his head slightly. “That incident was reported to me by Crawford, who swore he didn’t do it. And Sister, who was following hounds, did not report it—even though hounds, Shaker, and the master were fired upon.”

“Someone aimed for them? A shotgun has a big spread. You’d think they’d be hit. Or was it a rifle?”

“Shotgun, and it was fired over their heads from the hayloft of the barn, so they think. But they didn’t see the person. I find it very odd that two firing incidents have occurred on Old Paradise.”

“Hitting Crawford was an accident. I should have unloaded the shells. I know better, but I was only walking to the truck, which was parked outside the barn.”

“Your father and mother live on one side of your family’s property and your uncle on the other. You live closer to your uncle than your father. Does this create tension?”

“No. Uncle Alfred and I get along, but I’m careful. I don’t want to hurt Dad, but neither Margaret nor I want any part of their fight. Since Margaret’s at the clinic or the hospital so much, I usually check the farm at night. I check the barns, the outbuildings.
There’s nothing to steal, but sometimes people will sleep in them. With these hard times I’ve found a few folks. I do turn them out. How do I know they won’t light up and fall asleep? Our outbuildings are built with huge timbers. I don’t want a fire, especially in the barn, which I’m hoping we can rehab with that big check.”

“Did anyone other than Crawford see you trip and fall with the twenty-two?”

“Snow was coming down. Still is. Tariq Al McMillan was behind him. He called the ambulance to report Crawford had been hit, and I guess they called your department.”

“Yes, they did. Art, obviously I’m not going to arrest you. Crawford made a statement that it was an accident and he was embarrassed that an ambulance came, but he does have shot near his eyes.”

“I’m really sorry about that. Tomorrow I’ll go to his house and try to make amends somehow. I don’t know what else to do. It was a stupid mistake.”

“That it was. Right now, we’re being extra careful. We want to solve Carter Weems’s murder. No law enforcement agency wants an unsolved murder.”

“Yes, sir.”

Released, Art drove back to Old Paradise going twenty-five miles an hour, as the roads had deteriorated. It really was an accident, shooting Crawford. Firing over the heads of the Jefferson Hunt hounds was not.

He knew that Crawford would be hunting at Old Paradise Saturday, but he didn’t expect Sister. The more he’d thought about the tobacco being in that barn, the more he knew he had to move it. The chances were slim that anyone would go inside the barn, but he didn’t want to risk it. His father would blame it on his uncle. A lot of questions and snooping would result. By himself, he had
loaded up his truck, parked in the closed-up barn, and was ready to go back down the ladder when he heard the hounds. Later, after the shooting, he returned and drove the truck to his house, parking it outside. Right now that seemed safer than anywhere else, and he would be ready to drive north come Tuesday.

He had to find a better storage place. He had a furniture delivery Friday on his way back from New Jersey. It gave him a cover. As for storage, he’d think of something.