Fox Tracks (13 page)

Uncle Yancey, an older red fox, casually walked on top of the snow, the crust supporting his impressive thirteen pounds. This winter, he’d dropped, not significantly, only a pound so far, but by February pickings were getting slim. Much as he tried to fatten up in those rich months of autumn, he would lose that insurance fat by February. Up until now, the mild winter favored him, but his senses told him winter wasn’t over yet.

Lifting his chiseled head, the setting rays turning his fur molten copper, he sniffed deeply. The odor of an old deer carcass greeted him. In another mile he’d arrive at the large heavy wooden
feeding station built by the Jefferson Hunt Club. Why bother with an old carcass when good food could be found?

Uncle Yancey loved Sister’s boxes. They had an entrance and an exit. He could slip in, eat, and even curl up if he wanted to. Years ago he’d gobbled himself insensate and fell asleep only to be startled awake by Sister Jane herself lifting the heavy lid. He froze. So did she. Then he finally scooted out an exit, but he didn’t run. He maintained his dignity while she hoisted a fifty-pound bag of kibble, pouring it into the feeder.

Sister fed the foxes the same as she fed the hounds, changing the protein and fat content with the season. Before breeding began, usually in mid-December, she also drizzled wormer over the kibble. Uncle Yancey could always taste it, but he’d tasted worse. That wormer was one of the reasons he kept weight on as long as he did. His coat, two layers thick, caused humans to gasp when they spotted him during a hunt. He was handsome enough, maybe not as handsome as some of the younger boys, but still.

Passing the old family graveyard at the Lorillard place, the fox noticed Sam’s battered heap and Gray’s Land Cruiser. Uncle Yancey thought that even without proper claws if humans walked on all fours they’d keep their balance better. Resting underneath the Lorillard porch, he had overheard conversations where the two brothers decried the expense of gas, running trucks and cars.

“Poor people,”
he thought to himself as he trotted off in the sheer relief he was a superior creature.

When the hunt was on, the Lorillard place and After All, the big Bancroft estate next to it, along with Roughneck Farm, meant close to two thousand acres to run. When on a cracking long run while being chased by hounds, horses, and humans, Uncle Yancey could go to Roughneck, using thick woods, rock outcroppings, and the creek, to slow the field, and then he’d fly up to Hangman’s
Ridge. The ghosts up there upset him, but not as much as the hounds on his trail. Arduous as that run was, he was fit and enjoyed fooling them. When he was in his prime, three to five years old, he could run all the way west, turn, and come back to the Lorillard place, where he kept a den.

His mate, Aunt Netty, had her den at Pattypan Forge. She drove him out last year when she saw how nice Pattypan was. She had previously thrown him out of their joint den because he was a slob, then she moved into Pattypan where she ran him crazy with her incessant demands. She rarely had a good word to say about him, even though he shared his food. The old girl was turning into a first-class nag.
Yap Yap Yap
. Drove him crazy. So what if chicken bones were on the floor of the den? He moved back to his old home place, his childhood den, which rested under old boxwoods where once a cabin must have been, before the Lorillards had the money to build the clapboard four-over-four Virginia farmhouse. No frills, clean lines, big porch, as many windows as they could afford back then, the old house was inviting for human and foxes. For safety’s sake, Uncle Yancey also had a den in the graveyard itself, as well as another under the Lorillards’ front porch. The humans could smell him under the porch, but they didn’t bother him. As for the graveyard, it too was inviting, though he’d regularly have to run off invasive skunks and groundhogs—mostly skunks, never a pleasant exchange. The two human brothers often fell behind in sprucing up the graveyard, which only encouraged wildlife to inhabit it. They’d get to it at least once a year and, as the brothers foxhunted, they left his den undisturbed.

The smells from the house enticed him. Often on warm nights, he’d prowl around the back door. You never knew what they’d drop or throw out. Over his lifetime he’d noticed how inattentive humans could be. While walking, they might juggle a cup and a plate of food, their toe hits a rock and some food falls off! Other times,
the two fellows rocked on the front porch chairs, unaware Uncle Yancey was sitting below, listening in.

Humans fascinated Uncle Yancey. He liked to listen to the sounds they’d make. Their vocal range from high to low, interested him. He especially liked to hear them sing. Each voice sounded different. He liked it best when men and women sang together, but at the Lorillard place it was mostly the two brothers singing spirituals their mother had taught them.

Now that he was closer to the old abandoned farm road, the deer carcass smell hit him again. He detected something else: an old tang, something different.

Curiosity got the better of him. He took a slight detour from his direct route to the feeder a quarter mile away, following his nose.

Turning north on the abandoned road, packed hard with snow, he trotted along, soon finding the deer remains. She must have been shot in late November. Little was left of the doe except skin and fur. This infuriated Uncle Yancey. If a human kills an animal, they should haul it off and eat it. Then again, many humans weren’t good shots. They’d wound a deer, try to track it, lose it. The suffering animal would then die a protracted painful death. Much as he liked to eat fresh deer meat, Uncle Yancey believed in a swift death. When his time came, he hoped it was mercifully fast. Most of all, he hoped to outlive his nagging spouse.

He noticed another jawbone protruding through the collapsed rib cage. Uncle Yancey reached over to push it. The whole jaw was now exposed, the bottom of the teeth away from him. He pulled his paw back. This was a human skull. Wisps of red hair were now visible.

Uncle Yancey claimed no expertise on studying humans, but he knew they killed one another, whereas foxes rarely do. If a fox kills another fox, it’s usually while still in the den before they
emerge as adults. The parents allow their cubs to kill any diseased or weak ones, then haul the dead kit out.

The four in Uncle Yancey’s birth litter survived this early time, as they were strong, healthy little things. Later, one brother, fully adult, was killed on Soldier Road, distracted by mating season. Uncle Yancey’s other two brothers moved far from the home territory. Being the strongest, Uncle Yancey claimed this area for his own, although he had to get away from his father once he was half grown. Not that his father would kill him, but the message had been clear: You’re on your own, son.

That was most of what the clever old fox knew about interspecies murder. Humans excelled at it. But he also knew they generally buried or hid the body. This human must have been killed about the same time as the doe. They may even have been killed together. The killer didn’t have the time or inclination to better dispose of the corpse. Hiding it under a deer during deer season showed some thought.

He left the sorry tattered remains of two creatures, heading back toward the feeder box. Once there, he easily slid inside, sat down, and enjoyed the kibble.

A noise outside stopped him mid-chew. He heard a side-to-side walk on top, then a familiar voice.

“Throw some out,”
St. Just, the crow, demanded in his horrid voice.

As the crow and the fox hated each other, this request surprised Uncle Yancey. The bird must be hungry indeed.

“I’ll push some out, but first you have to tell me what you know about the deer carcass with the dead human underneath maybe a fourth or a third of a mile, a touch more, from the Lorillard place.”

The large blue-black bird hopped onto the ground so he could peer inside—not so close that Uncle Yancey could snag him. He knew how quick foxes were.

“I don’t know anything.”

“But you know they’re there.”

“Sure.”

“How long have you known?”

The crow cocked his head from one side to the other,
“Mmm, second generation of maggots.”

“Long time back. Did you ever see a human go back to check?”

“No. You know as well as I do that road isn’t used much. It’s a good place to dump trash. Okay, I told you what you wanted to know, push out some food.”

“You did and I will, but before I do: Did you get a look at the dead human while the face was still distinguishable?”

“No, he was under the deer. The only reason I knew he was there is human carrion smells different. Okay? Food.”

Uncle Yancey threw out enough kibble to satisfy the bird.
“Food supply down?”

“Yes, it is,”
the bird said dropping a piece out of his beak, which he then quickly scooped back up.
“Usually people put out plenty of food for us, but this winter has been different—even worse than last year’s. It’s milder, but not much food.”

“Hard times. For them, I mean.”

“Uncle Yancey, bird food can’t cost much.”

“Most of them are trying to save every penny. I hear the brothers talking.”

“Plenty of food in these boxes,”
said the crow.

“Sister never forgets us. I don’t understand money, do you?”

“No. If you can’t eat it, build with it, or hatch it, it’s not real.”

“Pretty much, I agree,”
said Uncle Yancey.
“Do you need more? It’s half full. Sister will fill everything back up soon. It’s a big job. You know she has these at her farm and at After All? And other foxes have told me wherever the hunt goes, boxes follow.”

“You’re lucky.”

“Know what I’m going to do?”

“I have no idea,”
St. Just replied with a hint of sarcasm.

“On the next hunt, I’m going to run right by those bodies. When I hear the horn, I’m going to show myself, get them all excited, and run the whole pack, human and hounds, over there.”

“There will be hell to pay.”
St. Just half fluttered back onto the top of the box.

Uncle Yancey emerged. The crow, no fool, flew onto a bare branch overhead.
“Not for us.”

T
he darkness of the covered bridge enveloped them, shafts of light shining through the high opening following the length of the roofline. The heavy wood floor clattered underneath the Jeep, then pale light greeted Sister and Tootie at the old structure’s other end.

“I’m glad you’ve kept up your riding at Princeton,” said Sister. “I think you’ll need a tight seat today.”

“There are a lot of stables around, but they’re all show jumping. No one has the land to really ride up there like we do here.” Tootie felt her heart skip a beat at the sight of all the trailers for Saturday’s hunt. “I miss this so much.”

“Hope you got enough sleep. You didn’t get in until late. I heard you, but then fell right back asleep. You know your way around the house. I wasn’t too worried, and I shut the bedroom door so the dogs wouldn’t carry on.”

“Rooster’s gotten a little fat, hasn’t he?” teased Tootie.

“Never let a hound sit around.” Sister nodded. “He’ll run it off
in the springtime. He’s too spoiled now to hunt in winter. There’s Ronnie Haslip waving to you,” Sister said as they looked for a spot to park at today’s fixture, the Bancrofts’ After All.

Ronnie was the club treasurer and already wore his heaviest scarlet frock coat. He grinned when he spotted Tootie in Sister’s Jeep. He yelled something to the others, and the longtime members of the Jefferson Hunt turned, greeting Tootie in one way or another.

Ben Sidell, the sheriff, was tacking up Nonni. He turned, saw Tootie, and smiled.

“It’s a little homecoming,” Sister remarked. “Some of the Custis Hall girls are here, too. Ava Dubrovsky, Emmy Rogan—well, you can see for yourself. There’s the Custis Hall van.” Sister pulled in next to the hunt’s hound trailer, which Shaker drove. The club’s horse trailer was driven by Betty and parked next to that.

Tootie lifted her leg over the high Jeep doorwell, gracefully stepping out of the vehicle as Betty rushed up to make a fuss.

Much as one wishes to visit before a hunt, there’s little time. Tootie called to the girls who had been one and two classes behind her, then hurried with Betty to tack up Iota.

“He looks fabulous.” Tootie’s eyes shone at the sight of the beautiful horse. “Oh, Betty, I’ve been riding some other horses up north, and they’ve sure taught me what a great horse Iota is.”

At the sound of his name, he turned his dark head.

Tootie threw her arms around his neck.

Sister, being master, looked for Walter. She saw the joint-master was greeting those people capping—riders who came as guests of club members. She walked over to do the same.

A member is to bring their guest to the master for a formal introduction. That’s it. Hello. Good to meet you. Brevity at this point is not for a lack of curiosity or delight in the newcomer, but if
one is staff, those crucial moments before a hunt are often freighted with decisions. There are yet many factors to be weighed.

For example, the landowner whose fields and forests you are hunting is under no obligation to inform the master of conditions. However, if something is radically changed—an entire creek crossing torn up, a huge sinkhole opened—usually the landowners will tell the master, who then passes the information along to the staff.

Added to that, sudden changes in the wind and the weather is always a reality this close to mountains. A shift in the wind usually means a shift in the first cast. The strategy planned by the master and huntsman the night before may need to be adjusted to the new conditions.

No matter how much a master and huntsman map out their hunt, of course, the fox schemes otherwise. Nevertheless, like many masters, Sister preferred to start with a plan.

Today she hoped to perform the introductions, make changes to the hunt plan as necessary, and then take off right when it said on the fixture card, mailed earlier to today’s riders. This informational card listed the fixtures, and times were printed next to them. In the old days, a few reminders, such as “We hunt at the kindness of landowners,” might also be on the card. As per tradition, the size was to be such that it would fit in a gentleman’s inside coat pocket. Where a lady placed hers was up to her. These days the card size and the card weight changed. The old heavy card stock—good paper, true printing—gave way to some long, narrow fixture cards, others that folded over, and few were still truly printed. Most clubs ran their fixture cards off of computers, a task performed by a blessed volunteer if not the hunt secretary. Since the Franklins owned a large press, they did the Jefferson Hunt’s printing as a gift to the club. The last two years, Sister had insisted on paying for the costly proper card stock.