Hotspur (8 page)

CHAPTER 13

“I'm going. You'd better put a check by my name,”
Dragon, his handsome head held high, yelled over the other dog hounds.

“Pipe down,”
Dasher, his brother, growled.

Asa, Archie's relative, same breeding but one year later, sat in silent splendor. If young entry were going to foxpen, then he'd be there to steady them.

Shaker, clipboard in hand, wrote down the names Sister called out.

Sister would gladly have given Shaker Sundays off, but Shaker, like most hound men, wanted to be with his hounds. Sister was the same way. Covered with mud, red clay caked onto their work boots, both humans breathed in the heady odor of hound, shavings, and a hint of Penn-o-Pine disinfectant.

Doug had taken the day off, as he'd promised the new girl he was dating they'd canoe down the James River.

“If we have Asa, Cora, Delia, and Nellie for made hounds, then we can just take young ones. Those four will keep the freshman class in line.” She rubbed her chin, unaware that she had mud on her hands.

“Supposed to rain again this afternoon.” Shaker slipped the pen behind his ear.

“We're not sugar, we won't melt.”

“Moisture will be good for scent.” Shaker smiled.

“Last time we went to foxpen it was dust over there, but that's good for the youngsters. Every day they hunt isn't going to be a good scenting day, and I was proud of them. They pushed and pushed until they finally picked up a line. Took them forty-five minutes. That shows a lot of patience for youngsters.”

The sound of a deep motor made all heads turn.

Raleigh left Sister's side, stood on his hind legs, and peered out the kennel window.
“Crawford Howard.”

“If only I were out of here, I'd pee on his leg,”
Dragon promised as the others laughed.

Shaker walked over, his head just above Raleigh's. It would have made a funny photograph. “Your favorite.”

She laughed. “I have so many.”

“This is your true favorite, Crawford.” Shaker slapped the clipboard against his side.

She didn't reply, but her lip curled slightly upward.

“He's going to the house, Mom,”
Raleigh announced.

Sister figured as much. She called over her shoulder as she opened the kennel door, “Five-thirty tomorrow.”

“Yes'um.”

She was looking forward to the morrow. Foxpen delighted her. A foxpen is a fenced-in area, often hundreds of acres. Foxes can't get out and deer can't get in. Man-made dens and natural dens cover the land. The purpose of a foxpen is to introduce young entry to fox scent, a lighter scent than deer.

A good hound wants to hunt, and on a miserable scenting day, deer scent becomes enticing. No foxhunter wants his or her hounds chasing deer, particularly since there are now so many of them. Introducing a youngster to fox scent in controlled conditions helped to guide them on the paths of righteousness.

Hounds can't harm the foxes at a foxpen since there are so many dens in which to escape, so everyone can rest easy, but most especially the foxes. Hounds hunt by scent not sight, and by the time they were cast, the foxes, being nocturnal hunters, were usually in their dens. If not, the foxes soon found one, the trail of scent leading to their secure den. All in all it was a perfect setup.

The foxes enjoyed good food, regular wormings, and regular exercise. The hounds enjoyed the run followed by praise and cookies.

Sister laughed to herself as she and Raleigh trudged up to the house. Crawford so desperately wanted to be joint-master, but she couldn't imagine him rousing himself to go to foxpen before dawn.

Then again, too many cooks spoil the broth. Crawford, if she could find no alternative, could swan about and be one of those fellows who is better at running his mouth than running the fox. Still, he could write checks better than anyone else. That's something.

“Crawford,” she called out as he headed for the back porch door of the simple Federal house painted a soft yellow with white trim and Charleston green shutters.

“Good morning.” He turned, smiling.

“Have you had your breakfast?”

“I have.”

She opened the door. “Another cup of coffee and a bran muffin?”

“One of your bran muffins?” He wiped his feet on the rug just inside the porch door.

“Yes. I'm in my domestic goddess phase.”

“All this time I thought you were the goddess of the hunt.” He'd picked up a few Virginia ways, even though most folks didn't notice since they were too busy criticizing him. It never hurt to flatter a woman, a truth southern men imbibe with their mother's milk. Crawford still had to think about it, but he was practicing, which was a great step forward.

He sat down at the kitchen table while Sister made a pot of Jamaican coffee, the aroma filling the room. The bran muffins, under a mesh cover, were placed before him along with a plate, utensils, and country butter.

“Ever eat bran muffins with clotted cream? Sounds awful, but it's a step away from heaven.” She poured his coffee into a mug bearing the symbol of the Jefferson Hunt, a fox mask.

“Too rich for me. I shouldn't even use this butter.”

“You have lost weight. Look good.” She sat next to him at the large old farmhouse table. “What can I do for you?”

“Mmm, this is wonderful.” He took a sip of coffee. “You and I both like good coffee, too. Well, I guess you've heard about Shenandoah Valley Hounds. I suspect it was one of those ‘You're fired.' ‘I quit!' things.” Crawford was fishing. He could have asked Sister directly. “The huntsman leaving, I mean.”

“If a master is discharging a hunt servant or a hunt servant is leaving, notice must be given by January first. After that it's considered bad form. You leave either party hanging,” Sister evenly replied.

“Shenandoah would have endured him for another year?”

“Of course. David is actually a good huntsman. He's an erratic person. That's the problem.”

“Booze.”

“With huntsmen it generally is booze or women. One often leads to the other.” She laughed.

He drained his cup and she refilled it. Both drank their coffee black, which Sister called “barefoot.”

“I'll get right to the point. Shaker will be our huntsman for many more years, barring injury. Am I correct?”

“You are.”

“Doug's a young man, talented. He could carry the horn for Shenandoah.” He held up his hand, even though she'd made no sign of protest. “Now give me a minute. I've thought about this. Five years with Shenandoah and he'd be ready to move up to a fancier, richer hunt or come back here should Shaker retire or become injured.

“Now I know that being left without your first whipper-in this late in the day might cause a ripple of discontent, but it can't be as bad as being without a huntsman.”

“You're right about that.” She listened intently, knowing other cards were stuffed up his sleeve.

“Do you think Shenandoah would hire him?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Do you think he would go?”

“This has been his home for years, but it would be a good opportunity, a step up. I don't think he would leave without my blessing.”

“And would you give him that blessing?”

“I would, as would Shaker.”

“I would be happy to pay the salary of the next professional whipper-in.”

Her eyebrows raised. “Crawford, that's very generous. You must be in a giving mood today, because Ronnie Haslip told me what you just pledged to the Nola Bancroft Trophy.”

“Ah.” He wondered if Ronnie was calling to make him, Crawford, look good or if Ronnie had called to make Ronnie look good, boasting about what he'd managed to pry out of him. He wasn't sure about Ronnie. No matter. He was sure about himself. “You know I like the Bancrofts. And while I never knew their younger daughter, I'm happy to do this. Mostly, I enjoy supporting the club.”

“And we are all grateful to you.” Her smile was genuine.

When she smiled like that, Crawford could see her as a young woman. Odd.

“I'm sure there's a pool of people who might qualify for the job,” Crawford said.

“I'd ask the Masters of Foxhounds Association director, Lieutenant Colonel Dennis Foster, if he knows anyone who is suitable. There are always people out there who might have the skills you need for the job, but the chemistry is wrong where they are.” She wondered if he had a candidate who would then be his mole. She respected Crawford's intelligence but wished he didn't continue to think a hunt club could be run as a business. It was something quite different, halfway between a church and a charity perhaps. She was never sure.

“I'd be happy to help in the search.”

She breathed a sigh of inner relief. He wasn't going to foist someone on her. “Crawford, would you still consider making the salary contribution if for this year I utilized an honorary whipper-in? I think Shaker and I can handle the kennels.”

“Yes, but I thought the first whipper-in was responsible for keeping the hunt horses fit.”

“True. But the hunt club could use that money. Desperately. Our truck is on its last legs. It's twelve years old and has 180,000 miles on it. These one-ton Duallys are so expensive now. Forty thousand dollars.”

“Who will take care of the horses?”

“If I had part-time help, Jennifer Franklin after school, perhaps, I think we could do it. You don't have to give me an answer now. Maybe this feels like a bait and switch.”

“No, I held out the bait. The workload is overwhelming. Can you really do it with one less pair of hands?”

“Like I said, I think we can.”

“What would you do with the cottage?”

“Rent it out as a hunting box or convert it into an office. We don't have an office. Papers are stuffed in Shaker's house and mine. I'm not sure yet. I'll have to think this through.”

But the fact that she had ready answers for the whipper-in position told Crawford she'd already considered encouraging Doug to apply for the huntsman's job.

“Let me buy the truck. GM is making the best right now.”

A pause followed; Raleigh put his head on Sister's knee. Her hand rested on his shiny black head.

Golliwog, sitting in the kitchen window over the sink, remarked,
“Rain coming. Be here in fifteen minutes. It's
on top of the mountain.”
As no one responded, she raised the decibel level.
“Isn't anyone listening to me?”

“Golly, hush,” Sister chided her.

“It must be raindrops, so many raindrops.”
The cat warbled the song she'd heard on the golden oldie radio station.

Sister didn't listen to oldies, but Shaker did.

As Golly's singing filled the room, Sister stood up and walked over to the window.

“You're just awful.” Then she glanced out the window. “Crawford, rain's sliding down the mountain. Are your car windows closed?”

“They are. This has been a wet summer.”

“Compared to last one. I love the weather. Let me amend that. I love observing the weather. For instance, you'd think when raindrops are hanging from a branch, you know, hanging not dropping, that scent would be fabulous. My experience is that you can't find a damn thing.”

Not schooled in the refinements of hunting or country life, Crawford was nonetheless interested. “Doesn't compute, does it?”

“No, but there it is.” She sat back down as the cat preened in the window. “I am overwhelmed by your willingness to share your resources. And I'm not unmindful that you want to be my joint-master.” She smiled. “I would hate for you to give us all this money and be disappointed down the road.”

“If you told people you wanted me, I'd be joint-master,” he bluntly replied, but in good humor.

“Don't feel that I don't value you. I do. But Crawford, you are not a hunting man. You're still new to it.”

“Ten years.” This came out in a puff of wind.

“For the first two or three years, you, like every other beginner, were just trying to hang on. It takes a long time to learn about foxhunting, and the truth is most people are out there to run and jump. Real hunting is an art, and I don't pretend to be Rembrandt, but I know it takes study, then more study, and the recognition that these animals are often far wiser than we are. I guess I'm saying it takes humility.”

Crawford could not believe that any animal was superior to the human animal, but he did know her assessment of his early years was accurate. “I'm willing to learn.”

“And I respect that. You must also realize, surely you know, that if you are elected joint-master there will be one whopping fight.”

He looked up from his cup. “I know. I've stepped on toes.”

“Let me throw this out to you. I don't expect you to be a hunting master, Crawford, but you can certainly learn what it takes to run a club. Money is a big part of it, but the medley of breeding, of seeing to the health of your foxes, of landowner relations, of relations with the Board of Governors, of opening new territory and maintaining the old, it's a great deal of work. One must treat people with a light touch.”

“I'm not good at that,” he honestly admitted.

“And you know nothing about hounds.”

“That's true, too. One hound looks pretty much like the next to me. But I have ideas. I have resources. And if I do say so, Marty would be invaluable to our social members.” He meant Marty would throw a lot of parties, a real plus.

“Promise me this: that this hunt season you will pay attention. Try to keep your ego in check. It will make a difference.”

“So, you are considering me?”

“I am. And what about Bobby Franklin? He punched you and bodily threw you out of his shop last year. He's our president.”