At Foxglove Farm, a small waterwheel designed by owner Cindy Chandler sent water from the upper pond to the lower pond. Even in winter, the delightful sound of the splash on the wheel, followed by the emergence of a stream of water from the pipe just above the lower pond, was refreshing. The ponds, though frozen, rarely froze six or seven inches thick, so the wheel could always pull up water. Only once in twelve years had the ponds frozen so thickly that one could safely skate across.
As the crow flies, Foxglove lay eight miles true north of Roughneck Farm and the kennels. Soldier Road created an obstacle between the two farms. If one drove around from one to the other it added another three miles to the journey. Riding on horseback from Sister’s farm road, one could climb up to Hangman’s Ridge and come down the north side, well crossed by deer trails, traverse a large meadow, much of it trappy, cross Soldier Road, dropping down a well-graded bank (courtesy of the state of Virginia) and thence onto Foxglove’s southernmost fields, which Cindy did not use for pasture. Instead, these meadows exploded with wildflowers, which remained colorful until mid-November. Adding further aesthetic pleasure to the bucolic scene were the occasional huge old walnut, locust, or willow trees near the stream.
Foxes liked the spot, too. The barns and outbuildings backed to the northwest, providing shelter for horses, two cows, and foxes scooping up dropped sweet feed.
Clytemnestra and Orestes, her son, both frighteningly huge beef cattle, now luxuriated in their own living quarters, built extra large. Mother Clytemnestra, evil-tempered at times, moved faster than one supposed. Even the foxes gave this Large Marge a wide berth. She didn’t stray far from her cozy paddock in winter. All the gates were closed today, as it was Tuesday, a hunt day.
The two bovines raised their heads as they heard the horn a mile away. They’d grown accustomed to fox hunts.
Sister to the black fox, Inky, Georgia, a young gray, was running for her den at the schoolhouse. Georgia thought the building, built in the mid-1800s and lovingly preserved, was the best place ever. She knew how to get inside.
On February 7, the temperature was 37°F at nine-thirty, but it was rising. For those on a hunt, this made for a good day for scent, especially where the sun struck the earth. In other spots, patches of snow still hugged northern slopes and creases in the land.
Not terribly worried, Georgia ran along. She planned to scurry along the raised bank between the two ponds because that’s where some hounds always slipped into the water. It amused the fox and slowed down the horses, too.
Today’s ground was a bit slippery. On Matador, Sister kept at a good trot, breaking into a gallop when conditions appeared more favorable. However, as she approached the fenced-in higher pastures, the hounds picked up speed, singing louder.
Glancing behind her, she saw that everyone followed in good order. The Tuesday and Thursday crowds tended to be hard riders. As with any sport, Saturdays added many weekend warriors.
A well-set, simple, three-foot-three-inch coop punctuated the fence line. Matador, an ex-steeplechaser, smoothly cleared the obstacle. Fortunately, the ground was tight on landing. Once the sun hit either side of these jumps, footing might be sloppy on top, yet hard underneath. You prayed because there was nothing else you could do about it.
Shaker, ahead on Gunpowder, stretched out. Georgia put on the afterburners. True to form, she bolted across the high twelve-foot-wide bank between the ponds.
Shaker crossed the bank. Betty veered into the woods as she ran ahead of the huntsman while Sybil easily took a hog’s-back jump into an open pasture on the left.
Georgia, brush flat out behind her, ears pricked up, ran neck and neck with another fox she’d never seen before. He’d joined her on the other side of the pond. No time to talk, but the dog fox stuck right with her. She sensed he was green to hunting.
Sister’s stride was lengthening. Matador ran over the bank. Everyone made it except one Custis Hall student, mounted on her own majestic Warmblood. While the animal could jump the moon, he wasn’t quite as sure-footed as the Thoroughbreds and quarter horses, and he slipped as the earth churned up. Both slid down the embankment, the horse’s hind end cracking through the ice.
To the riding girl’s credit, she didn’t panic. She leaned far up on his neck while the animal scrambled out. Cindy Chandler, riding tail for First Flight, stopped for them. She checked the horse to see that he hadn’t gotten cut up by the ice, then the human and horse continued on, wet.
Georgia used the woods to her advantage, but Pookah, a second-year hound, displayed her own talents by picking up the line where Georgia had dashed through an old hollowed-out log. The smell of wood and moss had somewhat disguised her scent.
Cora, running up with the youngster, said, “There are two foxes.”
Pookah asked, “What do I do if they split?”
“Stick with the hotter scent.” Cora offered no guidance if the scent was equal in strength, which it would be today.
The pathways through the hardwoods, kept open by Cindy, made for easy going. Shaker burst out of the woods in time to see Betty on his right and Sybil on his left both flying along, caps off. The women pointed in the direction the foxes ran. He shot up a slight rise, then came out on the thirty-acre back meadow, which contained the schoolhouse, saw both foxes in tandem racing for the structure, hounds perhaps fifty yards behind.
Sister emerged from the woods just as the two grays ducked under the schoolhouse.
Georgia dove into her den, the young fellow behind her.
“Follow me,” Georgia commanded.
He crouched behind her as she moved along, then climbed a few paces upward at an angle to wiggle through a hole under a desk set against a wall.
“Wow. All this is yours?” Inside the schoolhouse, the gray fox looked around as the hounds carried on underneath.
“All mine.” She advised, “Stay under the desk until they go. You never know if someone will peek inside.”
Outside, Shaker on Gunpowder, blew “Gone to Ground,” as there was no way to crawl under the schoolhouse. One by one, the hounds emerged, congratulating one another for their good work.
The Custis Hall girl who’d gotten the icy dunking, Kylie Engle, shivered.
Hearing her teeth chatter, Cindy rode up to Sister, “I’m going to take Kylie back, get her into some dry clothing.”
Sister agreed, then turned to the field. “Cindy is heading back, if anyone wants to go with her.”
A few people in both First and Second Flights followed Mrs. Chandler.
Sister rode up to Shaker. “The ground is getting filthy, but that’s hunting. Let’s pick up another fox.”
“Righto.” He tapped his cap with his crop.
As Shaker led the hounds to the back farm road, Sister turned to count heads. Six left, eight in Second Flight. Her eyes alighted on Donny Sweigart, a slight bulge on his left side. She didn’t remember giving Donny permission to carry a handgun. Well, no matter. She’d talk to him about it later. It was probably a good idea: Shaker and the two whippers-in had pistols loaded with ratshot, rarely used, but someone in the field should be able to put a suffering animal out of its misery if necessary. Fortunately, in her thirty-odd years as master, she’d had only two hounds and one horse die in the hunt field. Wounded deer, however, were another matter, and it made her sick when the hunt came across one.
They walked along the road heading south. The sun, a welcome sight, raised the mercury to 42°F, a wonderful temperature for hunting. Robin’s-egg skies mitigated against good scenting, but the great thing about hunting was you never knew. A high-pressure system might not presage a bad day.
Sister noticed a mob of crows sitting in barren tree branches. Cackling and gossiping, they stared at the riders, hounds moving toward them. A flash of blue signified a blue jay darting toward his home base. The crows called out abuse and, saucy fellow that the jay was, he answered in turn.
As Sister laughed at this drama, all of a sudden the hounds opened with a roar. This puzzled her: If a fox was about, surely the crows would create an uproar, but they stayed put while the hounds thundered down the farm road before turning sharply right.
A stacked row of hay bales made for a temporary jump until Cindy could design one to her liking. This pierced the fence line and Sister was soon over. The electrifying pace kept her and everyone focused. Clods of mud flew from hooves. Seeing the hounds ahead, she could see bits of mud flying from their paws. They ran tightly together, throwing their voices.
The grasses, high, were down slightly from the snow that had been weighted on them. Sister still couldn’t see the quarry. Within minutes, she’d dropped into pines. The hounds turned right again, and Sister found herself slowed by the lowlands along Soldier’s Road. The thin ice on top cracked as Matador ran through it.
Thank God there was no traffic on the road. The hounds crossed into the meadows, at the base of Hangman’s Ridge, now a half mile away. Although a low meadow, it had no standing water but the going was tough. Sister headed for a deer trail she knew and happened to see a large flash high up. Hounds, well behind a coyote, pushed as hard as they could.
Once on the deer path, she climbed. At times, the earth slipped under Matador. Gamely, he pressed as fast as he could because the hounds were pulling away. Breathing hard while Matador wasn’t, they finally came out on the top of Hangman’s Ridge, a long flat expanse, its black tree in stark contrast to all around it. She paused for a moment to listen for hounds and to figure out the best way down, depending on where they were. The field came up behind her. Everyone remained silent.
A slight gust made the tree moan, or so it seemed. Then Sister heard the hounds. She took the farm road down, which, while slippery, wasn’t as rough as the deer trail. At the bottom she kicked on, took the coop into her field with the old ruins, and flew, flat-out flew to the edge of her field, where she soared over the hog’s-back jump into the woods of After All. They ran the mile and a half to Broad Creek where the hounds lost the scent.
Everyone was grateful for the breather, all the more so since bad footing took a toll on the horses. Shaker cast both sides of the creek. Nothing.
He looked to his master on the opposite side of the swift running water. Sister waved him in.
Once over, she called to him: “Lift them, Shaker. It’s been a decent day.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He called the hounds to him. “Caught a glimpse. Coyotes.”
“He certainly ran in a straight line.” Sister nodded.
Pookah mumbled to Cora, “We could have picked him up again.” The talented young hound was disappointed.
“Yes, and we could have run to Main Street, Charlottesville, too.” The older hound smiled.
“At least to Roger’s Corner.” Pansy, Pookah’s littermate replied, referring to a convenience store in the opposite direction. “Do coyotes always run like that?” she asked.
“Usually,” the older hound answered. “They go straight as a stick, just go, go, go, but they aren’t clever like a fox. There’s not much to figure out, although this one did manage to throw us off.”
Diva joined them and said, “All he had to do was run in Broad Creek. Because he’s bigger, about sixty pounds, he can stay in the water a lot longer than the fox, who will hit a deep spot and have to swim. Some coyote are as big as we are.”
“Ah,” said Pansy. “What happens if we corner one?”
“It will be one hell of a fight,” Cora replied.
That gave the youngster something to think about as they walked all the way back to the kennels. Sister would have someone drive the kennel trailer back from Foxglove. No point in walking the hounds or her horses all the way to Cindy’s. She bid everyone to go on and she’d drive over once horses and hounds were put up.
Betty, who had borrowed one of Sister’s horses, and Sybil put the hounds in the kennels. Sister took both her horses to untack, clean up, and get water.
Hunt staff runs like a platoon. It’s a small unit and everyone knows their job, ready for abrupt shifts in task.
After, they all jammed into Sister’s truck, reaching Foxglove just as everyone was going into the house for breakfast. Perfect timing.
Sister found Cindy. “How’s Kylie?”
“Dry and warm.” Cindy smiled. “And she fits into my clothes. I don’t know if I’ll see that sweater again.”
Sister noticed Kylie in Cindy’s jeans and a dark green turtle-neck sweater. “You’ll never see it again because you’ll give it to her. I know how you are, and I regret I’m not your size.”
“You’d have to shrink a few inches.” Her dear friend laughed as they headed for the hot drinks.
Hot tea in hand, Sister walked over to Donny and Sybil, who were deep in conversation.
“Sybil, I am stealing your boyfriend.”
Her whipper-in laughed, turning to chat up the schoolgirls who hunted today.
“Donny, I noticed you were carrying a gun.”
Surprised, he said, “Yes.”
“That’s fine with me, but you should have asked me first. The last thing I want is someone armed in the field who can’t hit the broad side of a barn. You can shoot. Why are you carrying a sidearm and what caliber?”
“I’m sorry, Sister. I didn’t mean to break a rule.” He inhaled. “Two reasons. I saw a wounded deer when we hunted in January and I couldn’t do anything to help it. And well, I know this is—” He paused. “Anyway, a dead body was found in our hunt territory. Just in case, you know?” He looked at her.
“Well—”
“Sister, he had to be murdered. No way that’s a natural death.”
She sighed. “I know. I’m not so worried for the club, Donny, but he was found on Gray’s farm. The only people who know about that abandoned road are poachers, and if you think about it, us.”
Glass held high, Kasmir approached them.
Donny quickly said in a low voice, “It’s a .38. I keep a rifle in the truck.”
“All right.” She put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, then turned. “Kasmir, my very own maharaja.”
He kissed her on the cheek and they instant-replayed the morning’s hunt.
Later, riding back to the farm as Sybil drove the hound trailer, Sister thought, What you see coming is not what you see going.
Funny that popped into her head. Her father used to say that when life was confusing.