Riding Shotgun

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I was,” Hunter stated matter-of-factly.

  Roberta stopped a moment. “Well, of course you were, Hunter. I didn’t mean that, I just meant that inherited wealth surely solves a lot of life’s problems.” She paused a moment. “Then again, I never did know any of them that were truly happy. There.”

  “Ought to last the hunt anyway.” Hunter handed her Reebok’s reins. “If you hold him for a minute I’ll go get the mounting block.”

  “Hunter Blackwood, you’re a perfect gentleman, just like your father.”

  “Thanks, Miss Ericson.” He carefully placed the mounting block, painted with Jefferson Hunt’s colors, on Reebok’s left side, placed the reins over the gelding’s neck and walked to the right side where he put his left hand in the right stirrup iron to make certain the saddle would be rock steady for Roberta. He kept his right hand on the reins behind the bit until she was up and settled.

  Reebok whinnied.

  “He’s ready to hunt this morning.” Roberta loved the little fellow. Most foxhunters love their horses. In many cases they love the animals more than their spouses, the horses proving more reliable.

  Hunter turned to make sure Bill Dominquez and Mosby were getting along. Laura had them ready to go.

  “Wish we could whip today.” Hunter enviously sighed.

  Laura lowered her voice. “We’ve got to baby-sit.”

  His voice brightened as his sister came up next to him. “Miss Ericson is better than Harleyetta. Oh, well, Mom always makes us work in the field on Saturdays. Weekdays we can whip.”

  “You can. I’ve got algebra class at nine in the morning this year and they couldn’t change it.”

  “I forgot about that. You could tell Mom you don’t want to work on Saturdays.”

  “Nah.” Laura glanced around to make certain everything was done and they could mount up.

  “Sometimes I wonder what Mom’s going to do when we’re gone. She can’t make it alone.” He grabbed a rag and wiped the dust off his boots then wiped off his sister’s once she swung onto Go To. “I think about it a lot, you know. Like maybe I should bag college and stay here and work.”

  “You can’t do that. You’re going to be a veterinarian and then you’ll make good money.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hunter, come on. You’ve got to go next year. Besides, Mom would kill us if we didn’t go to William and Mary. Deyhles always go to William and Mary.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” He squeezed her toe.

  Harleyetta astride Gypsy, a 16.2-hand mare, walked in circles since the mare wouldn’t stand still. Binky clambered aboard Whiskey, the perfect name for his horse. Even though Harley was mad at him, she’d cleaned his horse and loaded it on the trailer. The two humans didn’t speak to one another. The horses did, neighing away and nosing each other.

  Before convening the group, Cig checked her pockets. In the left pocket of her heavy melton jacket she carried a tiny flashlight, Kleenex, and a small folding toothbrush in a square plastic case. In her right pocket she carried fifty dollars, some change, and a small sharp pocketknife. Inside she had a small red moroccan-bound notebook made by Smythe of England with a tiny pencil inserted in a loop at the spine.

  In her canary vest she carried her driver’s license and her Virginia hunting license. She also carried Motrin.

  Usually she carried a pistol loaded with ratshot but today she’d absentmindedly left it back at the barn.

  Nothing she could do about it. She stood up in her stirrups. Everyone was just about ready.

  “Gather ‘round,” Cig called out.

  Binky warned Harleyetta through clenched teeth, “You keep your trap shut. All you do is stir up trouble.”

  “I feel guilty.”

  “You had nothing to do with Blackie’s death,” he whispered fiercely. “You kept your mouth shut for a year. Keep it shut forever. It’s October twenty-second. You’re having a flashback.”

  “I know that, idiot, but I feel guilty. This secret is making me sick.”

  “You’re sick with or without secrets.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Why even talk to you? You don’t have any feelings. What if I was the one who died?”

  Binky squinted. The light hurt his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to know.”

  “That I died?” Harleyetta peevishly replied.

  “How you died. I wouldn’t want to know.” He may have been hungover but Binky was crystal clear about what he felt.

  “Binky,” she whispered, “I feel like a liar.”

  “Come on, Harley. It’s time to move off. You’re massaging your emotions. That’s one thing about women I really can’t stand.”

  “Then live without them.”

  “I could live just fine without women. Don’t flatter yourself. It’s none of your business.”

  “But it is. I was in the E.R. that night,” Harleyetta whimpered.

  “You’ll be in it this morning if you don’t shut up because I’ll knock you clean off Gypsy. Now come on.”

  With wounded eyes she followed him to Cig.

  “Come on, gang,” Cig called again, standing up in her stirrups.

  The group of thirty trotted over to Cig. Roger stayed in the back with the hounds, their eyes upturned to him as he sat on Sidekick, his huge chestnut. Carol Easter, Agnes Clark, and Jane Fogleman stayed with the hounds, too, as they were whipping in today. This was Carol’s first time as a whipper-in, and she nervously coiled and uncoiled the sturdy leather thong on the whip. Not that mild-mannered Carol would actually whip a hound. She wouldn’t, nor would most whippers-in. The hunting whips had a thin colorful nylon cracker at the end of the braided leather thong, which when expertly snapped out in the air emitted a rifle-shot noise. That usually did the trick. Of course, you had to practice or the cracker ended up in your face, on the horse, or worse, entangled in the branch of a tree. That had happened to Florence Moeser back in 1952, yanked her right off her horse. Said something about hunt clubs that no one ever forgot, and the story was passed along to each new member of the Jefferson Hunt—usually by Florence herself. In her eighties, she had lost none of her sense of humor even if she was a little stiff in the saddle.

  Cig’s alto voice carried well. “Roger’s going to cast along the farm road first. We’ll probably wind up down by the James. Archie Griswald just plowed under his riverside cornfield so stay to the side of it. He left the other corn standing, which was good of him, so if you run into him at the feed store or in town do thank him for his kindness. Roger, did I forget anything?”

  “New coop, in-and-out, when we cross over into George Lawrence’s, right there on the other side of Tinker’s Creek.”

  “Oh, right. Now don’t fret,” Cig consoled them. “New coops always look bigger than they are. It’s a two stride in-and-out. Every horse and rider can do it. This means you, Roberta.”

  Roberta blushed, but the attention from Cig gave her some courage.

  Laura and Hunter, being young, never could fathom why middle-aged people who came to riding as adults feared jumping in-and-outs, two jumps placed with only one or two strides between them. Usually this configuration occurred between two fence lines as it did on George Lawrence’s property. All you had to do was stay in your jumping position—eyes up, hands down—and let the horse do the work. Now if you had a horse that wanted to run out or refuse the jump, well, then you had to do the work.

  When Go To was four, green and full of himself, Laura had to hold like mad on the side to which he wanted to run out—hold with all her might with her lower leg and check, release, and check again on the opposing rein. Finally, after one hairy hunt season, Go To decided it was easier to obey Laura than to exercise his own will. Then again, Laura had talent to spare, so Go To came along much faster than if someone else had been working with him.

  “All right then. Let’s escape the twentieth century.”

  The group laughed as Roger blew a few clear, piercing blasts on his horn. He stayed at the front of his pac
k. Carol was ahead on the left, Jane on the right, Agnes at the rear.

  Fifty sterns, up in the air, wagged. Eyes bright, bodies sleek and in perfect condition, the Jefferson’s pack of American hounds displayed the attention, affection, and discipline poured into them by Roger and Cig. Roger, a quiet Huntsman and bullheaded like them all, rode out on the farm road to the big meadow near the James River. There he cast his hounds, blowing a staccato signal on the horn, doubling the notes. With an encouraging tone of voice Roger called to them, “Yit try rouse ‘im!” Within minutes they hit a scorching scent.

  Madonna, the fast bitch strike hound, picked up the line first. She was quickly followed by Caruso and Pavarotti, two hounds with voices so beautiful they could bring tears even to the eyes of the uninitiated. Cig, at the front of her field, kept one eye on the Huntsman and the other on the territory. Grace, riding right in her sister’s pocket, laughed, a laugh of fierce physical joy and of freedom. Cig let her reins out and Full Throttle, a born foxhuhter, eased into a ground-eating gallop, his big, smooth reach making every stride a comfort.

  Harleyetta’s wiggly eyebrows shot upwards, she forgot her worries and plunged into the group of riders, Hunter adroitly keeping her from bumping into anyone but him.

  As Cig predicted, once his wife was up front and running, Binky sidled up next to Roberta.

  “You and Reebok look great today.” Binky liked to think he still had an effect on women.

  “Thank you.” She gulped since she was moving so fast the air was rushing into her mouth. Within seconds the pace accelerated, and Roberta’s eyes blurred from the speed.

  Charlie, the generic name given a fox until the hunters knew exactly which fox they were chasing, needed his exercise this brilliant October morning so he led the pack through the in-and-out on George Lawrence’s land. The coops, painted black, loomed like pyramids before the fearful. Cig and Full Throttle glided over. “A jump is just an interruption in your flat work,” Cig told her students. And so they were. The fox, a sleek red, flew across the open pasture, giving the field the thrill of viewing him. Usually hunters don’t see Charlie, but today he felt like tormenting them to the fullest. They were running flat-out so no one even had time to stop, point the horse’s nose in the direction of the fox and hold out his or her cap, derby, or top hat at arm’s length in the fox’s direction, which was correct form for a sighting.

  Then Charlie zigged to the right, plunging into a stand of hardwoods leading down to the river. The mists were rising off the water. He melted into them. The scent was good though and the hounds gave tongue. This particular fox, Old Charlie as he was known, an old hand at being chased, ran straight then zigzagged left up through the woods and out onto the plowed cornfield for they had long ago left George Lawrence’s land. Then he dove into the standing corn. This was one of his favorite ruses since his den was on the far side of the cornfield. Once he was certain the hounds were crashing about in the corn he simply strolled out and walked casually to his den.

  However, today proved a little different for, unknown to Old Charlie, Fattail happened to be in the same cornfield, on his way home from ravaging a chicken coop. The two had not time to dispute territory claims or rights of passage because Old Charlie, slick boy, kept to his original plan of action and the hounds found themselves with two fresh scents.

  Roger didn’t want his pack to split but since they were in the cornfield he could only go by what his ears were telling him. Cig pulled up on a rise at the edge of the field. The group enjoyed the check since no one had expected such a hard run so early. But then nothing in foxhunting could ever be expected, which was part of its appeal.

  Roger trotted around the edge of the field. Old Charlie, well-known to him, would go to ground once he tired of so much strenuous exercise. Roger gathered his hounds, who obediently left the tantalizing scent.

  Grace, her flushed cheeks only adding to her incredible beauty, stood next to her sister. “Hot damn!”

  “This is going to be a great one—I feel it in my bones.”

  “Makes me forget everything silly. I’m starting to think that if I’m unhappy it’s my own fault. This is how I want to feel every minute of my life.”

  Cig laughed. “Well, if you could hunt every day you would.”

  Grace tilted her head back, sucking in air. “Blackie knew how to feel. Maybe he’s with us today.”

  Cig shrugged. “Maybe, but now he knows what it’s all about, doesn’t he?”

  Grace turned. “What?”

  “Life… and death.”

  Cig quieted as Roger swung the pack close to them. Talking might distract the hounds.

  Roger hoped Fattail would have exited in that direction. No such luck. Then he moved to the east side of the field. Before he could turn the corner, little k.d., her first year out with the pack, struck. Her young voice, still high, rang true though, and the older hounds came to her. Within seconds they honored, or validated, k.d.’s call. That fast they tore over the meadows.

  “Let’s rodeo!” Cig smiled at Grace as Full Throttle surged forward.

  The footing, padded with still green grass, cushioned the pounding hooves. The little ribbon on the back of Cig’s hunt cap fluttered for a second in a ferocious crosswind, which died down as quickly as it came up. Kodiak used the occasion for some airs above the ground. Grace, a good rider, quickly put an end to that nonsense. She knew Kodiak felt unfulfilled if he didn’t pull at least one stunt per hunt. He had a right to find out if she was asleep at the wheel.

  The sound of thundering hooves sent a bevy of quail up into the air. As the hunters neared the woods from which they had so recently emerged, a huge buck and three does charged out right in front of them. Full Throttle never blinked or shied as Cig turned and hollered, “Ware deer!”

  Deep music filled the air as the hounds sang to them with one voice on this shining day.

  At the edge of the wide meadow the ground dipped into a swale. Coming out of the swale a post-and-rail fence line separated the grazing land from the woods. Since the land fell away, wherever they jumped would be a drop jump.

  Cig never minded if her field took their own line over an obstacle like this. That meant the riders could jump the fence line anywhere they wanted. The one forbidden thing was for you to pass the Master. This is akin to peeing on the President.

  At coops or on narrow trails Cig wanted the field to queue before the jumps. Otherwise she liked giving her people the opportunity to exercise their own judgment.

  She picked a spot she figured had good footing and felt Full Throttle lift up, a mighty jet. She put her hands forward as he stretched out his dark bay neck. Landing on the other side, she searched for a decent trail through the woods, which also had many rock outcrops. Billygoat land.

  Roberta, stuck on the other side of the post and rail, shivered with terror. Laura jumped back over the fence as soon as she realized Roberta hadn’t cleared it. Binky, too thrilled by the pace, never looked back so he lost his chance to “attend” to Roberta.

  “Miss Ericson, I’ll give you a lead. Reebok can do it.”

  “I know Reebok can,” Roberta wailed. “It’s me I’m worried about.”

  Laura heard the hounds’ voices moving farther and farther away. Finding the field while picking one’s way through heavy woods was a Kit Carson job and Laura didn’t want to be separated from them. Also, she knew that on a flaming scent like this her mother would fly like a bat out of hell. Ask no questions, take no prisoners.

  “Miss Ericson, climb the fence and hold my horse. I’ll get Reebok over. This is the only really hard jump we’ve got in this territory so there’s nothing to worry about after this.”

  “No,” came the quavering voice. “You give me a lead. I’ve got to learn.”

  “Reebok’s push-button.” Laura plucked her up, jumping back over the fence. “Just point him at the fence, keep your hands low, grab mane—I always do—and squeeze.”

  “You do not grab mane, Laura. Don’t lie to m
ake me feel better.”

  “I do. Hunter does. Mom does. Sometimes you just have to. Ready?”

  “Yes.” The pale voice was now almost colorless.

  Laura took Go To in a slow circle. “Fall in.”

  Roberta did. As Laura approached the post and rail, she deliberately kept Go To from speeding up because that would scare Roberta half to death, and Reebok would do whatever he saw Go To do. Up and over the Laura/Go To team sailed, two creatures, one mind. Reebok cleared it with Roberta, stiff-armed, clutching mane, her knuckles white. Her eyes widened, her toes pointed down but she hung on.

  “You okay, Miss Ericson?”

  “Yes, thanks to you.”

  “You did it. Take a deep breath and drop your weight into your heels.”

  “Oh dear, did my leg come up?”

  “Hey, that’s what jockeys do. Flap your arms like a chicken for a second. Okay, we’d better boogie.”

  Laura squeezed the gray flanks and plunged into the sweet-smelling woods, sunlight dropping through the leaves like powdered gold through gauze.

  “I can’t hear the hounds, Laura.”

  “I think they’ll head down to the river. If not, we’ll pick up tracks once we get to the old canal road.”

  As the two hurried along, Cig was indeed on the old canal road, which needed to be cleared each summer by the club lest it become a tangled mess. The James wasn’t the easiest river to cross even this far north in Nelson County, Buckingham County being on the other side of the water. As the James rolled on, growing and widening down through other hunt territories, it became a huge river, enriching the very land it cleft in two. The whole United States could be viewed as not only an aggregate of states but as a patchwork of hunting territories carved out over the centuries with rivers, mountains, and deserts as natural boundaries.

  The canal road, a little slippery, proved trickier than Cig had anticipated. For one thing, the mist that usually lifted off the river hung thick and moist. A silver fog enshrouded the riders as they followed the hounds, their voices ghostly and muffled. Cig slowed to a trot.