Riding Shotgun

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Poor bastard,” she thought and then as quickly thought the phrase applied to herself as well.

  She rode toward the cry of the hound, which suddenly stopped. She heard the sound of huge paws racing toward her. An enormous black and tan thundered past her. She’d never seen that hound before. Few people hunted black and tans in America. Some Irish hunts used them. She reined in Full Throttle, listened a moment as the footfall faded away. She started to turn then looked down past her left foot. Fattail looked right back up at her.

  “You little shit.”

  He seemed to smile. Why not? There wasn’t a thing she could do to him. With elegant insolence he walked in front of her.

  PART II

  7

  The mist thickened but Cig could see Fattail leading the way. She couldn’t see much else. She thought she was heading toward the James River and in an easterly direction. When Fattail pranced out onto the old canal road she knew her sense of direction hadn’t failed her. However, the silver fog made her think twice about cutting back up into the woods to try and rejoin her field. Common sense told her to stop and sit tight but she couldn’t resist following the fox, who strolled along as though her pet.

  She’d known Fattail for four years, as well as his mother and father and littermates. Born in a big den on George Lawrence’s property, he had possessed a noticeable tail even as a cub.

  Solon Deyhle and G-Mom taught her to learn the ways of the fox. If winter proved harsh she threw out dead chickens and rabbits for them. She’d put on her snowshoes or crosscountry skis and visit each den in turn. When foxes bred, then taught their cubs to hunt, she was sure to keep her hounds far away from them.

  During cubbing season, so-called because the fox cubs need to learn to hunt just as the hound puppies do, she noted who remained with the dens, who was missing and who moved on to form new dens.

  As the fox preyed on rabbits and small game, so the larger predators preyed on him. Fattail survived his cubhood and quickly displayed that quirky intelligence for which foxes are famous, but he had something else, a kind of genius really.

  She’d seen him once at the kennels by moonlight, on a muggy July night. He appeared to be studying the hounds. After hunting season she often glimpsed him over by George’s cornfields where the pickings were rich.

  Cig, like most American foxhunters, never wanted to kill the fox, most especially reds since they ran true. Grays ran in circles. The death of a red fox, a cause for lamentation, could only mean that the quarry had grown old or was sick.

  She had witnessed amazing things in the wild. Only last year she came across two foxes, a male and a female, on the high field behind her own house. The male ran away, hoping to draw the pack after him. The vixen crouched in the pasture, hounds all around her, and not one hound found her. Her mate saved her and lost the hounds after a ten-minute chase.

  Another time, she ran a red for forty minutes. She knew the fox, a vixen with forelegs that were white up to her elbows, a distinctive looking animal. The vixen ran to her den, which Cig expected since she was tiring, but instead of ducking in, the vixen lay down right on the lip of the den. She lowered her head and asked to die. The hounds killed her in seconds. When Roger called them off and examined the vixen, he discovered that she had shingles, an extremely painful disease, fatal for foxes. The vixen chose a swift death. There was a nobility in the animal’s final moments on earth, a nobility denied fatally I’ll humans who were carted away to hospitals, sterile, clear tubes jammed in every orifice, drugs coursing down those tubes.

  Cig hoped she could go down like the vixen when her time came. Blackie, the son-of-a-bitch, had had a good death. Roger, Wilco, over and out. A surge of fury welled up in her. She unconsciously squeezed Full Throttle, who broke into a trot. She relaxed. Fattail shot a look back over his shoulder.

  Cig would have given anything to be a fly on the wall when Blackie died. Was he in the act with Grace? It was almost funny. She could just picture Grace, horrified, rolling the six-foot-four carcass off of her or hopping off if Blackie had decided to take his ease and lie back. Or perhaps she’d given him a blow job. Probably not. Not that Blackie didn’t enjoy them but he was a grappler, he liked to get up close and personal, as ABC sportscasters used to say.

  How could Grace do it? There were times when she had suspected, like at the Christmas party the year before Blackie died. Not that anything untoward occurred but Blackie’s gift to Grace, a nineteenth-century stock pin, a fox head with ruby eyes, was extravagant. When she questioned him he replied, “Well, it just looked like Grace to me. Besides, you always bitch and moan that you have to do all the Christmas shopping.” She wound up being proud of him for doing his own shopping. Then, too, he bought four new tires for her Wagoneer so she felt she got the better value. If he’d given Grace a more expensive present than he’d given her, she’d have known.

  Did will know? Did he care? The great thing about being a doctor was that a doctor can retreat into work. Since his work might mean life or death for someone, everyone rewarded him for his retreat.

  But Grace. How many times had Cig dragged over to her sister’s to cry when she had uncovered Blackie’s latest infidelity? How many times had Grace told her he wasn’t worth the tears? And Cig would say, “I know that but I love him.” Grace’s affairs, discreet ones, sometimes amused and distracted Cig, who lived vicariously. It never occurred to her that Grace’s mischief would hit so close to home.

  The more Blackie strayed the more she forgave him, at least on the surface. She sensed she had the admiration of the community for her stoicism. Admiration was some reward, surely, but it never got her what she wanted: a real partner. Hunter at seventeen was more emotionally responsible than his father was at fifty. Blackie felt that if he provided a high standard of living for his family then he was responsible, above reproach. The money made everything all right.

  Cig came back to the present. She was lost. She had no idea where she was or how far she’d ridden as her mind churned over Blackie and Grace’s betrayal. She checked Full Throttle. His flanks weren’t tucked up so she supposed she hadn’t been out too long. It was curious how time could collapse when you were in the grip of great, conflicting emotions. In this case love and pure-D hate. She loved Blackie and she hated him. Same for Grace.

  Fattail merrily moved along. His ears swept forward, his tail had a gay swag to it. Every now and then he’d look around to check on Cig.

  She stopped for a moment. She heard music. So did Full Throttle. If Fattail heard it, he paid no mind, which was unusual.

  How silly to be riding along the river, enveloped in this mantle of translucent silver, sinking into misery. She headed in the direction of the music to get her bearings.

  The music grew louder. “Black Bottom,” played by an orchestra, floated over the James River. The mist thinned for a moment. She thought she saw an old Rolls Royce and some other vintage cars. Light flickered within the house. She recognized it as Sherwood Forest. Her heart stopped in her chest. Sherwood Forest was the home, respectively, of William Henry Harrison, America’s ninth president, and then John Tyler, the tenth. Sherwood Forest was in Princess Anne Hunt territory. That was at least ninety miles down river. She could see figures dancing. The music lifted her spirits. What a party. She headed for the house but the fog swirled around her. A theme party. She thought it would be fun to ride up. But—it couldn’t be Sherwood Forest. There must be a house that resembled it. She racked her brain. Nothing remotely resembled Sherwood Forest, the longest private frame dwelling in the United States. How’d she get this far?

  Fattail kept going. She could see only his tail now. She was afraid to turn back, afraid to stop, afraid to go forward.

  The music died away. She heard nothing for a long time and then she heard voices off in the river, the slap of water against a hull but that died away, too.

  Suddenly, a solitary figure, gaunt, armed, appeared on a slight promontory to her right, just on the river.

&nb
sp; “Halt!”

  She could see him clearly now. Some clown was dressed as a cavalry staff sergeant right down to the gold facing on his sleeves. His boots were worn. His eyes seemed to burn, as if with hunger. His uniform was in tatters.

  “Who the hell are you?” Cig called out with all the command of a Master of Foxhounds.

  “That’s yours to answer, not mine. Are you friend or foe?”

  “If this is some kind of costume party, your uniform is a mess.”

  His light brown mustache curled upwards. “Ma’am, I’d be most obliged if it were—any kind of party. But I am posted here and you cannot pass. The river is full of gunboats and the shore is full of spies. Who are you and why are you here?”

  Cig decided she’d better play along with him. Perhaps he was a Civil War reenactor who’d gone off the deep end.

  “I’m Pryor Chesterfield Deyhle. Blackwood is my married name.”

  “Kin to Brigadier General Reckless Deyhle?”

  Fattail observed how this registered on Cig’s face.

  “Uh—yes.”

  “Come closer, ma’am. Let me look at you.”

  Not knowing why, fearing the man was a raving lunatic, she did in fact ride closer. After all, he had a rifle and she did not. “Spittin’ image.” He lowered his rifle. “Pardon me for seeming rude—but is this the fashion?” He indicated her hunting attire. “Is it a uniform of some sort?”

  “Uh—kind of. Yes. What happened to yours?”

  “I’m better off than most. I’ve got boots.”

  “I see. Is there a reenactment nearby?”

  “A what?”

  “A battle. From the War Between the States.”

  He cocked his head. “Miss Deyhle, the whole state of Virginia is a battlefield. The Yankee gunboats sail up and down the James at will now. They fired on Brandon, Shirley’s tore to pieces, and they burned down the library at Westover. You’d best move on and get home.”

  She didn’t know why she did it. She knew the man was out of his mind. She remembered the recitation of phrases for crazy she and her family had done in the truck that morning but none seemed to apply. He was crazy, but he seemed so sincere, so concerned for her welfare. She un-snapped her sandwich case and leaned over, handing him her sandwich.

  “Thank you, ma’am, I can’t. You won’t have anything to eat.”

  “Please. I’ll be home soon and I can find something.”

  He reached out and took the sandwich. “God bless you, Mistress Deyhle. God bless you and keep you safe in these terrible times. Pass on.”

  She rode away following Fattail, looking over her shoulder at the sergeant, already shrouded in a veil of silver threads.

  She shivered uncontrollably. Tears came to her eyes. Maybe she was the one ‘round the bend.

  Again she heard sounds on the river and then nothing.

  She stopped and dismounted. Her legs shook beneath her. Fattail tiptoed over and sat next to her. He looked up at her with pity in his eyes.

  “Fattail, where have you led me? Is this the fox’s revenge for being chased?” She leaned against Full Throttle’s neck to steady herself, stifled a sob, then took the reins over his head and led him for a bit. She loosened his girth. He seemed grateful for the break.

  For a moment she thought she saw poorly dressed men on the river in flat boats, one man at the rudder, the others on both sides of the prow, poles in hand. Each year people met on the James to compete in the bateaux races. Cig exhaled gratefully. Whoever the guy was in the Confederate uniform, it was coincidence that he knew Reckless Deyhle was her great-great-grandfather. Reckless had founded the Jefferson Hunt in 1888. Bizarre, but this day was turning into one she hoped never to repeat despite the fabulous runs of the morning.

  She trudged on. Then she heard the hoarse cries of struggle, gunfire and the neighing of horses. She thought she even heard sabers clash. Quickly, she tightened Full Throttle’s girth and hopped up.

  The sounds were all around her. She heard nasal British accents and then American voices. Someone screamed, “Limey filth!” She smelled smoke, and the sulfur stung her eyes. Just as quickly the sounds died away. She trembled from head to toe. She wanted to go home. She’d check herself into the hospital. Why be proud? The mind can snap same as a bone. She’d had a terrible shock, after all.

  The earth shook. Fattail scurried into the woods. She followed him. He stopped about fifty feet off the canal road under an enormous sycamore. Cig’s heart rattled in her rib cage, her breathing became shallow and the ground moved underneath her. Full Throttle neighed. Cig wanted to hide, but where? She hoped the fog would swallow her. A curl in the mists opened for a moment and she saw, or thought she saw, a sea of British cavalry running hard but in formation, maybe a thousand of them. Frozen in terror, she watched. Could she have stumbled onto some movie shoot? Virginia was popular these days for locations especially because so much of the original architecture remained undisturbed. Shoot or not, the cavalry was frightening. After what she figured to be about twenty minutes the rumble died away. Sweat streamed down her face.

  Fattail picked his way down to the canal road. As if in a trance Cig followed. She couldn’t tell the time because of the mists. She never hunted with a wristwatch. The last thing she wanted to worry about when hunting was time. The hounds or Full Throttle told her when enough was enough.

  After what seemed hours the mist began to lift. The first thing Cig noticed was the James River, sparkling and wide. She’d hunted here before. She was in Princess Anne territory, ten miles past Sherwood Forest more or less. She slumped in the saddle as the fear ebbed from her body. She had no idea how she could have come this far. It was impossible but here she was and Full Throttle wasn’t heaving. As relief flooded over her she again checked for her bearings. Weston Manor should be visible on the other side of the river. She was certain the great estate was on the south side of the river’s bend, far away given the great width of the river at this point. But Weston Manor was nowhere to be seen. Begun in 1700, it commanded one’s attention.

  Then she noticed the size of the virgin timber. She had no memory of the state or federal government preserving the forests this far down the James River although they certainly should have done so way back in the nineteenth century.

  Fattail picked up a trot now. He determinedly pushed on, taking her to a slow, graceful curve in the James, where huge black walnuts marked the bend. When they rounded the curve a beautiful clearing greeted their eyes, emerald green, bounded by chestnut rail snake fencing. Framed by mighty chestnuts, a two-story brick home sat in the middle of a second pasture, which Cig could see about five hundred yards distant. A bluejay squawked overhead. A glitter crossed Fattail’s eyes as the bluejay swooped down to tease the fox. He turned for a moment and stared up into Cig’s eyes then ecstatically leaped into the air as the bluejay narrowly escaped being pinned between two clever red paws. Then Fattail rolled over like a cub, jumped up and ran at top speed into the sweet dense forest.

  “Good-bye, you little devil,” she called after him. “I’ll figure out your disappearing act yet.”

  Happily she turned for the graceful house, praying that someone would be home and kind enough to give her a Coca-Cola. Three cats chased one another around the front door. Cig wearily got off Full Throttle. A wrought-iron hitching post conveniently by the door allowed her to tie the beautiful bay, something she would never have done without a halter if she hadn’t been so weary. She noticed a half-stone, half-timber barn about one hundred yards from the main dwelling. As she had ridden in on the river side, her view had been obscured by the majestic trees but she could see now that a dirt river road widened and headed south and that another road came through the fields to the barn. There was also a simple dock on the river. The house didn’t seem familiar, although the spot was vaguely so. She thought she knew every big house on the lower James. She was so tired and still vibrating with sorrow over the discovery of Grace and Blackie’s affair; she didn’t trust herse
lf to know where she was.

  She knocked on the door.

  No one answered.

  Cig walked around the back. A brick summer kitchen was behind the house, connected by an open walkway. A delicious aroma awakened her to the fact that she was about as hungry as the nutcase to whom she gave her sandwich. He seemed like such a good man. Mental illness takes many forms.

  She walked to the kitchen. It was a true old-fashioned summer kitchen with a big brick oven, large enough to stand in. Bread slots curved along one ‘side. Huge wrought-iron hooks hung from the ceiling and herbs dried overhead. An iron pot about as big as next week hung over the fire.

  “These people are serious about authenticity.” Cig smiled to herself as she beheld a pretty woman in a full skirt, maybe twenty-five or -six, bending over the pot.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but I’m lost.”

  The woman turned around, her deep green eyes widened, then she screamed, “Pryor!”

  Cig felt terrible because she didn’t recognize the woman who used her Christian name. Also, her greeting was unnerving.

  Weeping, the woman threw her arms around Cig. “You don’t know how we’ve worried.” Then she held her out at arm’s length. “The fashion?”

  “Uh—”

  “No matter, come, come. Your brother’s clearing back acres. He’ll be so happy to see you.”

  As if in a daze Cig followed the pretty woman who fairly skipped along she was so excited.

  “You must tell me everything about London—once you’ve recovered from your journey, of course…” She lifted her voice. “There he is.” She waved, jumping up and down with joy. “Tom, Tom, look who’s here!”

  Tom ducked out from under the heavy reins that rested behind his neck. The team of draft horses, two mighty bays with white feathers around their hooves, patiently stood as he left them. As soon as he caught sight of Cig he broke into a run.

  “Praise be to God!” He flung himself on Cig who was nearly knocked over from the impact. When she collected herself and looked into this man’s face it was as if she was staring at her male self. He kissed her and hugged her. She didn’t want to be rude so she kissed him, too. “Praise God.” Then he hugged and kissed the pretty woman who must have been his wife.