Free Full Cry by Rita Mae Brown Page A

when a staff horse informed her what was behind her; their range of vision was almost, but not quite, 360 degrees.
    â€œCora.”
    â€œOh, all right.”
She grumbled as Shaker tapped her hind-quarter.
    The other hounds fell silent when the lead bitch entered the trailer.
    Asa said,
“Happy New Year, Cora. You were wonderful
today.”
    The others spoke in assent.
    Henry Xavier, in his trailer tack room, exchanging his scarlet weaselbelly for a tweed coat, commented to Ronnie Haslip, who had already changed and was standing at the open door, “The hounds are singing ‘The Messiah.’ ”
    Ronnie, always dapper, smiled. “Damn good work today. I didn’t think we’d do squat out there in that snow, did you?”
    â€œNo.” Xavier shook his head.
    â€œTell you what, I’d put this pack of hounds against any other pack out there.”
    â€œMe, too. I wish Sister pushed herself more. You know, would go to the hound shows and publicize our club more. People don’t know how good Jefferson Hunt is until they cap with us.”
    Ronnie nodded in agreement. “When Ray was alive, she did go. She needs the push, and she needs more hands. Remember, she used to have Big Ray, Ray Jr., and then until last year she had Doug Kinzer. It’s probably a little lonesome for her, you know.”
    Doug Kinzer, a talented professional whipper-in, had moved up to carrying the horn at Shenandoah Hunt over the Blue Ridge Mountains. In the past, particularly during the days of slavery, many an African American carried the horn. After the War Between the States, people couldn’t feed themselves, much less a pack of hounds. When hunting with a large pack again became feasible, about twenty years after the end of the war, it was often feasible because of Yankee money. For whatever reason, having black hunt staff made the Yankees uncomfortable. Doug, an African American, carried on a long, complex, even contradictory tradition. The last great black huntsman whom folks could remember in these parts was the convivial, talkative Cash Blue. He had hunted hounds for Casanova Hunt Club way back when today’s older members were children.
    â€œIf only I didn’t have to pull those long hours, I’d love to go to the shows, wash hounds, stand them up.” Xavier straightened his stock tie.
    â€œYeah, but not having to pay that extra salary has put the club in the black.” Ronnie, tight and treasurer, appreciated the bottom line.
    â€œListen, Crawford Howard hemorrhages money when he walks to the john.” Xavier disdained him. “If Sister asked him, he’d come up with the salary. I heard through the grapevine that he offered to do so last year.”
    â€œHe did. He made sure we all knew that, but not from his lips.” Ronnie half smiled: Crawford was beginning to learn some of the round-about Virginia way. “He did, but his condition was that he be made joint-master.”
    â€œShe has to pick someone soon.” Ronnie folded his arms over his chest.
    â€œWouldn’t want to be in her boots. She’s between a rock and a hard place.” Xavier had known Jane Arnold all his life. Although he didn’t know it, he loved her. He was devastated when Ray Jr., his best friend, had been killed. Sister was part of his past, present, and future, as she was for Ronnie.
    â€œYou said a mouthful. Crawford’s got the money, but he’ll alienate the club or at least most of us.”
    Xavier stepped down from the tack room, closing the door. “I heard that Shaker said he’d leave. He wouldn’t serve under Crawford even if she kept that blowhard out of the kennels.”
    â€œHeard that, too.” Ronnie straightened the blanket on Xavier’s Picasso.
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œAs I see it, the choices are Crawford, Edward, possibly Sybil, or maybe even Bobby Franklin. Each has pluses and minuses. Clay Berry could do it, he’s