sight of swapping. The little mare was looking good. Our daily marches were not
long and the load she carried most of the way was light. We babied her along on
carrots, turnips, slices of watermelon, and greens from along the road, and she
fattened up on it.
We saw no sign of the three Kurbishaws, but they were never out of mind.
All the time I kept trying to dicker the Tinker out of one of his knives. He
carried a dozen in his pack, and two belted at his waist. A third was slung down
the back of his neck under his collar. They were perfectly balanced and the
steel tempered to a hardness you wouldn’t believe. We both shaved with them,
they were that good. In the mountains a man would trade most anything for a
Tinker-made knife.
Walking along like that, neither of us much to talk, I had time to think, and I
remembered back to the Tinker asking about that gold. A man has a right to be
interested in gold, but why that gold in particular? And Spanish gold, they
said.
Why was the Tinker starting to open my pack? If he had found what he wanted,
would he have made sure I didn’t come up to him at the Tombigbee or anywhere?
Was it something about that gold that started the Kurbishaws after me?
I had no gold, and never had had any. So what did I have that they might want?
Nothing.
Nothing, unless maybe there was something in Ma’s keepsake box. The first time I
was alone I’d go through that stuff of Ma’s again. I never had really looked at
it—mostly, I kept it because it was all I had of hers. All I had else was some
worn-out clothes, some Indian blankets, and a couple of extra shirts.
Like I’ve said, walking gives a man time to think, and a couple of things began
to fit. Pa had never spent any of that gold that I could recall, but after
Caffrey got it, some was spent. Not much right at first—he was afraid of Pa
coming back. And it was not long after Caffrey started to spend it that the
Tinker showed up. Not right away … it must have taken him some time to find
out where that gold came from.
The Tinker was not a sociable man, but he had made a point of being my friend.
He had spent time with me, and I believed he was really my friend, but I now
believed he had some other interest in that gold.
That night we reached the Mississippi and the ferry. We were avoiding
main-traveled roads, and the ferry we came up to was operated by a sour,
evil-smelling old man who peered suspiciously at us. We dickered with him until
he agreed to take us across for a bushel of apples.
He stared at our packs as if he was trying to see right through them, but mostly
he looked at Tinker’s knives. Neither of us had any other kind of a weapon,
except that I carried a long stick to chase off mean dogs, of which we’d met
a-plenty.
“Country’s full of movers,” the ferryman said. “Where might you folks be goin’?”
“Where folks don’t ask questions,” I told him.
He threw me a mean look. “Doubtless you’ve reason,” he said. “We git lots of ’em
don’t want questions asked.”
“Tinker, did you ever operate a ferry?”
“Not that I recall.”
“I’ve got a feeling there’s going to be a job open around here—unless somebody
can swim with a knot on his head.”
The ferryman shut up, but when we made shore near a cluster of miserable-looking
shacks I thought I saw him make a signal to some rough-looking men loitering on
the bank.
“Trouble,” I said, low-voiced, to the Tinker.
A bearded man with a bottle in his hand, his pants held up by a piece of rope,
started toward us. Several others followed. The bearded man was big, and he was
wearing a pistol, as were some of the others.
My walking staff was a handy weapon, if need be. A Welshman in the mountains had
taught me the art of stick fighting, and I was ready.
The bearded man stopped in our path as we drove off the ferry. He glanced from
me Tinker to me, and it was obvious that neither of us had a gun. Four men
behind him … a dirty, boozing lot, but armed and confident. My mouth was dry
and my belly felt empty.
“Stoppin’ around?”
“Passin’ through,” I said.
One end of my stick rested on my boot toe, ready to flip and thrust. A stick
fighter never swings a wide blow—he thrusts or strikes with the end, and for the
belly, the throat, or the eyes.
“Have a drink!” The big man thrust the bottle at the Tinker.
“Never touch it,” the Tinker replied.
Two of the other men were closing in on me, about as close as I could afford for
them to get. “You’ll drink and like it!” The big man suddenly swung with the
bottle, but he was too slow. The Tinker’s hand shot out, flicking this way and
that as though brushing the big man with his fingers’ ends, but the big man
screamed and staggered back, his face streaming blood.
Even as he lifted the bottle, the two men nearest me jumped to get close. My
stick barely had room, but the end caught the nearest man in the throat and he
fell back gasping horribly. As he did so, without withdrawing the stick I struck
sidewise with it, not a hard blow, but the other man threw up an arm to block it
and staggered. Instantly I jerked back the stick, which was all of five feet
long and broom-handle size, and grasping it with both hands, struck him in the
face with the end of it. The fight was over. The Tinker glanced at the other two
men, who were withdrawing. Then he coolly leaned over and thrust the blade into
the turf near the road to cleanse it of blood.
Three men were down and the fight gone out of the others, and it hadn’t been
twenty seconds since they stopped us. No doubt they’d robbed many a traveler at
this point and believed us easily handled.
We paid them no more mind, starting off up the rise toward the high ground back
of the river. And that big man was dead. From time to time I’d seen fighting
done, but not a man killed before, and it seemed there ought to be more to it.
One moment he was coming at us blustering and confident, and the next he was
dying in the trail mud.
We did not stop that night, but went on, wanting distance between us and
trouble. West and south we kept on going, through sunlight and rain, the Tinker
plying his trade, and me swapping here and there.
The mare was filling out, carrying her colt, and I was in fine shape.
Down at Jefferson in Texas, we laid in supplies. We walked out of town before we
made camp, and we were just setting up to eat when we heard horses soft-footing
it along the trail. Turning to warn the Tinker, I saw him standing outside the
firelight, a blade in his hand. Me, I held to my place at the fire, letting them
think me alone.
The riders stopped out beyond the firelight and a voice called out, not loud,
“Hello, the fire! Can we come in?”
“If you’re friendly, you’re welcome. Coffee’s on.”
Those days nobody rode right up to a fire or a house. It was customary to stop
off a bit and call in—it was also a whole lot safer.
There were three of them, one about my own age, the other two a mite older. They
were roughly dressed, like men who were living out in the brush, and they were
heavily armed. These men, by the look of them, were on the dodge.
“Light and set. We’re peaceful folk.”
They sat their horses, their eyes missing nothing, noting the Tinker there,
knife in hand. “You with the knife.” The speaker was a handsome big man with a
shock of dark, untrimmed hair. “You wishin’ trouble?”
“Fixed for it. Not hunting it.”
The big man swung down, keeping his horse between himself and the fire. “You
look like movers,” he said pleasantly. “I was a mover one time … moved to
Texas from Tennessee.” He gestured to the others. “These here are gen-u-ine
Texans.”
He hunkered down beside the fire as the others dismounted, and I passed him the
coffee pot. He was wearing more pistols than I ever did see, most men being
content with one. He had two belted on in holsters and a third shoved down in
his waistband. Unless I was mistaken, he had another, smaller one in his coat