The cunning man looked at the boy who had hired him and said, “Sally Ann Hewitt may be able t’ carve ye into a man yit, but I don’t know I think much of what yer daddy’s left her t’ work with.”
“He ain’t here, now,” said Spanish King, striding deliberately down the slope with his nose high and his tail vertical. “But he’s been here, yes, he’s been here.”
“I said I didn’t like this place!” interjected the gelding on a note that rose close to panic. The horse curvetted with a violence which took his rider unaware.
“Virgil!” cried Boardman, glad enough for an excuse to ignore the insult he had just received. He sawed the gelding’s reins and pounded his boot heel into the outer flank of the rotating horse. “Virgil, I’ll flay the hide offen ye!”
“Steady, ye fool horse,” Old Nathan put in, understood but just as likely as Boardman to be ignored. With animals as with humans, being heard was a far cry from being listened to. “Settle yerself and ye’ll be out uv here in no time, seein’s it flusters ye so much.”
For whatever reason, the gelding calmed enough for Boardman to dismount and lash his reins to a deadfall too heavy for the horse to drag. Panting with exertion, the young man followed Old Nathan on foot as the cunning man walked slowly into the newground. The shadows thrown eastward by the taller stumps were beginning to merge and drain the color from the soil.
Old Nathan tapped a stump with his toe-tip when Boardman had caught up with him. “Eight inches,” he said. “Not so very big fer a pine. This track’s been cut over before, thin?”
“Vance Satterfield held it all on a Spanish patent,” the younger man said, holding his arms tight and crossed on his chest as if he feared something would poke him in the ribs. Down near the creek, Spanish King’s black hide was almost lost in the gathering darkness. The bull’s white horns danced like fairy wands, tossing and sweeping through the empty air while the beast explored the newground.
“Could be,” the younger man continued with a shudder at something in his imagination, “that Satterfield er kin t’ him cleared the valley forty years back er so. Reckon somebody found bones, thet they give it the name they did.”
“Reckon they didn’t settle long neither, thin,” said the cunning man grimly.
Though to look at, it was a tolerable tract or even better. Well watered, and though the valley was aligned east and west, it was shallow enough that the north slope would get enough sun to bring corn to fruition.
“Hit’s good land,” Boardman said with a frustrated whine in his voice. “It must be there’s an Injun curse on it.” His tone became one of potentous certainty. “I reckon that’s hit, all right. Injuns.”
Spanish King was trotting up toward the two men. His hooves clopped like splitting mauls when they struck on stumps or unburnt timber.
“Stick to yer own affairs, boy,” Old Nathan gibed. “That is, effen ye hev sich. There’s no curse onto this valley, not Injun nor white neither.”
“You say that now thet the sun’s down,” responded Boardman without, for a wonder, either bluster or whimpering. “Come back by daylight’n tell me then there’s no curse on my newground.”
“I’ll tear ‘im up!” bellowed Spanish King, making the younger man jump. “I’ll gore and I’ll stomp ‘im!”
“Tain’t a curse, fer all thet,” the cunning man explained. “This track, this’s been forest fer a long time. Onct, though, it wuz in grass. When ye cut the timber off ‘n sun got t’ the ground agin, ye brought back somethin’ as wuz here aforetimes.”
Old Nathan hacked and spat into the darkness before he concluded, “Hain’t a curse yer lookin at, John Boardman. Hit’s a ghost. And we figger t’ stay here till we lays it, King ‘n me.”
“Tear ‘im and toss ‘im and gouge ‘im t’ tatters!” rumbled the black bull, and the night trembled.
* * *
The shadows thrown down the valley by the morning sun were sharper than those of evening, and the unshadowed clay was red as blood.