“Don’t you dare t’ threaten me!” the younger man bleated. He scuttled backward two steps with his hands out in prohibition toward Old Nathan, then tumbled over a stump in mewling panic.
“What’s that?” his dog barked, leaping to her feet and baring her teeth. “Don’t touch him now, don’t touch him!”
Old Nathan raised the knife beside his ear and flicked the blade closed with his thumb. The blood on it and his forearm were already black. He made a motion that young Boardman’s eyes could not follow, and the weapon vanished somewhere.
“Boy,” the cunning man whispered, “we hev a bargain you and me, and ye’ll keep yer part of it as I did mine.”
He paused. Though Old Nathan’s face was shaded by the brim of his hat, it seemed to Boardman, looking up from his sprawl, that the old man’s eyes spit green sparks like pinches of copper salts thrown in a lamp flame.
“But . . .” continued the cunning man in the same whisper which carried as if his lips were an inch from the hearer’s ear, “if I ever hear you’ve told anyone thet I killed a friend fer you, who hain’t enough man t’ hev rubbed the scale from ‘is hoofs. . . . Iffen I ever hear thet, John Boardman, I’ll cut a strop offen you as I done with him, and ye’ll scream while I do it.”
Old Nathan snapped his fingers above his head . . . but the sound was loud as a thunderclap, and Boardman thought he saw looming behind the cunning man the shape of a great black bull.
THE GOLD
“Might save a few fer the rest of us,” squawked the mockingbird as Old Nathan dropped another blackberry into his poplar-bark basket.
Old Nathan looked up from what he was doing and snagged his hand in the thorns. “Go ‘way, bird,” the cunning man grumbled as he detached himself from the brambles. “Ye don’t look ill-fed—and if ye did starve, the world ‘d be a better place without your screechin’.”
He eased a half step farther. The blackberry vines grew out from the margin of the woods into his oats. They’d need to be cut back before Old Nathan cradled the grain—but first he’d have berries.
“Tsk!” said the bird. “Now thet’s a lie if ever I heard one! Why”—he half-spread his black-and-white barred wings to examine the interlocking edges of the flight feathers—”ifen I wish to, there’s no prettier tune in all the world ‘n mine.”
Old Nathan grunted and collected three more of the ripe black fruit. The fingertips of his right hand were stained purple.
The strap supporting the basket over Old Nathan’s left shoulder was cloth, gray linsey-woosey worn soft as soft from the days it was a shirt. Though the fabric didn’t bite flesh the way a bail of split white oak would have done, there was nigh a gallon of blackberries in the bucket already. That, plus the weight of the long rifle in the cunning man’s left hand, had about convinced him that it was time to traipse back to the cabin.
He reached out once more. The mockingbird got to the berry first and twisted his neck quickly to pluck it.
“Git on with you!” the cunning man said in irritation. He prodded with his rifle muzzle. The bird flew to the top branches of a dogwood growing up beside the cleared field.
Old Nathan scowled, mostly at himself. He hadn’t needed the berry . . . and the bird was right, his best call was as pretty as anything on earth. Finer ‘n a nightingale, said the English beau who’d heard both.
Purple juice squirted from both sides of the mockingbird’s beak. It lifted its throat and swallowed, keeping one sharp black eye on Old Nathan.
“Tsk!” the bird repeated. “Don’t know why you carry thet old smoke-pole anyhow. You don’t hunt.”
Old Nathan found a ripe berry and twisted it off the vine. He popped it into his mouth instead of the bucket. Sweet and tart together, and gritty from the tiny seeds. Better ‘n the all-sweet of honey, lessen you had a perticular notion for sweet.