Old Nathan handed the knife to Hardy and said, “Take it, take it. There’s no magic t’ this.”
No more was there; but wherever the knife had been was cooler than the late-August air of the cabin.
Bascom Hardy frowned as he took the knife. It was an ordinary two-blade jackknife, with German-silver bolsters and scales of jigged bone. The shield in the center of one yellow scale was the only thing to differentiate it from thousands of other knives brought into the territory in peddlers’ packs. The inset was true silver, which Old Nathan himself had hammered from a section of ten-cent piece and fixed to the knife by a silver rivet.
“Rub the silver plate with yer thumb ‘n hand it back to me,” the cunning man directed. Hardy obeyed, but he frowned both at the brusque tone of the command and his inability to tell what the older man had in mind.
“Tell your tale, Bascom Hardy,” Old Nathan repeated quietly. He held the knife with the shield facing him. When he whispered a few words under his breath, the silver became a clouded gray.
“When I heard the discounts Bynum was takin’, I rid right over to him,” Hardy said. “Fust time I’d seen him since we settled Pappy’s estate, but blood’s thicker ‘n water.”
“And gold’s thicker nor both,” the cunning man muttered, his eyes on the shield.
“Lived in a little scrape-hole cabin not so big as this,” Bascom Hardy said scornfully. “Bynum never knew thet if money was power, then power was money too. You got to put out to bring in, the way I do. He was the elder by a year, but I’m the one who got the sense.”
“Some families,” said Old Nathan, “the one child’s as big a durned fool as the next.” If he had glanced up as he spoke, the comment would have been pointed, but the cunning man continued staring at the knife in his hand.
“He’d took to his bed,” Hardy continued. “He knowed he was failin’, thet was sure. Didn’t own a thing no more but the cabin and a few sticks o’ furniture—” The visitor’s eyes danced around the room in which he sat. “And gold. He’d sold all thet land and all them notes-of-hand for gold. And he wouldn’t tell me where it was he kept the gold.”
A figure formed, on the silver shield or in Old Nathan’s mind; he couldn’t be sure, nor did it matter. A crab-faced man, his skin stained yellow by the lingering death of his liver, lying on a corn-shuck mattress with a threadbare blanket pulled up to his throat. The man was bald and aged by sickness, so that he might as easily have been Bascom Hardy’s father as brother.
“He warn’t able t’ care for that gold!” Bascom Hardy added bitterly. “He warn’t able t’ care fer nothin, him a-layin’ there on the bed and not a servant in the house. Couldn’t get up to fetch a dipper of water, Bynum couldn’t!”
“Hadn’t any neighbors in t’ he’p him, then?” Old Nathan asked.
Bascom’s voice had caught when he mentioned the dipper of water. The cunning man did not need his arts to imagine the hale brother at the bedside, tempting the sick man with sight of a cool drink that could be his if only he spoke where his wealth was hidden. . . .
“Bynum didn’t hold with neighbors pokin’ their noses in his business,” Bascom Hardy said sharply.
Old Nathan smiled at the silver. “No more do you,” he said.
“Thet’s as may be!” his visitor snapped. “I told you once, it’s not me thet’s your affair, d’ye hear?”
“Say on, Bascom Hardy,” the cunning man said.
Hardy settled back in his chair, though he couldn’t have been said to relax. “He said he’d come back and tell me of the gold whin the moon was new again,” Bascom said.
On or through the knife’s silver window, Bynum’s jaundiced image mimed the words Bascom spoke aloud.
” ‘Come back here’, that was how he put it,” Bascom continued, “and then he died.” Hardy frowned at the memory. “Didn’t even ask fer a drink, though I had the dipper right there.”