“If bein’ poor meant bein’ virtuous,” Old Nathan said in sudden anger, “thin there’d be a sight less wickedness in the world. D’ye think scatt’ring money on good folk ‘n bad alike is going t’ buy you out uv this here place?”
“Don’t you be a greater fool ‘n God made ye, Nathan Ridgeway,” said the dead man, speaking a name Old Nathan thought there wasn’t a soul in the county to remember or care.
Bynum Hardy leaned forward, against the pull of invisible, flamingly-cold bonds. He gasped with pain, then went on, “Hit don’t signify what they were, good men nor bad. Hit’s what I did thet put me here. I squeezed, ‘n whin they cried out I squeezed the harder, fer thet meant they were weak. Bascom’s to give the gold t’ them as I took it from, their crops ‘n their land . . . and if I could, the very clothes they wore.”
The skin of Bynum Hardy’s cheeks drew out to either side, as though men with tongs had gripped him. He sobbed wordlessly with his eyes closed for a moment. “All the gold, all the prayers on earth, wizard . . .” Hardy managed to whisper.
His eyes opened, filled with pain, as he continued, “None of it’s airy good t’ me now. Hit’s all too late. I never done a speck uv good t’ airy soul while I was alive—but I’ll do this now fer my brother Bascom, ifen he’ll only listen. Tell him t’ give my gold away, and maybe he’ll find a better place whin he follows me.”
A spasm of something unendurable dragged a scream from the dead man’s throat. “Tell him
thet . . .” he rasped, and the smoke-gray emptiness swept over Old Nathan again.
The cunning man felt movement, but he could not tell how or whither. There were moans, but they might have been the blood soughing in his ears—
And the clammy fingers that twice plucked Old Nathan’s garments could have come from his imagination alone. . . .
***
“Thur’s a couple horses comin’ down the trail,” called the mule. “Reckon thur’s men with ’em too.”
It was dawn, thought barely. Old Nathan was wrapped in his blanket, but he felt as stiff and cold as if he’d spent the night in the rain on a barn roof.
He threw his cover back. His feet were bare, and his boots stood upright at the foot of the blanket.
The mule stuck its head in the cabin’s open door. “Wouldn’t turn down some breakfast,” it said. “Say, whur was it ye went last night?”
Old Nathan drew his boots on. “Don’t know thet I did,” he said as he stood up.
The mule snorted and backed away to allow the cunning man to pass him. “Don’t give me thet,” the beast said. “What d’ye take me fer, a horse? I watched fum the trees whilst you went down the well with thet feller. Didn’t see ye come back, though.”
Old Nathan kneaded the mane and neck muscles of his mule. The beast butted him and muttered contrarily, “Naow, thur’s no cause fer this.” It was happy for the attention nonetheless.
“If I was down thet place . . .” the cunning man said. He looked toward the well, but he thought about somewhere far more distant. “Thin I’m right glad I did come back, however thet was.”
He strode toward the well.
“Hoy!” called the mule. “Ye forgit my breakfast!”
“I forgit nothing!” Old Nathan growled without turning around. “Ifen you come down here, yer majesty, I’ll pull ye some water, though.”
He had the third bucketful in the trough and the mule was drinking, when Bascom Hardy and his half-breed companion came around the bend in the trail. The bodyguard led. When Hardy saw that the cunning man was up and about, he pushed his horse past his servant’s and trotted the short distance to the well.
“Waal, what did ye see, old man?” Bascom Hardy demanded.
He wore the same clothes he’d wore yesterday, and he’d slept in them. There was a wild look in his eyes that reminded Old Nathan of Hardy’s brother Bynum; and reminded him also that there was more than hot iron as could torture a man.