“Thet’s a hard word,” the cunning man replied. “Not one t’ spread where it mayn’t suit.”
He had no desire to hurt his visitor, but he wasn’t the man to tell a lie willingly; and he wasn’t sure that right now, a comforting lie wouldn’t be the worse hurt.
“Myse’f,” the cunning man continued, “I don’t reckon she’s any such a thing. I reckon she’s a purty woman with money and big-city ways, and thet’s all.”
Ellie threw her hands to her face. “She’s old!” the girl blubbered as she turned her back. “She mus’ be thutty!”
Old Nathan got up from the rocker with the caution of age. “Yes ma’m,” he agreed dryly. “I reckon thet’s rightly so.”
He looked at the fire to avoid staring at the back of the woman, shaking with sobs. “I reckon the coffee’s biled,” he said. “I like a cup t’ steady myse’f in the mornings.”
Ellie tugged a kerchief from her sleeve. She wiped her eyes, then blew her nose violently before she turned again.
“Why look et the time!” she said brightly. “Why, I need t’ be runnin’ off right now. Hit’s my day t’ bake light-bread fer Cullen, ye know.”
Ellie’s false, fierce smile was so broad that it squeezed another tear from the corner of her eye. She brushed the drop away with a knuckle, as though it had been a gnat about to bite.
“He’s powerful picky about his vittles, my Cull is,” she went on. “He all’us praises my cookin’, though.”
Ellie might have intended to say more, but her eyes scrunched down and her upper lip began to quiver with the start of another sob. She turned and scampered out the front door in a flurry of check-patterned skirt. “Thankee fer yer time!” she called as she ran up the trail.
Old Nathan sighed. He swung the bar off the fire, but he didn’t feel any need for coffee himself just now. He looked out the door toward the empty trail.
And after a time, he walked to the pasture to resume saddling the mule.
* * *
The catfish was so large that its tail and barbel-fringed head both poked over the top of the oak-split saddle basket. “It ain’t so easy, y’know,” the mule complained as it hunched up the slope where the track from the river joined the main road, “when the load’s unbalanced like that.”
Old Nathan sniffed. “Ifen ye like,” he said, “I’ll put a ten-pound rock in t’other side t’ give ye balance.”
The mule lurched up onto the road. “Hey, watch it, ye old fool!” shouted a horseman, reining up from a canter. Yellow grit sprayed from beneath the horse’s hooves.
Old Nathan cursed beneath his breath and dragged the mule’s head around. There was no call fer a body t’ be ridin’ so blame fast where a road was all twists ‘n tree roots—
But there was no call fer a blamed old fool t’ drive his mule acrost thet road, without he looked first t’ see what might be a’comin’.
“You damned old hazard!” the horseman shouted. His horse blew and stepped high in place, lifting its hooves as the dust settled. “I ought t’ stand you on yer haid ‘n drive you right straight int’ the dirt like a tint-peg!”
“No, ye hadn’t ought t’ do thet, Bully Ransden,” the cunning man replied. “And ye hadn’t ought t’ try, neither.”
He muttered beneath his breath, then waved his left hand down through the air in an arc. A trail of colored light followed his fingertips, greens and blues and yellows, flickering and then gone. Only the gloom of late afternoon among the overhanging branches made such pale colors visible.
“But I’ll tell ye I’m sorry I rid out in front of ye,” Old Nathan added. “Thet ye do hev a right to.”
He was breathing heavily with the effort of casting the lights. He could have fought Bully Ransden and not be any more exhausted—but he would have lost the fight. The display, trivial though it was in fact, set the younger man back in his saddle.
“Howdy, mule,” said Ransden’s horse. “How’re things goin’ down yer ways?”