“I guess ye think I’m skeered of yer tricks!” Ransden said. He patted the neck of his horse with his right hand, though just now the animal was calmer than the rider.
” ‘Bout like common, I reckon,” the mule replied. “Work, work, work, an’ fer whut?”
“If yer not,” Old Nathan replied in a cold bluster, “thin yer a fool, Ransden. And thet’s as may be.”
He raised his left hand again, though he had no intention of doing anything with it.
Now that Old Nathan had time to look, his eyes narrowed at the younger man’s appearance. Ransden carried a fishing pole in his left hand. The ten-foot length of cane was an awkward burden for a horseman hereabouts—where even the main road was a pair of ruts, and branches met overhead most places.
Despite the pole, Bully Ransden wasn’t dressed for fishing. He wore a green velvet frock coat some sizes too small for his broad shoulders, and black storebought trousers as well. His shirt alone was homespun, but clean and new. The garment was open well down the front so that the hair on Ransden’s chest curled out in a vee against the gray-white fabric.
“Right now,” the mule continued morosely, “we been off loadin’ fish. Whutiver good was a fish t’ airy soul, I ask ye?”
“Waal,” Ransden said, “I take yer ‘pology. See thet ye watch yerse’f the nixt time.”
“I’m headed inter the sittlement,” said the horse in satisfaction. “I allus git me a feed uv oats there, I do.”
“Goin’ into the settlement, thin?” Old Nathan asked, as if it were no more than idle talk between two men who’d met on the road.
The cunning man and Bully Ransden had too much history between them to be no more than that, though. Each man was unique in the county—known by everyone and respected, but feared as well.
Old Nathan’s art set him apart from others. Bully Ransden had beaten his brutal father out of the cabin when he was eleven. Since that time, fists and knotted muscles had been the Bully’s instant reply to any slight or gibe directed at the poverty from which he had barely raised himself—or the fact he was the son of a man hated and despised by all in a land where few angels had settled.
Old Nathan’s mouth quirked in a smile. He and Ransden were stiff-necked men, as well, who both claimed they didn’t care what others thought so long as they weren’t interfered with. There was some truth to the claim as well. . . .
“I reckon I might head down thet way,” Ransden said, as though there was ought else in the direction he was heading. “Might git me some supper t’ Shorty’s er somewhere.”
He took notice of the mule’s saddle baskets and added, “Say, old man—thet’s a fine catfish ye hev there.”
“Thet’s right,” Old Nathan agreed. “I figger t’ fry me a steak t’night ‘n smoke the rest.”
“Hmph,” the mule snorted, looking sidelong up at the cunning man. “Wish thut some of us iver got oats t’ eat.”
“I might buy thet fish offen ye,” Ransden said. “I’ve got a notion t’ take some fish back fer supper t’morry. How much ‘ud ye take fer him?”
“Hain’t intersted in sellin’,” Old Nathan said, his eyes narrowing again. “Didn’t figger airy soul as knew Shorty ‘ud et his food—or drink the pizen he calls whiskey. I’d uv figgered ye’d stay t’ home t’night. Hain’t nothin’ so good as slab uv hot bread slathered with butter.”
Bully Ransden flushed, and the tendons of his bull neck stood out like cords. “You been messin’ about my Ellie, old man?” he asked.
The words were almost unintelligible. Emotion choked Ransden’s voice the way ice did streams during the spring freshets.
Old Nathan was careful not to raise his hand. A threat that might forestall violence at a lower emotional temperature would precipitate it with the younger man in his current state. Nothing would stop Bully Ransden now if he chose to attack; nothing but a bullet in the brain, and that might not stop him soon enough to save his would-be victim.