“I know,” the cunning man said calmly, “what I know. D’ye doubt thet, Bully Ransden?”
The horse stretched out his neck to browse leaves from a sweet-gum sapling which had sprouted at the edge of the road. Ransden jerked his mount back reflexively, but the movement took the danger out of a situation cocked and primed to explode.
Ransden looked away. “Aw, hit’s no use t’ talk to an old fool like you,” he muttered. “I’ll pick up a mess uv bullheads down t’ the sittlement. Gee-up, horse!”
He spurred his mount needlessly hard. As the horse sprang down the road with a startled complaint, Ransden shouted over his shoulder, “I’m a grown man! Hit’s no affair of yourn where I spend my time—nor Ellie’s affair neither!”
Old Nathan watched the young man go. He was still staring down the road some moments after Ransden had disappeared. The mule said in a disgusted voice, “I wouldn’t mind t’ get back to a pail of oats, old man.”
“Git along, thin,” the cunning man said. “Fust time I ever knowed ye t’ be willing t’ do airy durn thing.”
But his heart wasn’t in the retort.
* * *
The cat came in, licking his muzzle both with relish and for the purpose of cleanliness. “Found the fish guts in the mulch pile,” he said. “Found the head too. Thankee.”
“Thought ye might like hit,” said Old Nathan as he knelt, adding sticks of green hickory to his fire. “Ifen ye didn’t, the corn will next Spring.”
The big catfish, cleaned and split open, lay on the smokeshelf just below the throat of the fireplace. Most folk, they had separate smokehouses—vented or chinked tight, that was a matter of taste. Even so, the fireplace smokeshelf was useful for bits of meat that weren’t worth stoking up a smoker meant for whole hogs and deer carcases.
As for Old Nathan—he wasn’t going to smoke and eat a hog any more than he was going to smoke and eat a human being . . . though there were plenty hogs he’d met whose personalities would improve once their throats were slit.
Same was true of the humans, often enough.
Smoke sprouted from the underside of the hickory billet and hissed up in a sheet. Trapped water cracked its way to the surface with a sound like that of a percussion cap firing.
“Don’t reckon there’s an uglier sight in the world ‘n a catfish head,” said the cat as he complacently groomed his right forepaw. He spread the toes and extended the white, hooked claws, each of them needle sharp. “A passel uv good meat to it, though.”
“Don’t matter what a thing looks like,” Old Nathan said, “so long’s it tastes right.” He sneezed violently, backed away from his fire, and sneezed again.
“Thought I might go off fer a bit,” he added to no one in particular.
The cat chuckled and began to work on the other paw. “Chasin’ after thet bit uv cunt come by here this mornin’, are ye? Give it up, ole man. You’re no good t’ the split-tails.”
“Ye think thet’s all there is, thin?” the cunning man demanded. “Ifen I don’t give her thet one help, there’s no he’p thet matters a’tall?”
“Thet’s right,” the cat said simply. He began licking his genitals with his hind legs spread wide apart. His belly fur was white, while the rest of his body was yellow to tigerishly orange.
Old Nathan sighed. “I used t’ think thet way myse’f,” he admitted as he carried his tin wash basin out to the back porch. Bout time t’ fill the durn water barrel from the creek; but thet ‘ud wait. . . .
“Used t’ think?” the tomcat repeated. “Used t’ know, ye mean. Afore ye got yer knackers shot away.”
“I knowed a girl a sight like Ellie Ransden back thin . . .” Old Nathan muttered.
The reflection in the water barrel was brown, the underside of the shakes covering the porch. Old Nathan bent to dip a basinful with the gourd scoop. He saw his own face, craggy and hard. His beard was still black, though he wouldn’t see seventy again.