“Well, thet might be,” thought the cunning man aloud as he stood, feeling the ache in the small of his back and in every joint that he moved. Wet mornings. . . . “Thet might well be.”
Old Nathan set his coffee cup, empty save for the grounds, on the table for later cleaning. He frowned for a moment at the mush and milk remaining in his bowl, then set it down on the floor. “Here,” he said to the bitch. “It’s for you.”
“Well, don’t mind if I do,” the animal replied, padding over to the food as Old Nathan himself walked to the fireboard.
The soup plate there had the same pattern as the five cups. The cunning man took it down and carried it with him out the back door.
Boardman was trudging up the slope from the creek, a hundred yards from the cabin. His boots were slipping, and he held the dipper out at arm’s length to keep from sloshing his coat and trousers further. Old Nathan’s plowland was across the creek; on the cabin side he pastured his two cows and Spanish King, the three of them now watching their master over the rail fence as their jaws ratcheted sideways and back to grind their food.
“Not so bad a day, King,” said Old Nathan to his bull while his eyes followed the approach of his stumbling, swearing visitor.
“No rain in it, at least,” the bull replied. He watched both Boardman and the cunning man, his jaws working and his hump giving him the look of being ready to crash through the hickory rails. The fence wouldn’t hold King in a real rage. Most likely the log walls of the cabin would stop him, but even that was a matter of likelihood rather than certainty.
“Any chance we might be goin’ out, thin?” Spanish King added in a rumble.
“Maybe some, maybe,” Old Nathan admitted.
“Good,” said the bull.
He wheeled away from the fence, appearing to move lightly until his splayed forehooves struck the ground again and the soil shook with the impact. King stretched his legs out until his deep chest rubbed the meadow while his tail waved like a flagstaff above his raised haunches. His bellow drove the cows together in skittish concern and made Boardman glance up in terror that almost dumped the gourdful of water a few steps from delivering it.
“You hevn’t a ring in thet bull’s nose,” said the visitor when he had recovered himself and handed the gourd—still half full—over to Old Nathan. “D’ye trust him so far?”
“I trust him t’ go on with what he’s about,” said the cunning man, “though I twisted the bridge out’n his nose t’ stop it. Some folk er ruled more by pain thin others are.”
“Some bulls, you mean,” said Boardman.
“Thet too,” Old Nathan agreed as he emptied the gourd into the soup plate and handed the dipper back to his visitor. “Now, John Boardman, you carry this back to its peg, and then go set on the porch fer a time. I reckon yer horse is latherin’ hisself fer nervousness with the noise.” A quick nod indicated Spanish King. The bull had begun rubbing the sides of his horns, one and then the other, on the ground while he snorted.
“Well, but what’s yer answer?” Boardman pressed.
“Ye’ll git my answer when I come out and give it to you, boy,” said the cunning man, peevish at being questioned. Some folk ‘ud grouse if they wuz hanged with a golden rope. “Now, go mind yer affairs whilst I mind mine.”
* * *
Nathan’s cat reappeared from the brushplot to the west of the cabin, grinning and licking his lips. The old man walked over to the pasture fence, spinning the water gently to the rim of the shallow bowl to keep it from spilling, and the cat leaped to a post. “He thinks he’s tough,” said the cat, ears back as he watched King’s antics.
“Now, don’t come on all high ‘n mighty and git yerself hurt,” the cunning man said. “Never did know a tomcat with the sense t’ know when to stop provoking things as could swaller’em down in a gulp.”