Faintly down the road drifted the words, “Froggie wint a-courtin’, he did ride . . .”
***
Bright midday sun dappled the white-painted boards of the Isiah Chesson house. It was a big place for this end of the country, with two rooms below and a loft. In addition, there was a stable and servant’s quarters at the back of the lot. How big it seemed to Madame Francine Taliaferro, late of New Orleans, was another matter.
“Whoa-up, mule,” Old Nathan muttered as he peered at the dwelling. It sat a musket shot down the road and around a bend from the next house of the Oak Hill settlement. The front door was closed, and there was no sign of life behind the curtains added to the windows since the new tenant moved in.
Likely just as well. The cunning man wanted to observe Madame Taliaferro, but barging up to her door and knocking didn’t seem a useful way to make her introduction.
Still. . . .
In front of the house was a well-manicured lawn. A pair of gray squirrels, plump and clothed in fur grown sleekly full at the approach of Fall, hopped across the lawn—and over the low board fence which had protected Chesson’s sauce garden, now grown up in vines.
“Hoy, squirrel!” Old Nathan called. “Is the lady what lives here t’ home?”
The nearer squirrel hopped up on his hind legs, looking in all directions. “What’s thet? What’s thet I heard?” he chirped.
“Yer wastin’ yer time,” the mule said. “Hain’t a squirrel been born yet whut’s got brain enough t’ tell whether hit’s rainin’.”
“He’s talkin’ t’ ye,” the other squirrel said as she continued to snuffle across the short grass of the lawn. “He says, is the lady home t’ the house?”
The male squirrel blinked. “Huh?” he said to his mate. “What would I be doin’ in a house?” He resumed a tail-high patrol which seemed to ignore the occasional hickory nuts lying in the grass.
“Told ye so,” the mule commented.
Old Nathan scowled. Boards laid edgewise set off a path from the front door to the road. A pile of dog droppings marked the gravel.
“Squirrel,” the cunning man said. “Is there a little dog t’ home, now?”
“What?” the male squirrel demanded. “Whur is it? Thet nasty little monster’s come back!”
“Now, don’t ye git yerse’f all stirred up!” his mate said. “Hit’s all right, hit’s gone off down the road already.”
“Thankee, squirrels,” Old Nathan said. “Git on, mule.”
“Ifen thet dog’s not here, thin whyiver did he say it was?” the male squirrel complained loudly.
“We could uv done thet a’ready, ye know,” the mule said as he ambled on toward the main part of town. “Er we could uv stayed t’ home.”
“Thet’s right,” Old Nathan said grimly. “We could.”
He knew he was on a fool’s errand, because only a durned fool would think Francine Taliaferro might be using some charm or other on the Ransden boy. He didn’t need a mule to tell him.
Rance Holden’s store was the center of Oak Hill, unless you preferred to measure from Shorty Hitchcock’s tavern across the one dirt street. Holden’s building was gable-end to the road. The store filled the larger square room, while Rance and his wife lived in the low rectangular space beneath the eaves overhanging to the left.
The family’s space had been tight when the Holdens had children at home. The five boys and the girl who survived were all moved off on their own by now.
“Don’t you tie me t’ the rail thur,” the mule said. “Somebody ‘ll spit t’baccy at me sure.”
“Thin they’ll answer t’ me,” the cunning man said. “But seeins as there’s nobody on the porch, I don’t figger ye need worry.”
Four horses, one with a side-saddle, were hitched to the rail. Usually there were several men sitting on the board porch among barrels of bulk merchandise, chewing tobacco and whittling; but today they were all inside. That was good evidence that Madame Francine Taliaferro was inside as well. . . .
The interior of Holden’s store was twelve foot by twelve foot. Not spacious by any standard, it was now packed with seven adults—