“Warn’t no cramp, Francine, honey,” M’Donald growled. “Hit war this sonuvabitch here what done it!” He pushed Alpers aside.
“What d’ye reckon happint t’ Cesar, M’Donald?” Old Nathan said. The farmer was younger by thirty years and strong, but he hadn’t the personality to make a threat frightening even when he spoke the flat truth. “D’ye want t’ touch me ‘n larn?”
M’Donald stumbled backward from the bluff—for it was all bluff, what Old Nathan had done to the dog had wrung him out bad as lifting a quarter of beef. But the words had this much truth in them: those who struck the cunning man would pay for the blow, in one way or another; and pay in coin they could ill afford.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” said the woman. She held out her hand. The appraisal was back in her eyes. “I’m Francine Taliaferro, but do call me Francine. I’m—en vacance in your charming community.”
“He ain’t no good t’ ye,” M’Donald muttered bitterly, his face turned to a display of buttons on a piece of card.
The cunning man took Taliaferro’s hand, though he wasn’t rightly sure what she expected him to do with it. There were things he knew, plenty of things and important ones; but right just now, he understood why other men reacted as they did to Francine Taliaferro.
“M’ name’s Nathan. I live down the road a piece, Columbia ways.”
Even a man with a woman like Ellie waiting at home for him.
“I reckon this gen’lman come here t’ do business, Rance,” said Mrs. Holden to her husband in a poisonous tone of voice. “Don’t ye reckon ye ought t’ he’p him?”
“I’ll he’p him, Maude,” Holden muttered, trying—and he knew he would fail—to interrupt the rest of the diatribe. He was a large, soft man, and his hair had been white for years. “Now, how kin—”
“Ye are a storekeeper, ain’t ye?” Mrs. Holden shrilled. “Not some spavined ole fool thinks spring has come again!”
Holden rested his hands on the counter. His eyes were downcast. One of the other men chuckled. “Now, Nathan,” the storekeeper resumed. “Reckon you’re here fer more coffee?”
The cunning man opened his mouth to say he’d take a peck of coffee and another of baking soda. He didn’t need either just now, but he’d use them both and they’d serve as an excuse for him to have come into Oak Hill.
“Ye’ve got an iv’ry comb,” he said. The words he spoke weren’t the ones he’d had in mind at all. “Reckon I’ll hev thet and call us quits fer me clearin’ the rats outen yer barn last fall.”
Everyone in the store except Holden himself stared at Old Nathan. The storekeeper winced and, with his eyes still on his hands, said, “I reckon thet comb, hit must hev been sold. I’d like t’ he’p ye.”
“Whoiver bought thet thing!” cried the storekeeper’s wife in amazement. She turned to the niche on the wall behind the counter, where items of special value were flanked to either side by racks of yard goods. The two crystal goblets remained, but they had been moved inward to cover the space where the ornate ivory comb once stood.
Mrs. Holden’s eyes narrowed. “Rance Holden, you go look through all the drawers this minute. Nobody bought thet comb and you know it!”
“Waal, mebbe hit was stole,” Holden muttered. He half-heartedly pulled out one of the drawers behind the counter and poked with his fingers at the hairpins and brooches within.
The cunning man smiled grimly. “Reckon I kin he’p ye,” he said.
He reached over the counter and took one of the pins, ivory like the comb for which he was searching. The pin’s blunt end was flattened and drilled into a filigree for decoration. He held the design between the tips of his index fingers, pressing just hard enough to keep the pin pointed out horizontally.
“What is this that you are doing, then?” Francine Taliaferro asked in puzzlement.
The other folk in the store knew Old Nathan. Their faces were set in gradations between fear and interest, depending on the varied fashions in which they viewed the cunning man’s arts.