Old Nathan swept the pin over the counter. Midway it dipped, then rose again.
“Check the drawers there,” the cunning man directed. He moved the hairpin back until it pointed straight down. “Reckon hit’s in the bottom one.”
“Why, whut would that iv’ry pin be doin’ down there with the women’s shoes?” Mrs. Holden demanded.
“Look, I tell ye, I’ll pay ye cash fer what ye did with the rats,” the storekeeper said desperately. “How much ‘ud ye take? Jest name—”
He was standing in front of the drawer Old Nathan had indicated. His wife jerked it open violently, banging it against Holden’s instep twice and a third time until he hopped away, wincing.
Mrs. Holden straightened, holding a packet wrapped with tissue paper and blue ribbon. It was of a size to contain the comb.
She started to undo the ribbon. Her face was red with fury.
Old Nathan put his hand out. “Reckon I’ll take it the way i’tis,” he said.
“How d’ye guess the comb happint t’ be all purtied up ‘n hid like thet, Rance?” Bart Alpers said loudly. “Look to me like hit were a present fer som’body, if ye could git her alone.”
Francine Taliaferro raised her chin. “I know nothing of this,” she said coldly.
Rance Holden took the packet from his wife’s hands and gave it to Old Nathan. “I figger this makes us quits fer the rats,” he said in a dull voice. He was slumped like a man who’d been fed his breakfast at the small end of a rifle.
“Thankee,” Old Nathan said. “I reckon thet does.”
The shouting behind him started before the cunning man had unhitched his mule. The timbre of Mrs. Holden’s voice was as sharp and cutting as that of Francine Taliaferro’s lapdog.
* * *
Taking the comb didn’t make a lick of sense, except that it showed the world what a blamed fool God had made of Rance Holden.
Old Nathan rode along, muttering to himself. It would have been awkward to carry the packet in his hand, but once he’d set the fancy bit of frippery down into a saddle basket, that didn’t seem right either.
Might best that he sank the durn thing in the branch, because there wasn’t ought he could do with the comb that wouldn’t make him out to be a worse fool than Rance. . . .
The mule was following its head onto the cabin trail. Suddenly its ears cocked forward and its leading foot hesitated a step. Through the woods came, “Froggie wint a-courtin’, he did ride. . . .”
“Hey, thur!” called the mule.
“Oh, hit’s you come back, is it?” Bully Ransden’s horse whinnied in reply. “I jest been down yer way.”
Horse and mule came nose to nose around a bend fringed by dogwood and alders. The riders watched one another: Old Nathan stiff and ready for trouble, but the younger man as cheerful as a cat with a mouse for a toy.
“Glad t’ see ye, Nathan old feller,” Bully Ransden said.
He kneed his mount forward to bring himself alongside the cunning man, left knee to left knee. The two men were much of a height, but the horse stood taller than the mule and increased the impression of Ransden’s far greater bulk. “I jest dropped by in a neighborly way,” he continued, “t’ warn ye there’s been prowlers up t’ my place. Ye might want t’ stick close about yer own.”
He grinned. His teeth were square and evenly set. They had taken the nose off a drover who’d wrongly thought he was a tougher man than Bully Ransden.
This afternoon Ransden wore canvas breeches and a loose-hanging shirt of gray homespun. The garment’s cut had the effect of emphasizing Bully’s muscular build, whereas the undersized frock coat had merely made him look constrained.
“I thankee,” Old Nathan said stiffly. He wished Bully Ransden would stop glancing toward the saddle basket, where he might notice the ribbon-tied packet. “Reckon I kin deal with sech folk as sneak by whin I’m gone.”
He wished he were forty years younger, and even then he’d be a lucky man to avoid being crippled in a rough and tumble with Bully Ransden. This one was cat-quick, had shoulders like an ox . . . and once the fight started, Bully Ransden didn’t quit so long as the other fellow still could move.