“Fine master you are,” the mule grumbled in a subdued voice.
Though the words had not been directed at Ellie, Old Nathan’s tone returned the girl to present circumstances as effectively as a bucket of cold water could have done. She stepped back and straightened.
“Oh, law,” she murmured, dabbing at her face with her dress’s full sleeves. “But Mister Nathan, ye mustn’t stay. I won’t hev ye kilt over me, nor—”
She eyed him quickly, noting the absence of an obvious weapon but finding that less reassuring than she would have wished. “Nor aught t’ happen to my Cull neither. He—” she started to lose control over her voice and finished in a tremolo “—ain’t a bad man!”
“Huh,” the cunning man said. He turned to fetch his traps from the mule’s panniers. He was about as embarrassed as Ellie, and he guessed he had as much reason.
“I ain’t goin’ t’ hurt Bully Ransden,” he said, then added what was more than half a lie, “And better men thin him hev thought they’d fix my flint.”
Ellie Ransden tossed her head. “Waal,” she said, “I reckon ye know yer own business, sir. Won’t ye come in and set a spell? I don’t mind sayin’ I’m glad fer the comp’ny.”
Her face hardened into an expression that Old Nathan might have noticed on occasion if he looked into mirrors more often. “I’ve coffee, an’ there’s a jug uv good wildcat . . . but ifen ye want fancy French wines all the way from New Or-leens, I guess ye’ll hev t’ go elsewheres.”
With most of his supplies in one hand and the fish wrapped in a scrap of bark in his left, Old Nathan followed the woman into her cabin. “I’d take some coffee now,” he said. “And mebbe when we’ve finished, I’d sip a mite of whiskey.”
Ellie Ransden took the coffee pot a step toward the bucket in the corner, half full with well water. Without looking at the cunning man, she said, “Thin you might do me up a charm after all?”
“I will not,” Old Nathan said flatly. “But fer what I will do, ye’ll hev to he’p.”
He set his gear on the table. The bark unwrapped. The bullhead’s scaleless skin was black, and the fish had a noticeable odor.
Ellie filled the pot and dropped in an additional pinch of beans, roasted and cracked rather than ground. “Reckon I’ll he’p, thin,” she said bitterly. “All I been doin’, keepin’ house ‘n fixin’ vittles, thet don’t count fer nothing the way some people figgers.”
“I’ll need thet oil lamp,” the cunning man said, “but don’t light it. And a plug t’ fit the chimley end; reckon a cob ‘ll suit thet fine. And a pair of Bully Ransden’s britches. Best they be a pair thet ain’t been washed since he wore thim.”
“Reckon I kin find thet for ye,” the woman said. She hung the coffee over the fire, then lifted a pair of canvas trousers folded on top of a chest with a homespun shirt. They were the garments Bully Ransden wore when Old Nathan met him earlier in the day. “Cull allus changes ‘fore he goes off in the ev’nin’ nowadays. Even whin he pretends he’s fishin’.”
She swallowed a tear. “An’ don’t he look a sight in thet jacket he had off Neen Tobler fer doin’ his plowing last spring? Like a durned ole greenbelly fly, thet’s how he looks!”
“Reckon ye got a mirror,” Old Nathan said as he unfolded the trousers on the table beside the items he had brought from his own cabin. “If ye’ll fetch it out, thin we can watch; but hit don’t signify ifen ye don’t.”
“I’ve a hand glass fine as iver ye’ll see,” Ellie Ransden said with cold pride. She stepped toward a chest, then stopped and met the cunning man’s eyes. “You won’t hurt him, will ye?” she asked. “I—”
She covered her face with her hands. “I druther,” she whispered, “thet she hev him thin thet he be hurt.”
“Won’t hurt him none,” Old Nathan said. “I jest figger t’ teach the Bully a lesson he’s been beggin’ t’ larn, thet’s all.”