Well, by God if there was one, and by Satan who was as surely loose in the world as the Neill clan—and the Neills good evidence for the Devil—Old Nathan wasn’t going to pass this by. Though finding the horse would be dangerous, and there was no need for that. . . .
“All right, boy,” said the cunning man as he stood up. The motion of his muscles helped him find the right words, sometimes, so he walked toward the fireplace alcove. “Don’t ye be buryin’ yer Jen till she’s dead, now. I reckon I kin bring her home fer ye.”
A pot of vegetables had been stewing all afternoon on the banked fire. Old Nathan pivoted to the side of the prong holding the pot and set a knot of pitchy lightwood on the coals. “Now,” he continued, stepping away from the fire so that when the pine knot flared up its sparks would not spatter him, “you fetch me hair from Jen, her mane and her tail partikalarly. Ye kin find thet, cain’t ye, clingin’ in yer barn and yer fences?”
Bowsmith leaped up happily, “Why, sure I kin,” he said. “Thet’s all ye need?”
His face darkened. “There’s one thing, though,” he said, then swallowed to prime his voice for what he had to admit next. “I’ve a right strong back, and I reckon there hain’t much ye kin put me to around yer fields here ez I cain’t do fer ye. But I hain’t got money t’ pay ye, and since Ma passed on—” he swallowed again “—seems like ever’ durn thing we owned, I cain’t find whur I put it. So effen my labor’s not enough fer ye, I don’t know what I could give.”
The boy met Old Nathan’s eyes squarely and there weren’t many folk who would do that, for fear that the cunning man would draw out the very secrets of their hearts. Well, Simp Bowsmith didn’t seem to have any secrets; and perhaps there were worse ways to be.
“Don’t trouble yerself with thet,” said Old Nathan aloud, “until we fetch yer horse back.”
The cunning man watched the boy tramping cheerfully back up the trail, unconcerned by the darkness and without even a stick against the threat of bears and cougars which would keep his neighbors from travelling at night. Hard to believe, sometimes, that the same world held that boy and the Neill clan besides.
A thought struck him. “Hoy!” he called, striding to the edge of his porch to shout up the trail. “Eldon Bowsmith!”
“Sir?” wound the boy’s reply from the dark. He must already be to the top of the knob, among the old beeches that were its crown.
“Ye bring me a nail from a shoe Jen’s cast besides,” Old Nathan called back. “D’ye hear me?”
“Yessir.”
“Still, we’ll make a fetch from the hair first, and thet hed ought t’do the job,” the cunning man muttered; but his brow was furrowing as he considered consequences, things that would happen despite him and things that he—needs must—would initiate.
* * *
“I brung ye what ye called fer,” said Bowsmith, sweating and cheerful from his midday hike. His whistling had announced him as soon as he topped the knob, the happiest rendition of “Bonny Barbry Allen” Old Nathan had heard in all his born days.
The boy held out a gob of gray-white horsehair in one hand and a tapered horseshoe nail in the other. Then his eyes lighted on movement in a corner of the room, the cat slinking under the bedstead.
“Oh!” said Bowsmith, kneeling and setting the nail on the floor to be able to extend his right hand toward the animal. “Ye’ve a cat. Here, pretty boy. Here, handsome.” He clucked his tongue.
“Hain’t much fer strangers, that ‘un,” said Old Nathan, and the cat promptly made a liar of him by flowing back from cover and flopping down in front of Bowsmith to have his belly rubbed.
“Oh,” said the cat, “he’s all right, ain’t he,” as he gripped the boy’s wrist with his forepaws and tugged it down to his jaws.
“Watch—” the cunning man said in irritation to one or the other, he wasn’t sure which. The pair of them ignored him, the cat purring in delight and closing his jaws so that the four long canines dimpled the boy’s skin but did not threaten to puncture it.