“Come and set,” the cunning man called, rising and flexing the muscles of his back as if in preparation to shoulder a burden.
“Well,” the boy said, glumly but without the reproach Old Nathan had expected, “I reckon I’m in a right pickle now,” as he mounted the pair of steps to the porch.
The two men entered the cabin; Old Nathan laid another stick of lightwood on the fire. It was late afternoon in the flatlands, but here in the forested hills the sun had set and the glow of the sky was dim even outdoors.
“I tried t’ do what ye said,” Bowsmith said, fingering his scalp with his free hand, “but someways I must hev gone wrong like usual.”
The cat, alerted by voices, dropped from the rafters to the floor with a loud thump. “Good t’ see ye agin,” the animal said as he curled, tail high, around the boots of the younger man. Even though Bowsmith could not understand the words as such, he knelt and began kneading the cat’s fur while much of the frustrated distress left his face.
“Jen didn’t fetch t’ yer summons, thin?” the cunning man prodded. Durn fool, durn cat, durn nonsense. He set down the pot he carried with a clank, not bothering at present to rinse it with a gourdful of water.
“Worsen thet,” the boy explained. “I brung the ol’ mule from Neills’, and wuzn’t they mad ez hops.” He looked up at the cunning man. “The Bar’n wuz right ready t’ hev the sheriff on me fer horse stealin’, even though he’s a great good friend t’ me.”
The boy’s brow clouded with misery, then cleared into the same beatific, full-face smile Old Nathan had seen cross it before. “Mar’ Beth, though, she quietened him. She told him I hadn’t meant t’ take their mule, and thet I’d clear off the track uv newground they been meanin’ t’ plant down on Cane Creek.”
“You figger t’ do thet?” the cunning man asked sharply. “Clear canebrake fer the Neill clan, whin there’s ten uv thim and none willin’ t’ break his back with sich a chore?”
“Why I reckon hit’s the least I could do,” Bowsmith answered in surprise. “Why, I took their mule, didn’t I?”
Old Nathan swallowed his retort, but the taste of the words soured his mouth. “Let’s see the fetch bridle,” he said instead, reaching out his hand.
The cunning man knelt close by the spluttering fire to examine the bridle while his visitor continued to play with the cat in mutual delight. The bridle was well made, as good a job as Old Nathan himself could have done with his spectacles on.
It was a far more polished piece than the bridle Eldon Bowsmith had carried off the day before, and the hairs from which it was hand-spun were brown and black.
“Where’d ye stop yestiddy, on yer way t’ home?” Old Nathan demanded.
Bowsmith popped upright, startling the cat out the door with an angry curse. “Now, how did you know thet?” he said in amazement, and in delight at being amazed.
“Boy, boy,” the cunning man said, shaking his head. He was too astounded at such innocence even to snarl in frustration. “Where’d ye stop?”
“Well, I reckon I might uv met Mary Beth Neill,” Bowsmith said, tousling his hair like a dog scratching his head with a forepaw. “They’re right friendly folk, the Neills, so’s they hed me stay t’ supper.”
“Where you told thim all about the fetch bridle, didn’t ye?” Old Nathan snapped, angry at last.
“Did I?” said the boy in open-eyed wonder. “Why, not so’s I kin recolleck, sir . . . but I reckon ef you say I did, thin—”
Old Nathan waved the younger man to silence. Bowsmith might have blurted the plan to the Neills and not remember doing so. Equally, a mind less subtle than Baron Neill’s might have drawn the whole story from a mere glimpse of the bridle woven of Jen’s hair. That the Neill patriarch had been able to counter in the way he had done suggested he was deeper into the lore than Old Nathan would have otherwise believed.