“Tarnation,” the Baron repeated as he stood and took the rolled strip of hide from Bowsmith. The boy’s hand started to resist, but he quickly released the bundle when he remembered where he was.
“Set a spell, boy,” said the patriarch. “Zeph, hand him the jug.”
“I reckon I need yer help, Bar’n,” Bowsmith said, rubbing his right sole against his left calf. The stoneware jug—a full one just brought from the still by the Baron’s two grandsons—was pressed into his hands and he took a brief sip.
“Now, don’t ye insult my squeezin’s, boy,” said one of the younger men. “Drink hit down like a man er ye’ll answer t’ me.” In this, as in most things, the clan worked as a unit to achieve its ends. Simp Bowsmith was little enough of a problem sober; but with a few swallows of wildcat in him, the boy ran like butter.
“Why, you know we’d do the world for ye, lad,” said the rat-faced elder as he shifted to bring the bundle into the lamplight spilling from the open door. It was just what the boy had claimed, a strop of heavy leather, tanned with the hair still on, and including the stiff-boned tail as well as the long, translucent horns.
Bowsmith handed the jug to one of the men around him, then spluttered and coughed as he swallowed the last of the mouthful he had taken. “Ye see, sir,” he said quickly in an attempt to cover the tears which the liquor had brought to his eyes, “I’ve a spell t’ say, but I need some ‘un t’ speak the words over whilst I git thim right. He writ thim down fer me, Mister Nathan did. But I cain’t read, so’s he told me go down t’ the settlemint en hev Mister Holden er the sheriff say thim with me.”
He carefully unbuttoned the pocket of his shirt, out at the elbows now that his mother was not alive to patch it. With the reverence for writing that other men might have reserved for gold, he handed the rewritten document to Baron Neill.
The patriarch thrust the rolled bullhide to the nearest of his offspring and took the receipt. Turning, he saw Mary Beth and said, “You—girl. Fetch the lamp out here, and thin you git back whar ye belong. Ye know better thin t’ nose around whin thar’s men talkin’.”
“But I mustn’t speak the spell out whole till ever’thing’s perpared,” Bowsmith went on, gouging his calf again with the nail of his big toe. “Thet’s cuz hit’ll work only the onct, Mister Nathan sez. En effen I’m not wearin’ the strop over me when I says it, thin I’ll gain some strength but not the whole strength uv the bull.”
There was a sharp altercation within the cabin, one female voice shrieking, “En what’re we s’posed t’ do with no more light thin inside the Devil’s butthole? You put that lamp down, Mar’ Beth Neill!”
“Zeph,” said the Baron in a low voice, but two of his sons were already moving toward the doorway, shifting their rifles to free their right hands.
“Anyhows, I thought ye might read the spell out with me, sir,” Bowsmith said. “Thim folk down t’ the settlemint, I reckon they don’t hev much use fer me. ”
“I wuz jist—” a woman cried on a rising inflection that ended with the thud of knuckles instead of a slap. The light through the doorway shifted, then brightened. The men came out, one of them carrying a copper lamp with a glass chimney.
The circle of lamplight lay like the finger of God on the group of men. That the Neills were all one family was obvious; that they were a species removed from humanity was possible. They were short men; in their midst, Eldon Bowsmith looked like a scrawny chicken surrounded by rats standing upright. The hair on their scalps was black and straight, thinning even on the youngest, and their foreheads sloped sharply.
Several of the clan were chewing tobacco, but the Baron alone smoked a pipe. The stem of that yellow-bowled meerschaum served him as an officer’s swagger stick or a conductor’s baton.