“Hyar!” the sheriff called. “We’ll sweeten the pot fer all you bettin’ men out thar. This here box, hit goes with the books t’ boot.”
Ellie felt Bully Ransden stiffen as though he had been changed to a statue of oak. She looked at him in surprise. His mouth was slightly open.
“Waal, what’s in the durned box, Shurrif?” someone demanded from the back of the crowd.
“Don’t rightly know, Windell,” Tillinghast replied smugly. “Don’t rightly see how hit opens, neither. Reckon airy man with a drap uv sportin’ blood’ll want the box t’ larn fer himse’f, though.”
The box made no sound when it was shaken. Either it was empty or, just possibly, it wasn’t a box at all: merely a block of wood less dense than it seemed from its hard surface to be.
The cube’s base and top were smooth. A band around the center of the four sides was undercut in a pattern of vertical half-round sections. The patterning might have been sliced from lathe-turned dowels, but equally they could have been carved from the block’s surface by an expert.
There was nothing in the box, or there was no box—but the object would do to spur the bidding.
“Thet’s mine,” said Bully Ransden. He pushed forward as though the people in front of him in the crowd were no more than stalks of barley sprouted ankle high. “I’ll take hit.”
“Cullen?” Ellie said. She caught at the big man’s leather vest, more to stay attached than to restrain him. He hunched his shoulders and pulled away, oblivious to her touch.
“Cull, what’re ye—”
Sheriff Tillinghast drew himself up stiffly, but he did not protest aloud. Murchison didn’t face the specter of Bully Ransden, cold-eyed and broad-shouldered, bearing down on him like a landslide. He cried, “Hey naow, what’s this? We’re biddin’ fer riddy cash, we are!”
Bully reached the front of the crowd. He shrugged, clearing a space with his elbows the way an angry bull sweeps his horns across the ground.
“I’ll give ye cash,” Ransden said in a husky voice that ripped like a saw through pinewood. His great, calloused hand dragged out the purse hanging by a thong on the inside of his waistband. He opened the throat and poured the contents of the purse, all coin and the savings of a lifetime, out onto the clerk’s table.
Ellie gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. Her teeth bore down firmly on the first knuckle of her right index finger.
Bully Ransden took the box. Tillinghast quivered with a desire to assert his own authority, but he noticed how easily Bully’s hands spanned six inches to grip the box between thumb and forefinger.
“Waal, what’s the bid, thin, Shurrif?” Murchison demanded. “Might be I’d choose t’ raise my own!”
Ransden turned and faced the farmer before Sheriff Tillinghast formed a response. “This box is mine, Murchison,” he said in a voice hard as millstones.
“Three dollar and thutty-sivin cents,” announced the clerk who had counted the spill of coins while the others concerned themselves with the human elements of the incident.
“Now, thet’s a right good bid, boys,” Tillinghast said in false camaraderie.
“You say airy word more, Murchison,” Ransden promised, “en ye won’t see t’morry dawn.”
He struck his muscular right arm out to the side and raised his thumb as if he were gouging an eye. Nobody who had seen Bully Ransden fight doubted the truth of the threat.
The crowd swayed back from Bully Ransden the way a horse shies when he comes upon a corpse in the trail. From the rear of the gathering, a voice called, “Shurrif, hit’s time ‘n past ye did sompin about these carryins on!”
“There’s enough here fer you too, Jake Windell, ifen ye want it!” Ransden boomed. He held the small box against his chest protectively as he glared out over the crowd. His eyes flashed, and his long blond hair caught a sunbeam to halo him.
“Bids closed,” Tillinghast said. He rapped his gavel down. “And a right good bid hit was, too. The next item, now—”
Ransden strode back through the crowd that parted for him as the waters before Moses. Ellie managed to swiggle to his side, but Ransden gave every indication of having forgotten completely about her.