He did not fire. The face of the prowler was that of Bully Ransden, but its bestial expression was not that of anything human.
Ransden hurled away the remains of his rifle. His eyes were too fear-glazed to take in his surroundings, neither the cunning man nor even the will-o’-the-wisps which had driven him to what a finger’s pressure would have made his last instant of life. The barrel clanged on a tree.
The funnels of snow settled because the cunning man no longer had the will to maintain them. Bully Ransden blundered off in the darkness, bleating with fear every time he collided with a tree trunk.
Old Nathan shivered with cold and reaction. There was something badly wrong. The prowler wore the flesh of Bully Ransden, but Bully wasn’t the man to skulk and flee. . . .
Old Nathan searched until he found the intruder’s rifle. The barrel was kinked, and the stock had broken off at the small. Farther back along the prowler’s trail in the fresh snow lay a saddle which the cunning man had hung out of the weather in his shed. The mule saddle was not quite valueless, but it would bring a thief little more than a couple drams of popskull from a crooked buyer.
Old Nathan stared at the saddle and the broken rifle. The yellow tomcat drew himself across the back of the cunning man’s boots. “I’m not the one t’ tell ye not t’ play with things afore ye kill thim,” the cat said. “But they hadn’t ought t’ git plumb clear. ‘Specially—”
The cat twisted to look off in the direction Bully Ransden had fled. “—whin they’re the size ‘n meanness t’ tear yer throat clean out the nixt time, old man.”
“Whin I want yer advice,” the cunning man growled, “I’ll ask fer it.”
When Old Nathan returned to his cabin, he didn’t pull the load from his rifle as he usually would have done. Instead, he emptied the priming pan and refilled it with fresh powder, just in case snow had dampened the original charge.
* * *
When they came in sight of the Ransden cabin, the mule snorted, “Hmph!” and blew an explosive puff of breath into the chill, dry air. “Whutiver happened t’ the horse whut used t’ live here?”
Old Nathan frowned at the dwelling a furlong down the road ahead. Ransden’s cabin seemed abnormally quiet, but a line of gray smoke trembled up from the chimney. “I reckon Bully Ransden rid off already this mornin’,” he said. “Mebbe he figgered we’d come a-callin’.”
Or the Shuriff would.
The mule snorted again. “Hain’t no horse lived here these months gone,” it said. “Don’t smell sign uv airy stock a’tall, neither, though thar used t’ be a yoke uv oxen.”
The mule’s forehoof rang against a lump of quartz beneath the inch of powdery snow. The cabin door quivered open a crack wide enough for a man to peer out and down the road.
There was a cry and a blow from within the cabin.
The cunning man’s face hardened. “Git up, mule,” he said and tapped back with both heels to show that he was serious.
Bully Ransden bolted from the cabin. His galluses dangled behind him and he had to hop twice on his own porch before his foot seated in his right boot. He ran across the road, into the unbroken forest which faced his tract of cleared land.
The mule had obeyed—for a wonder! The beast’s racking trot precluded the slightest chance of hitting anything but air from a hundred and fifty yards. Even so, Old Nathan rose momentarily in his stirrups and sighted down the long, black-finished barrel of his rifle, obedient to the predator’s instinct that always urged chase when something ran.
He settled again into the jouncing saddle. The muscles of his upper thighs were already reminding him that he wasn’t as young as he once had been.
“Waal?” the mule demanded as it clopped heavily along the frozen ruts. “What naow, durn ye?”
“Pull up, thin,” the cunning man muttered. He drew back on the reins with his left hand, though he continued to hold his rifle with the butt against his hipbone and the barrel slanted forward at an angle. “I don’t figger we need t’ go messin’ through the breshwood lookin’ fer sompin I don’t choose t’ shoot nohow.”