“I don’t figger we needed t’ go harin’ over the ice fit t’ break a leg, neither,” the mule grumbled as it slowed to a halt in front of Ransden’s cabin. “Might hev thunk on thet afore ye roweled me all bloody, mightn’t ye?”
* * *
“Mule . . .” Old Nathan said as he rose again in his stirrups to peer into the woods. The Bully was gone past the use of mere eyesight to follow. . . . “Ifen ye keep grindin’ thet mill, I’ll sell ye t’ some fella who’ll treat ye jest as you say I do.”
The beast’s complaint and the old man’s threat were both empty rhetoric: the litany and response of folk who’d worn into one anothers’ crotchets over the course of years.
The cabin door creaked. Old Nathan turned, swinging the rifle reflexively. Ellie Ransden stood in the doorway with her left hand to her cheek and a shocked expression on her face. She wore only a shift, and her fine black hair was tied back with a twist of tow.
Old Nathan swung his leg over the saddle, pretending that his threatening reflex was merely the first stage in dismounting. “Howdy, Miz Ransden,” he called. “Thought I might hev a word with yer man, but I reckon I just missed him.”
After a moment he added, “I could come back later ifen this time don’t suit.”
Ellie straightened. “Oh, law,” she said, “I hain’t got a thing t’ offer ye, sir, but do—”
She looked down at the threadbare cotton shift that was her only garment. “Oh law!” she repeated.
She stepped back and pushed the door to. “Shan’t be two flicks uv a cat’s tail,” she called through the closed panel.
“If I leave you be,” the cunning man said to his mule, “you kin find a sunny patch in the lee of a wall ‘n mebbe grub up some grass. But ifen ye wander off on me, I’ll blister ye good er it’s a pity. D’ye hear me, mule?”
“Hmph,” said the mule. “I reckon with you runnin’ the shoes offen me, up ‘n down the high road, I got better things t’ do than go gallivantin’ somewhar er other on my own.”
The barrel and splintered stock of Bully Ransden’s rifle were strapped to the mule’s saddle. By the time Old Nathan had them loose, Ellie threw the door open again. She wore a check-printed dress; an ornate ivory comb set off the supple black curves of her hair.
The girl’s usual complement of additional tortoise shell combs was missing. The red patch on her left cheek would become a serious bruise before the day was out.
“Come in, Mister Nathan,” she said making a pass at a formal curtsey. “I’m all sixes ‘n sivins, b-but—”
Her control broke. She didn’t blink or avert her eyes, but tears started from the corners of them. “—the good Lord knows thet I’m glad t’ see ye!”
Old Nathan mounted the porch steps with his own rifle in one hand and the remains of Bully Ransden’s in the other. He paused in the doorway and eyed the trees again. No doubt the Bully was watching from concealment like a fox circling to eye the hounds on his scent, but if he’d been willing to meet the cunning man he could have done so from the protection of his own walls.
Had the thing that looked like Ransden been Bully Ransden in fact, he would have died on his porch before he ran from any hundred men.
Old Nathan shut the door behind him.
The cabin was a wreck. All the furnishings had been damaged to some degree. The chairs’ slatted backs were punched in, a boot had smashed the face panels of the storage chests, and the bed frame was missing so that the straw tick and blankets lay on the floor in a pile that Ellie had just attempted to arrange.
Someone had with systematic brutality broken the sturdy legs of the table. It stood upright due to repairs made with twine and splints of leather.
Bully Ransden was a better-than-fair journeyman carpenter. Repairs to the table were Ellie’s work.