And he turned and left, leaving two stout Haggers leaning on their cudgels to observe the work.
Mouche and Ornery set about the task, as described. There were a dozen stalls; they began on the ones nearest the loft. The job was no new thing for Mouche, though his hands, from which all calluses had long since been removed, soon felt the burn of the manure fork’s wooden handle. Ornery had no such problem. Daily manipulation of ropes had given her palms like leather. Observing Mouche’s tender hands, she pulled a pair of heavy work gloves from her back pocket and handed them over.
When Bane and Dyre made no move to help, the Haggers spoke roughly to them. After some muttering, they went unwillingly and unhandily to work at the far end.
“Y’said when we left Dutter, it was the end of this,” Dyre growled.
“It will be,” Bane muttered in return. “All this is a mistake, believe me.” Then, with a glance at Mouche and Ornery, he muttered, just loud enough for them to hear, “But I think we’ll probably stay long enough to settle with that one. That one there owes us, don’t he, Brother? He’ll take a beating that will last him a lifetime.”
Mouche clenched his fists and turned. “I owe you more pain than you do me, Stinkbreath.”
“You got that wrong,” said Bane, turning white with fury. “I do what I like. I’m a new breed, I am, and nobody interferes with me, not ever.”
This brought the Haggers over once more, and while Bane and Dyer claimed their full attentions, Mouche and Ornery exchanged a few conspiratorial whispers concerning where they might find a haven if attacked. They settled upon the loft, and Ornery climbed there by the loose ladder—taking her and Mouche’s belongings with her—and began forking straw down into the two stalls they had so far shoveled out. Mouche brought in two full buckets of fresh water, waited for an unobserved moment and handed one up to Ornery, who set it out of sight. Now, if they had to retreat, at least they wouldn’t die from thirst!
Somewhere a noon bell rang, and the Haggers, who evidently felt they had supervised long enough, filed out and away, chatting between themselves. When the stable door closed, Bane stalked from the stall he had made little effort to clean, threw his manure fork at Mouche’s feet, and growled, “Get on with it, dungrats.”
“We’ll do six stalls, our half,” said Mouche. “And no more than that.”
“You’ll do the whole,” sneered Bane. “Or you’ll suffer for it.”
Mouche and Ornery exchanged a glance, then ignored Bane’s bluster and turned back to the stall they were cleaning.
“Hey, farm boy,” sneered Bane. “You been home to visit lately?”
Mouche paid no attention.
“You otta go. Somethin’ there you otta see.”
Mouche turned. “And how would you know? You’ve not been home either.”
“Well, Dutters wasn’t my home and they weren’t my folks. I didn’t have a daddy and a mommy like you did, but I got friends tell me things. You know you got two baby sisters, farm boy? You know you got a brother going to grow up to be a Family Man?”
“That’s a lie,” said Mouche stoutly. His father would have told him if any such thing were true.
Bane and Dyre laughed, punching each other in their glee. “No lie. Sold you off and right away, mama had a girl, then another one, then a boy. The farm’s doing well without you, farm boy. I guess all they had to do was get rid of their bad luck, and the Hagions made it right for them.”
“How come you know so much?” demanded Ornery, moving nearer to Mouche, who was choking on his anger.
“We was neighbors. Dutter place is just over the hill. We used to roam around there quite a bit, killing vermin, getting rid of varmints.”
“What do you mean you didn’t have a mother and father?” Ornery challenged. “Everybody has.”
“Not us,” cried Dyre. “We was born of the thunder, we was. Lightning is our papa. We’re a new breed.”
“Born of the stinkbush,” choked Mouche, against all good sense. “Fathered by an outhouse.”