Part 55 (1/2)

”I'm headed inter the sittlement,” said the horse in satisfaction. ”I allus git me a feed uv oats there, I do.”

”Goin' into the settlement, thin?” Old Nathan asked, as if it were no more than idle talk between two men who'd met on the road.

The cunning man and Bully Ransden had too much history between them to be no more than that, though. Each man was unique in the county-known by everyone and respected, but feared as well.

Old Nathan's art set him apart from others. Bully Ransden had beaten his brutal father out of the cabin when he was eleven. Since that time, fists and knotted muscles had been the Bully's instant reply to any slight or gibe directed at the poverty from which he had barely raised himself-or the fact he was the son of a man hated and despised by all in a land where few angels had settled.

Old Nathan's mouth quirked in a smile. He and Ransden were stiff-necked men, as well, who both claimed they didn't care what others thought so long as they weren't interfered with. There was some truth to the claim as well. . . .

”I reckon I might head down thet way,” Ransden said, as though there was ought else in the direction he was heading. ”Might git me some supper t' Shorty's er somewhere.”

He took notice of the mule's saddle baskets and added, ”Say, old man-thet's a fine catfish ye hev there.”

”Thet's right,” Old Nathan agreed. ”I figger t' fry me a steak t'night 'n smoke the rest.”

”Hmph,” the mule snorted, looking sidelong up at the cunning man. ”Wish thut some of us iver got oats t'

eat.”

”I might buy thet fish offen ye,” Ransden said. ”I've got a notion t' take some fish back fer supper t'morry. How much 'ud ye take fer him?”

”Hain't intersted in sellin',” Old Nathan said, his eyes narrowing again. ”Didn't figger airy soul as knew Shorty 'ud et his food-or drink the pizen he calls whiskey. I'd uv figgered ye'd stay t' home t'night.

Hain't nothin' so good as slab uv hot bread slathered with b.u.t.ter.”

Bully Ransden flushed, and the tendons of his bull neck stood out like cords. ”You been messin' about my Ellie, old man?” he asked.

The words were almost unintelligible. Emotion choked Ransden's voice the way ice did streams during the spring freshets.

Old Nathan was careful not to raise his hand. A threat that might forestall violence at a lower emotional temperature would precipitate it with the younger man in his current state. Nothing would stop Bully Ransden now if he chose to attack; nothing but a bullet in the brain, and that might not stop him soon enough to save his would-be victim.

”I know,” the cunning man said calmly, ”what I know. D'ye doubt thet, Bully Ransden?”

The horse stretched out his neck to browse leaves from a sweet-gum sapling which had sprouted at the edge of the road. Ransden jerked his mount back reflexively, but the movement took the danger out of a situation c.o.c.ked and primed to explode.

Ransden looked away. ”Aw, hit's no use t' talk to an old fool like you,” he muttered. ”I'll pick up a mess uv bullheads down t' the sittlement. Gee-up, horse!”

He spurred his mount needlessly hard. As the horse sprang down the road with a startled complaint, Ransden shouted over his shoulder, ”I'm a grown man! Hit's no affair of yourn where I spend my time-nor Ellie's affair neither!”

Old Nathan watched the young man go. He was still staring down the road some moments after Ransden had disappeared. The mule said in a disgusted voice, ”I wouldn't mind t' get back to a pail of oats, old man.”

”Git along, thin,” the cunning man said. ”Fust time I ever knowed ye t' be willing t' do airy durn thing.”

But his heart wasn't in the retort.

The cat came in, licking his muzzle both with relish and for the purpose of cleanliness. ”Found the fish guts in the mulch pile,” he said. ”Found the head too. Thankee.”

”Thought ye might like hit,” said Old Nathan as he knelt, adding sticks of green hickory to his fire. ”Ifen ye didn't, the corn will next Spring.”

The big catfish, cleaned and split open, lay on the smokeshelf just below the throat of the fireplace. Most folk, they had separate smokehouses-vented or c.h.i.n.ked tight, that was a matter of taste. Even so, the fireplace smokeshelf was useful for bits of meat that weren't worth stoking up a smoker meant for whole hogs and deer carcases.

As for Old Nathan-he wasn't going to smoke and eat a hog any more than he was going to smoke and eat a human being . . . though there were plenty hogs he'd met whose personalities would improve once their throats were slit.

Same was true of the humans, often enough.

Smoke sprouted from the underside of the hickory billet and hissed up in a sheet. Trapped water cracked its way to the surface with a sound like that of a percussion cap firing.

”Don't reckon there's an uglier sight in the world 'n a catfish head,” said the cat as he complacently groomed his right forepaw. He spread the toes and extended the white, hooked claws, each of them needle sharp. ”A pa.s.sel uv good meat to it, though.”

”Don't matter what a thing looks like,” Old Nathan said, ”so long's it tastes right.” He sneezed violently, backed away from his fire, and sneezed again.

”Thought I might go off fer a bit,” he added to no one in particular.

The cat chuckled and began to work on the other paw. ”Chasin' after thet bit uv c.u.n.t come by here this mornin', are ye? Give it up, ole man. You're no good t' the split-tails.”

”Ye think thet's all there is, thin?” the cunning man demanded. ”Ifen I don't give her thet one help, there's no he'p thet matters a'tall?”

”Thet's right,” the cat said simply. He began licking his genitals with his hind legs spread wide apart. His belly fur was white, while the rest of his body was yellow to tigerishly orange.

Old Nathan sighed. ”I used t' think thet way myse'f,” he admitted as he carried his tin wash basin out to the back porch. Bout time t' fill the durn water barrel from the creek; but thet 'ud wait. . . .

”Used t' think?” the tomcat repeated. ”Used t' know, ye mean. Afore ye got yer knackers shot away.”

”I knowed a girl a sight like Ellie Ransden back thin . . .” Old Nathan muttered.

The reflection in the water barrel was brown, the underside of the shakes covering the porch. Old Nathan bent to dip a basinful with the gourd scoop. He saw his own face, craggy and hard. His beard was still black, though he wouldn't see seventy again.

Then, though he hadn't wished it-he thought-and he hadn't said the words-aloud-there was a woman's face, young and full-lipped and framed in hair as long and black as the years since last he'd seen her, the eve of marching off with Colonel Sevier to what ended at King's Mountain. . . .

”Jes' turn 'n let me see ye move, Slowly,” Old Nathan whispered to his memories. ”There's nairy a thing so purty in all the world.”

The reflection shattered. The grip of the cunning man's right hand had snapped the neck of the gourd.

The hollowed body fell into the barrel.

Old Nathan straightened, wiping his eyes and forehead with the back of his hand. He tossed the gourd neck off the porch. ”Niver knew why her folks, they named her thet, Slowly,” he muttered. ”Ifen it was them 'n not a name she'd picked herse'f.”

The cat hopped up onto the cane seat of the rocking chair. He poised there for a moment, allowing the rockers to return to balance before he settled himself.

”I'll tell ye a thing, though, cat,” the cunning man said forcefully. ”Afore King's Mountain, I couldn't no more talk t' you an' t' other animals thin I could talk t' this hearth rock.”

The tomcat curled his full tail over his face, then flicked it barely aside.

”Afore ye got yer knackers blowed off, ye mean?” the cat said. The discussion wasn't of great concern to him, but he demanded precise language nonetheless.

”Aye,” Old Nathan said, glaring at the animal. ”Thet's what I mean.”