Part 57 (1/2)

”I'll fetch yer dog,” blurted Bart Alpers.

”Non!” Taliaferro said. ”Cesar must have had a little cramp. He will stay outside till he is better.”

”Warn't no cramp, Francine, honey,” M'Donald growled. ”Hit war this sonuvab.i.t.c.h here what done it!”

He pushed Alpers aside.

”What d'ye reckon happint t' Cesar, M'Donald?” Old Nathan said. The farmer was younger by thirty years and strong, but he hadn't the personality to make a threat frightening even when he spoke the flat truth. ”D'ye want t' touch me 'n larn?”

M'Donald stumbled backward from the bluff-for it was all bluff, what Old Nathan had done to the dog had wrung him out bad as lifting a quarter of beef. But the words had this much truth in them: those who struck the cunning man would pay for the blow, in one way or another; and pay in coin they could ill afford.

”I don't believe we've been introduced,” said the woman. She held out her hand. The appraisal was back in her eyes. ”I'm Francine Taliaferro, but do call me Francine. I'm-en vacance in your charming community.”

”He ain't no good t' ye,” M'Donald muttered bitterly, his face turned to a display of b.u.t.tons on a piece of card.

The cunning man took Taliaferro's hand, though he wasn't rightly sure what she expected him to do with it. There were things he knew, plenty of things and important ones; but right just now, he understood why other men reacted as they did to Francine Taliaferro.

”M' name's Nathan. I live down the road a piece, Columbia ways.”

Even a man with a woman like Ellie waiting at home for him.

”I reckon this gen'lman come here t' do business, Rance,” said Mrs. Holden to her husband in a poisonous tone of voice. ”Don't ye reckon ye ought t' he'p him?”

”I'll he'p him, Maude,” Holden muttered, trying-and he knew he would fail-to interrupt the rest of the diatribe. He was a large, soft man, and his hair had been white for years. ”Now, how kin-”

”Ye are a storekeeper, ain't ye?” Mrs. Holden shrilled. ”Not some spavined ole fool thinks spring has come again!”

Holden rested his hands on the counter. His eyes were downcast. One of the other men chuckled.

”Now, Nathan,” the storekeeper resumed. ”Reckon you're here fer more coffee?”

The cunning man opened his mouth to say he'd take a peck of coffee and another of baking soda. He didn't need either just now, but he'd use them both and they'd serve as an excuse for him to have come into Oak Hill.

”Ye've got an iv'ry comb,” he said. The words he spoke weren't the ones he'd had in mind at all.

”Reckon I'll hev thet and call us quits fer me clearin' the rats outen yer barn last fall.”

Everyone in the store except Holden himself stared at Old Nathan. The storekeeper winced and, with his eyes still on his hands, said, ”I reckon thet comb, hit must hev been sold. I'd like t' he'p ye.”

”Whoiver bought thet thing!” cried the storekeeper's wife in amazement. She turned to the niche on the wall behind the counter, where items of special value were flanked to either side by racks of yard goods.

The two crystal goblets remained, but they had been moved inward to cover the s.p.a.ce where the ornate ivory comb once stood.

Mrs. Holden's eyes narrowed. ”Rance Holden, you go look through all the drawers this minute. n.o.body bought thet comb and you know it!”

”Waal, mebbe hit was stole,” Holden muttered. He half-heartedly pulled out one of the drawers behind the counter and poked with his fingers at the hairpins and brooches within.

The cunning man smiled grimly. ”Reckon I kin he'p ye,” he said.

He reached over the counter and took one of the pins, ivory like the comb for which he was searching.

The pin's blunt end was flattened and drilled into a filigree for decoration. He held the design between the tips of his index fingers, pressing just hard enough to keep the pin pointed out horizontally.

”What is this that you are doing, then?” Francine Taliaferro asked in puzzlement.

The other folk in the store knew Old Nathan. Their faces were set in gradations between fear and interest, depending on the varied fas.h.i.+ons in which they viewed the cunning man's arts.

Old Nathan swept the pin over the counter. Midway it dipped, then rose again.

”Check the drawers there,” the cunning man directed. He moved the hairpin back until it pointed straight down. ”Reckon hit's in the bottom one.”

”Why, whut would that iv'ry pin be doin' down there with the women's shoes?” Mrs. Holden demanded.

”Look, I tell ye, I'll pay ye cash fer what ye did with the rats,” the storekeeper said desperately. ”How much 'ud ye take? Jest name-”

He was standing in front of the drawer Old Nathan had indicated. His wife jerked it open violently, banging it against Holden's instep twice and a third time until he hopped away, wincing.

Mrs. Holden straightened, holding a packet wrapped with tissue paper and blue ribbon. It was of a size to contain the comb.

She started to undo the ribbon. Her face was red with fury.

Old Nathan put his hand out. ”Reckon I'll take it the way i'tis,” he said.

”How d'ye guess the comb happint t' be all purtied up 'n hid like thet, Rance?” Bart Alpers said loudly.

”Look to me like hit were a present fer som'body, if ye could git her alone.”

Francine Taliaferro raised her chin. ”I know nothing of this,” she said coldly.

Rance Holden took the packet from his wife's hands and gave it to Old Nathan. ”I figger this makes us quits fer the rats,” he said in a dull voice. He was slumped like a man who'd been fed his breakfast at the small end of a rifle.

”Thankee,” Old Nathan said. ”I reckon thet does.”

The shouting behind him started before the cunning man had unhitched his mule. The timbre of Mrs.

Holden's voice was as sharp and cutting as that of Francine Taliaferro's lapdog.

Taking the comb didn't make a lick of sense, except that it showed the world what a blamed fool G.o.d had made of Rance Holden.

Old Nathan rode along, muttering to himself. It would have been awkward to carry the packet in his hand, but once he'd set the fancy bit of frippery down into a saddle basket, that didn't seem right either.

Might best that he sank the durn thing in the branch, because there wasn't ought he could do with the comb that wouldn't make him out to be a worse fool than Rance. . . .

The mule was following its head onto the cabin trail. Suddenly its ears c.o.c.ked forward and its leading foot hesitated a step. Through the woods came, ”Froggie wint a-courtin', he did ride. . . .”

”Hey, thur!” called the mule.

”Oh, hit's you come back, is it?” Bully Ransden's horse whinnied in reply. ”I jest been down yer way.”