Old Nathan, Second Edition, page 6
Hardy lost the aura of discomfort which had momentarily softened his angular body. “Look here,” he said. “Thet gold’s mine now, not some dead man’s. Mine by law and mine by right. I mean t’ have it!”
He leaned forward again. “Now, you know about spooks, I reckon. Nothing there t’ skeer you. You set up in Bynum’s cabin when the moon’s dark these three nights from now, and I’ll see you right of it. D’ye hear me?”
I hear more ’n you think you’re saying’, Bascom Hardy, the cunning man thought as he looked down at the other man. Aloud he said, “Reckon I kin git a neighbor t’ milk the cows fer a few days.”
When he smiled, as now, Old Nathan’s mouth looked like an axe-cut in a block of walnut heartwood. “I don’t know thet I’d claim t’ hev friends hereabouts. But airy soul knows I pay my debts . . . and there’s none so sure of hisse’f thet he don’t think he might need what I could do fer him one day.”
Bascom Hardy stood up. “Waal,” he said, though the words were flummery, “I’m a businessman and I like t’ see another businessman. Will ye come with me now t’ Bynum’s cabin?”
“I reckon I kin find it myse’f,” Old Nathan said. “I’ll be there afore the new moon.”
“I’ll look for ye,” Hardy said in false joviality.
He opened the front door wider to leave. The motion pulled a breeze that scattered a slush of gray pinfeathers across the cabin floor. It was always amazing to see how many feathers a bird had, even a small bird.
“He had his say,” muttered the cat past a mouthful of titmouse, “ ’n I had mine.”
Old Nathan scowled—at the cat’s ruthlessness, and at the image of that same set of mind which he knew was within his own soul.
* * *
“Thur’s horses waitin’ up around the next bend,” said the mule as his shoes click-clicked down the loose stones of the sloping trail. “Thur’s men with ’em too, I reckon.”
“Thankee,” said Old Nathan.
He shifted his flintlock so that it lay crossways to the saddle horn, not slanting forward. The undergrowth springing from this rocky clay soil was open enough that the long barrel wouldn’t catch; and it was neither polite nor safe to offer a stranger his first view of you over a rifle’s muzzle.
“Thet mean we’re goin’ t’ set a piece, thin?” the mule asked.
“I reckon it does,” the cunning man agreed.
The mule blew its lips out. “ ’Bout damn time,” it muttered.
It was a good beast. Always grumbling, but no worse than any other mule; and always willing to do its job, though never happy about it.
Bascom Hardy scrambled to his feet when he saw Old Nathan mounted on the mule. His bodyguard Ned was a step slower, but that was because the half-breed’s first thought was to point the musket toward the sudden sound. Ned had a hard man’s instincts, but he warn’t sharp enough nor quick enough t’ be a problem if he decided to try conclusions at the small end of a rifle.
Folk hereabouts hed got soft. Back in the days when he followed Colonel Sevier to King’s Mountain, then men were men.
The hillside had never been cut for planting. Bynum Hardy’s cabin was just out of sight among pines and the dogwoods which had grown up where the narrow clearing let in the sun. Old Nathan knew the building was there, though, because he’d seen it in the silver shield of his knife. The well that he’d seen also, just downslope of the dwelling, set right there next the trail where Bascom Hardy and his man waited.
Hardy tugged out his watch, gold like the chain on which it hung, and flipped up the cover of its hunter case. “I figgered I’d come t’ make sure you kept your bargain,” he said irritably. “I’d come t’ misdoubt thet you would.”
“You keep yer britches on,” snapped the cunning man. A feller who used a watch t’ tell time in broad daylight spent too much of his life with money in tight-hedged rooms. . . . “I said I’d be here, ’n here I am—”
He looked pointedly up at the sky. The sun was below the pine-fringed rim of the notch, but the visible heavens were still bright blue “—well afore time.”
“Could use a drink,” the mule grumbled. It kept walking on, toward the well. There wasn’t a true spring house, but the well had a curb of mud-chinked fieldstones and a shelter roof from which half the shingles had blown or broken.
“Us too,” whickered Bascom Hardy’s walking horse, tied by his reins to a trailside alder. He jerked his head and made the alder sway. “Didn’t neither of ’em water us whin we got here, ’n thet was three hours past.”
“Lead yer horses t’ me,” Old Nathan grunted as he swung off the mule. “I’ll water the beasts like a decent man ought.”
The curb’s chinking was riddled with wasp burrows. The well rope had seen better days, but it was sound enough and the wooden bucket was near new. The old one must uv rotted clean away, for a man as tight as Bynum Hardy to replace it.
Old Nathan looked down into the well.
“There’s nothing there, I tell ye,” Hardy said. A tinge of color in his voice suggested the rich man wasn’t fully sure he spoke the truth—and that it might be more than callous disregard for his horse which kept him away from the well.
“There’s water,” said Old Nathan. He leaned his rifle carefully against the well curb and released the brake to lower the bucket.
The same two poles that held up the shelter roof supported a pivot log as thick as one of the cunning man’s shanks. The crank and take-up spool, also wooden, were clamped to the well curb. The pivot log squealed loudly as it turned, but it kept the rope from rubbing as badly as it would have done against a fixed bar.
“Ned, take our horses over,” Hardy ordered abruptly.
The well was square dug and faced with rock. When the bucket splashed against the water a dozen feet below ground level, the sky’s bright reflection through missing shingles shattered into a thousand jeweled fragments. The white-oak bucket bobbed for a moment before it tipped sideways and filled for Old Nathan to crank upward again.
He took a mouthful of water before tipping the rest of the bucket into the pine trough beside the well curb. It tasted clean, without a hint of death or brimstone . . . or of gold, which had as much of Satan in it as the other two together, thet was no more ’n the truth.
“You wait yer turn,” the mule demanded as Hardy’s horse tried to force its head into the trough first. “Lessen you want a couple prints the size uv my hind shoes on yer purty hide.”
“Well!” the horse said. “There’s room for all I’d say—ifen all were gentlemen.” But he backed off, and the mule made a point of letting the bodyguard’s nondescript mare drink before shifting himself out of the walking horse’s way at about the time Old Nathan spilled the third bucketful into the trough.
Old Nathan looked up to the cabin, dug into the backslope sixty feet up from the well. It squatted there, solid and ugly and grim. The door in the front was low, and the side windows were no bigger than a man’s arm could reach through.
The cabin’s roof was built bear-proof. Axe-squared logs were set edge to edge from the walls to the heavy ridgepole, with shingles laid down the seams t’ keep out the rain. The whole thing was more like a hog barn thin a cabin; but it warn’t hogs nor people neither that the sturdy walls pertected, hit was gold. . . .
“Well, ye coming in with me?” Old Nathan said in challenge.
“I bin there,” Bascom Hardy said without meeting the cunning man’s eyes. “Don’t guess there’s much call I should do thet again, what with it gettin’ so late.”
Hardy’s hand twitched toward his watch pocket again, but he caught himself before he dipped out the gold hunter. “I reckon I’ll be going,” he said, tugging the reins of his horse away from the water trough. “I’ll be by come sun-up t’ see thet you’ve kept yer bargain, though.”
The rich man and his bodyguard mounted together. If Ned had been the man he was hired t’ be, he’d hev waited so they weren’t the both of ’em hanging with their hands gripping saddles and each a leg dangling in the air.
Bascom Hardy settled himself. “I warn ye not t’ try foolin’ me,” he called. “I kin see as far into a millstone as the next man.”
“Hmpf,” grunted Old Nathan. He took his rifle in one hand and the mule’s reins in the other. “Come along, thin, mule,” he said as he started walking toward the cabin. No point in climbin’ into the saddle t’ ride sixty feet.
“Ye’d think,” he muttered, “thet if they trust me not t’ hie off in the night with the gold, they oughtn’t worry I’d come where I said I’d come.”
The mule clucked in amusement. “Whur ye goin’ t’ run?” it asked. “Past them, settlin’ a few furlongs up the road, er straight inter the trees like a squirrel? The trail don’t go no further thin we come.”
The cunning man looked over his shoulder in surprise. The two horsemen had disappeared for now; but, as the mule said, they wouldn’t go far. Just far enough to be safe from whatever came visiting the cabin.
And Bynum Hardy’s cabin really was the end of the trail that led to it. “Broad as the trail was beat, I reckoned there was more cabins ’n the one along hit,” Old Nathan muttered.
Gold had beaten the trail. Need for money had brought folk to Bynum Hardy’s door, even back here in a hollow too steep-sided to be cleared while there was better land still to be had. A cheap tract, where a cheap man could settle and sow the crop he knew, gold instead of corn.
And when the loans sprouted, they brought folk back a dozen times more. People bent with the effort of raising the payments until they broke—and Bynum Hardy took their land and changed it in good time to more gold.
“You’ll feed me now, I reckon,” the mule said at the door of the cabin.
Much of the clay chinking had dropped out from between the logs. It lay as a reddish smear at the base of the walls. The cabin was still solid, but it had deteriorated badly since the day it was built for want of care.
Old Nathan looked upward. The sky was visibly darker than it had been when he met Bascom Hardy. “I figger,” he said, “I’ll get a fire going whilst there’s daylight. Like as not I’ll need t’ cut wood, and I only packed a hand-axe along.”
“Reckon you’ll feed me now,” the mule repeated. “Thur’s no stable hereabouts, and I don’t guess yer fool enough to think the reins ’ll hold me ifen I’m hungry.”
The cunning man leaned his rifle against the wall, then turned to uncinch the saddle. Most of the load in the saddlebags was grain and fodder for the mule. He hadn’t expected to find pasture around the dead miser’s cabin. . . .
“You’re nigh as stubborn as a man, ye know thet?” he said to the mule.
The beast snorted with pleasure at the flattery. “What is it ye need t’ do here?” it asked.
Old Nathan lifted off the saddle with the bags still attached to it. “Set till somebody comes by,” he said. “Listen t’ what they say.”
The mule snorted again. “Easy ’nuff work,” it said. “Beats draggin’ a plow all holler.”
“Easy enough t’ say,” Old Nathan said grimly as he unbuckled one of the bags. “How easy hit is t’ do, thet we’ll know come morning.”
There were no clouds in the sky, but the blue had already richened to deep indigo.
* * *
The soil round about the cabin had been dug up like a potato field, and the fireplace within was in worse shape yet. All the stones of the hearth had been levered out of their mud grouting and cast into a corner.
Somebody since, Gray Jack or the witchwoman Mamie Fergusson, had set a fire on the torn clay beneath the flue. Recently cut wood lay near the fireplace where the bodyguard tumbled it the day he watched and waited—for Bynum Hardy, though he didn’t know that at the time.
Old Nathan got to work promptly, notching feathers from the edge of a split log with his hand-axe. He made a fireset of punk and dry leaves to catch the sparks he struck from a fire steel with a spare rifle flint, then fed the tiny flames with a blob of pine pitch before adding the wood. When that log had well and truly caught, he added others with care.
The process was barely complete before the hollow’s early dark covered the cabin. The cunning man stepped back, breathing through nostrils flared by the mental strain of his race with the light. There were other ways Old Nathan could have ignited a fire . . . but though some of those ways looked as easy as a snap of the fingers, they had hidden costs. It was better to struggle long in the dark with flint and steel than to use those other ways.
The orange flames illuminated but did not brighten the interior of the cabin. The single room was bleak and as dank as a cave. The furnishings were slight and broken down—but most likely as good as they had been while Bynum Hardy lived in this fortified hovel. There was a flimsy table and a sawn section of tree bole, a foot in diameter, to act as a stool.
The bed frame was covered with a corn-shuck mattress and a blanket so tattered that Bascom Hardy had abandoned it after his brother’s death. The cunning man remembered the image of Gray Jack cowering beneath the low bed, hopelessly slight cover but all there was . . . and sufficient, because the one/thing who entered the cabin the night of the new moon wasn’t interested in looking for whoever might be hiding.
The leather hinges had rotted off the chest by the sidewall. The lid hung askew to display a few scrappy bits of clothing. Gray Jack was too big to fit into the chest, but it had been just the right size for Mistress Fergusson.
Neither of Bascom Hardy’s two watchers had escaped, not in the end. One hanged and one raving; and a third, Old Nathan, waiting for his fire to burn down so that he could make ash cakes with the coals.
The cunning man sighed. He’d been afraid before, plenty of times; but he’d never been so fearful that he didn’t stand up to it. If there was a thing on earth he was sure of, it was that running didn’t make fear less, and standing couldn’t make it greater.
But that didn’t mean the thing you feared and faced wouldn’t eat you alive. There were false fears; but some were true enough, and there was nothing false about whatever came to this cabin for the bodyguard and the witch a month ago, and a month before that.
Old Nathan added more wood to the fire, then began a task to keep his hands full and his mind calm. As he worked, he clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and called softly, “Hey there! Anybody t’ home?”
“Who’s thet you’re speakin’ to, then?” the mule demanded from the other side of the closed door. Like everything else about the cabin, the door panel was crude but massively strong. It had wrought iron hinges and crossed straps of iron on the outer face.
“I reckon there might be somebody as could tell me about Bynum Hardy,” Old Nathan answered. “A squirrel, maybe, er a mouse.”
The mule snorted. “Naught here t’ bring airy soul,” the beast said. “ ’Cept a man, I reckon, ’n they ain’t got the sense God gave a rock.”
Old Nathan opened his mouth to snarl a reply; but when he thought through the mule’s comment, it was all true enough. No food, and shelter worse nor a log rotted holler. . . .
He went on with his task.
“Whut is hit you’re doin’ in thur, then?” the mule asked.
It occurred to the cunning man that his animal was uneasy, though there was little chance of a bear or a painter hereabouts. Bynum Hardy’s cabin was strengthened against human enemies, not beasts. . . .
“I’m pulling the charge from my rifle gun,” Old Nathan said. He tipped down the flintlock’s muzzle. The powder charge dribbled along the bore and out onto a square of hard-finished leather. From there he would transfer the powder back to the polished cowhorn whose wooden stopper measured the charge proper to this weapon.
“Whutever possessed ye t’ do sich a durn-fool thing as that?” the mule demanded in outrage. “Whut sort uv place d’ye think this is, anyhow?”
On the table before Old Nathan lay the ball and the patch lubricated with a mixture of butter and beeswax. He would not use tallow, anymore than he would eat meat; from a bird, a beast, or a human, it was all the same in his mind.
“Ifen I leave the charge in the bore overnight,” he said softly, more to himself than the mule, “hit’ll draw water ’n rust. And besides . . .”
Firelight winked from fresh, unoxidized lead where the screw in the back of the cunning man’s ramrod had dug in to withdraw the ball. When he returned home, Old Nathan would recast the bullet; but—needs must and the Devil drove—he could use the ball as it was. Seated with the screw gouge down against the powder, it would fly true enough for the purpose.
“And besides,” the old man said, “I don’t reckon whativer comes ’ll be much fazed by a rifle ball, so mebbe hit’s best I don’t put temptation in my way.”
The mule grunted, but it said nothing more.
Old Nathan set the empty flintlock in a corner beside the door, away from the smoke and sparks of the fire. There weren’t any pegs to hang a rifle up properly, though he didn’t guess a man as rich and fearful as Bynum Hardy had done his business without a gun to hand.
He set the cloth-wrapped paste of corn meal on the hearth and raked coals over it to cook the batter into ash cakes. It wasn’t so very late, but it felt late.
The Devil himse’f knew it felt late.
* * *
The sauce pan was full of leather-britches beans boiled with hot peppers. Old Nathan set the container on the table, then stepped back to the fireplace to fetch the ash cakes.
“Hey!” the mule snorted. “Ye’ve comp’ny comin’, old man!”
Old Nathan poised for a moment, hunched over the hearth with his eyes closed. Well, he hadn’t come all this way not t’ meet Bynum Hardy. He straightened and walked to the door, opening it wide.
Something—somebody—was climbing out of the well. The figure was almost over the curb, but Old Nathan had time Gray Jack and the witchwoman didn’t have. Time to run . . . except there was never a good time to run.
The mule snorted restively. The beast was a warm presence, but Old Nathan could see nothing of it beyond the glint of starlight on one wide, staring eyeball.
