3stalwarts (103 page)

“Matched pair, eh? Well I’ll bet my friend Jed Johnson will have just about what you want. He always has three or four pairs of real handsome horses he brings up from the South. Suppose we go and see what he’s got.”

“I don’t know as I’ll buy a team outright. I guess I might match a pair.”

“That’s a good idea, young man. It’s good if you know enough to do it. Buying from Johnson, you’re sure of a good team, though.”

They sallied out of the shed together, Brackett with his left hand on Dan’s arm, his right swinging the stick. He wore a light brown homespun coat and black trousers and a scarlet tie, and stuck his legs out handsomely as he walked.

Solomon and Hector kept in the rear.

“How’s Nell?” Solomon asked.

Hector let out a long sigh. Then he turned on Solomon with a shamefaced grin.

“Me and Nelly ain’t talked the way we just did since we been married. She allowed she’d been mean, but that she hadn’t meant anything by it; and then I said it wasn’t right the way I’d treated her; and she said she’d stop naggin’. Can you beat that, Sol?”

“No!” said Sol. “Did she, though?”

“Yes, sir! She admitted it. But it was worse than that. It was worse than seeing an execution.”

“Yeanh?”

“By Cripus, I’d got so wound up, I said I’d give up cigars.”

Even to recall his promise petrified Hector’s round face.

“That’s too bad,” said Solomon, judiciously. “You hadn’t ought to have done that.”

“Well, I done it. We was so loving all to once, I couldn’t think of anything else to say. And when I said that, Nelly kissed me right in the shed with all them horses, and then made me say it over. She’s been pert as a squirrel ever since.”

They found that they had lost sight of Dan and Brackett, but on looking round they sighted the fat woman before a gypsy’s tent, with the gypsy woman, her head covered with a red handkerchief, talking to her through the opening of the tent, one brown hand stretched out, palm up, gracefully. A little behind the fat woman stood Molly, with the little Brackett girl, who was carrying the lunch basket. Farther down the line of tents they saw Mrs. Berry, her small bonnet bobbing from right to .left as she tried to fool a pea-and-thimble artist.

“She will try it,” said Hector sadly, “and she’s close-sighted too.”

Shivers of superstitious delight were passing up and down the fat woman’s back. Now she drew herself up with a shuddering breath as a keen deduction of the gypsy woman went home, and then she leaned over chuckling outrageously over some revelation for the future. All the time the black eyes of the gypsy kept glancing up from under her brows at the broad red face.

“Let’s sneak up to the back side of the tent,” Solomon whispered. “Maybe we’ll get a gossip on to Lucy.”

But, before they could start, the gypsy woman dropped the fat woman’s hand and held out her own again, palm up. Mrs. Gurget giggled like a schoolgirl as she dropped a quarter into the hand.

“I sure got my money’s worth,” she chortled. “See what she says about you, Molly.”

The two men saw the girl leave the child and step up to the gypsy. Her fresh, bright coloring made a vivid contrast with the gypsy’s brown skin and black hair. The palmist let her bold eyes rove over Molly, trying to learn what she could from her general appearance. Then she took Molly’s hand and slanted it to the sun. For an instant the two heads bent over it; Molly bending easily, the short tails of her jacket flaring upwards; the gypsy leaning forward from her seat, her black eyes glittering. Once in a long while a palmist sees a hand which makes clear sense according to the laws of the science, and which can be read without invention. She glanced up at Molly’s face, said something in a low voice, then drew her shawled head back through the flap of the tent. To the amazement of the others, Molly followed her.

There were a dozen or so of tents set up opposite the hitch-racks and shed; and most of the people seemed to be interested in the attractions they offered. The gypsy fortune tellers and palmists were popular, and the Egyptian phrenologist, K. Kopulos, who was just starting a vogue in the Mohawk country; and the glass blowers, making magic with their breath and fingers— they could always be found at any such gathering. In this instance they were a Swiss family, who had found the fortune they sought in their old profession. Little white glass bucks and bluebirds could be found in half the corner cupboards of the river counties. At the end of the line a quack had set up a booth from which he hawked, in a thin, monotonous voice, rheumatic belts, stone water for gall stones, smallpox antitoxin, and the inevitable panacea for man and beast, claiming even that it stopped the roup in poultry. His tall, bony figure in the black pipe hat and black coat, the velvet collar of which had long since turned a rusty green, caught the eye and held it. He had an interested, kindly face and knew a cure for every ailment. Across the way the reputable agent for Dr. Brandreth’s Pills, a jolly, healthy, stubby man, himself a product of the medicine he offered (according to his advertisement), writhed impotently as he watched the quack’s sales. Even the famous Symptom Diary, or Invalid’s Almanac he carried as a side line went poorly. He looked too healthy to be sympathetic.

Behind, under a long shed, or tied to a hitching rail outside, stood the horses, their manes and tails stirring on the slight north wind, some fidgety at the noise and bustle, some trotting round the rings behind a boy as the dealer stood beside the expected buyer, cracking his long-lashed whip and pointing out what virtues the purchaser might miss. Like a refrain to the rise of human voices came the stamp of hoofs and the rattling of halter rings.

The morning sun washed over the crowd, picking out here and there the bright red and green of gypsy dress, or the pearl grey of a gentleman’s hat or the gloss of his tile. The old grass was a dull green underfoot, and at the entrance to the grounds and in the ring, where horses’ hoofs had loosened the frost, the dark mud showed through.

For a minute, with all the bustle round them, Hector and Solomon watched the flap of the gypsy’s tent. Then Solomon swore.

“She’d ought to have more sense than to do that.”

They joined the fat woman and the little Brackett girl, who was eating her way into a pink nest of spun sugar.

“Well,” Mrs. Gurget admitted, “it is queer, Sol. But I don’t see as anything can rightly happen to her so long as we watch till she comes out.”

“Guess I’ll go round back,” said Hector. “If there’s any monkey business, it’ll show there.”

But a few minutes later Molly appeared in the door of the tent. Her face had lost some of its color, and her hair, escaping from under its bonnet as it always did, hung lifeless. Her shoulders slouched. For an instant she did not appear to see Mrs. Gurget and Solomon, but stood with dull eyes.

The fat woman drew a sharp breath.

“My gracious!” she said sharply. “Open your eyes, dearie.”

Molly glanced at her and lazily pulled a wisp of hair from in front of her eyes. She smiled, but it was a lifeless smile.

“Shucks!” snorted the fat woman. “What’s she been telling you?”

Molly looked down at her hand, then wiped it down over her hip.

“She said it was a true hand.”

“You’d oughtn’t to go believing an ugly witch like her,” said the fat woman. “It’s just a game for making money.”

“She said it was true,” repeated Molly. “She asked me first if I wanted to hear.”

“What did she tell you?” asked Mrs. Gurget, drawing her out of earshot.

Suddenly Molly laughed.

“It don’t matter— it’s nonsense. You’d laugh to hear it. I ought to go back where I can do up my hair.”

“All right,” said Mrs. Gurget, patting her arm. “We’ll go look for a place to eat, and leave the men find Dan. He’s off buying horses.”

“No,” said Molly, suddenly. “Let’s all go look for Dan.”

“Surely,” said the fat woman.

They picked up Mrs. Berry and Hector.

“What did she tell you, Molly?” Hector asked.

“Oh, nothing. It’s all lies, that talk,” said the fat woman, but she frowned aside at Hector and put her finger to her lips. He stared at her, then winked and said solemnly, “Sure, all lies. They told me I was going to marry a pretty, red-haired gal.”

“Well, didn’t you?” asked the fat woman.

“It was too white to tell when I did. But the temper was there.”

“You shut up,” said his wife, angrily.

The little Brackett girl had finished her sugar. Her eyes were shining and the corners of her mouth and the end of her freckled nose were grubby and sticky.

“Let’s get some more,” suggested the fat woman.

The child gave her a glance of mute admiration.

“Vi’let,” she suggested in a small voice… .

Mr. Brackett had started to lead Dan down the line of horses before the shed. He walked slowly, swinging his stick with gusto.

“Jed has his horses at the bottom end of the shed,” he explained. “We might as well head there first.”

Dan said nothing, but kept running his eyes over the horses. Most of them were work teams, generally looking puffy as if they had been greased and heavily corned for a short while. He mistrusted all such horses.

Now and then Mr. Brackett would nod to a dealer. The dealer would nod back at him as though he were an old acquaintance.

“Got some good-lookers there,” Brackett would say, and the dealer would nod and put a cigar in his mouth or a chew, according to his disposition, and cross one foot over the other in preparation for making a trade. But Brackett would pass on.

“Jed’s reliable,” he said to Dan. “Let’s see what he’s got. You’ve got to watch these fellers.”

“Suits me,” said Dan.

But then, just as Mr. Brackett was about to wave his hand to his friend Johnson, someone touched Dan’s elbow.

“Looking for a horse?”

Dan saw the gypsy whom they had overtaken earlier in the morning driving his string to the fair. His eyes languidly surveyed Dan’s waistcoat buttons, and a long straw drooped over the middle of his lower lip.

“Yeanh,” said Dan.

Mr. Brackett turned an indignant gaze on the gypsy.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Who are you?” the man echoed in a mild voice.

“Brackett,” said the farmer. “Just Bill Brackett. There’s plenty to vouch for my character.”

The gypsy raised his hat delicately by the crown half an inch off his head and let it drop back. Then he took his straw out of his mouth, examined the chewed end critically, and put in the unchewed end.

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Get out,” said Brackett. “My friend wants to buy a team.”

“That’s what I was asking him.”

“He’s going to deal with Mr. Jed Johnson, a reputable dealer,” said Brackett, throwing out his chest. “I vouch for Jed Johnson’s character.”

“I don’t want to show my character,” said the gypsy. “I want to show this gent my horses.”

“Sure,” said Dan, “let’s look them over.”

Mr. Brackett grunted savagely and then strode behind them, a look of determination on his red face. The gypsy led them to a corner of the lot, where five horses were lined up under the care of the red-shirted man. Most of the horses were light, carriage weight. But Dan’s eyes lighted again at the sight of the big black with the white blaze and muzzle. He was dirty and looked thin. Mr. Brackett let out a gust of air through his teeth.

“You ain’t looking at that, be you, Harrow?”

“What?” asked Dan.

The red-shirted man winked, ostensibly at Dan, but including everybody within reach.

“Gent means a horse, probably. Don’t know the name.”

Brackett swore.

“Horse! That, eh? You ain’t looking at that bald-snouted brush-harrow, be you?”

“Yeanh,” said Dan. “I kind of like his looks. He’s a bit high to match, though.”

“Sure,” said the owner, taking out his straw to point with. “But his shoulders is set on straight. He’s short-backed. He’s a fast walker. Sam, show him round.”

The red-shirted man unhitched the halter rope and walked the horse up and down. He had a good stride.

“Trot him,” said the dealer.

The red-shirted man jerked the rope and the horse threw up his head and trotted in a circle.

“Limber,” remarked the dealer. “He’s kind and sound. He’s a good horse.”

“How old is he?”

“Five.”

Brackett snorted and said, “Five!”

“Why don’t you look at his teeth?” suggested the dealer.

“I wouldn’t get in reach of that animal’s eye, let alone his teeth. He’s vicious.”

“Well, I wouldn’t then. Sam, open the horse’s mouth so the gent can look without getting breathed at.”

The red-shirted man led the black over to them, caught his off ear in one hand to hold the head down, and pinched the lower jaw. The horse flared his nostrils, but his mouth opened.

“Twelve,” observed Mr. Brackett. “Look at them rings.”

“Sure,” said the dealer. “Three on each.”

Dan ran his hands down over the horse’s legs. The horse stood easily. There was no sign of ringbone.

“Sound,” remarked the dealer.

“Spavined,” said Brackett. “I thought I’d noticed.”

“No,” said Dan.

“He’s had a fall,” said Brackett. “Ain’t his nigh knee broke?”

“How much do you want for him?” Dan asked.

“Ninety-five, cheap.”

“Yes, it is,” said Dan. “Was he stolen?”

The gypsy let his languid eyes drift over the skyline.

“No,” he said.

“Where was he raised?” asked Dan.

“Man I bought him off didn’t mention.”

“Where’d you buy him?”

“A pasture lot in Round Top.”

“Where’s that?”

“Tioga County, Pennsylvania.”

“All right,” said Dan. “Can you keep him here for a while? I want to match him up. When I get the horse I want, I’ll fetch him and pay you.”

“Option?”

“Five dollars?”

“Sure.”

Mr. Brackett seized Dan’s elbow.

“Boy, boy. You want to look out. Of course he was cheap. But them’ll stick you, them gypsies.”

“Yeanh?”

“You’ll have a hard job matching him. But I heard Jed speaking about a grey roan he had might do.”

“Might as well see,” said Dan.