"You've a straight-shootin' gun," this farmer said to me. "Would you be of a mind to swap?"
We settled down to dicker. He was a whittler and a spitter, but I was natural-born to patience, so I waited him out. He was bound and determined to make a trade, and few folks came that way. That beat-up old cart hadn't been used in years, but the Tinker and me, we could fix it up. From now on we'd be in the flat-lands where it would be handy.
Between story-telling and talk of the Settlements, we dickered. We dickered again over hominy grits and sidemeat for supper, and we dickered at breakfast, but about that time I got awful busy making up my pack, talking to the Tinker and the like, and he began to think he'd lost me.
Upshot of it was, I let him have that Ballard and I taken the cart, three bushels of mighty fine apples, a worn-out scythe, and a couple of freshly tanned hides. The Tinker and me turned to and tightened the iron rims and the spokes, and loaded our gear.
It took two weeks of walking to reach the river, but by that time we had done a sight of swapping.
The little mare was looking good. Our daily marches were not long and the load she carried most of the way was light. We babied her along on carrots, turnips, slices of watermelon, and greens from along the road, and she fattened up on it.
We saw no sign of the three Kurbishaws, but they were never out of mind.
All the time I kept trying to dicker the Tinker out of one of his knives. He carried a dozen in his pack, and two belted at his waist.
A third was slung down the back of his neck under his collar. They were perfectly balanced and the steel tempered to a hardness you wouldn't believe. We both shaved with them, they were that good. In the mountains a man would trade most anything for a Tinker-made knife.
Walking along like that, neither of us much to talk, I had time to think, and I remembered back to the Tinker asking about that gold. A man has a right to be interested in gold, but why that gold in particular? And Spanish gold, they said.
Why was the Tinker starting to open my pack? If he had found what he wanted, would he have made sure I didn't come up to him at the Tombigbee or anywhere?
Was it something about that gold that started the Kurbishaws after me?
I had no gold, and never had had any. So what did I have that they might want?
Nothing.
Nothing, unless maybe there was something in ma's keepsake box. The first time I was alone I'd go through that stuff of ma's again. I never had really looked at it--mostly, I kept it because it was all I had of hers.
All I had else was some worn-out clothes, some Indian blankets, and a couple of extra shirts.
Like I've said, walking gives a man time to think, and a couple of things began to fit. Pa had never spent any of that gold that I could recall, but after Caffrey got it, some was spent. Not much right at first--he was afraid of pa coming back. And it was not long after Caffrey started to spend it that the Tinker showed up.
Not right away ... it must have taken him some time to find out where that gold came from.
The Tinker was not a sociable man, but he had made a point of being my friend. He had spent time with me, and I believed he was really my friend, but I now believed he had some other interest in that gold.
That night we reached the Mississippi and the ferry. We were avoiding main-traveled roads, and the ferry we came up to was operated by a sour, evil-smelling old man who peered suspiciously at us. We dickered with him until he agreed to take us across for a bushel of apples.
He stared at our packs as if he was trying to see right through them, but mostly he looked at Tinker's knives. Neither of us had any other kind of a weapon, except that I carried a long stick to chase off mean dogs, of which we'd met a-plenty.
"Country's full of movers," the ferryman said. "Where mought you folks be goin'?"
"Where folks don't ask questions," I told him.
He threw me a mean look. "Doubtless you've reason," he said. "We git lots of 'em don't want questions asked."
"Tinker, did you ever operate a ferry?"
"Not that I recall."
"I've got a feeling there's going to be a job open around here--unless somebody can swim with a knot on his head."
The ferryman shut up, but when we made shore near a cluster of miserable-looking shacks I thought I saw him make a signal to some rough-looking men loitering on the bank.
"Trouble," I said, low-voiced, to the Tinker.
A bearded man with a bottle in his hand, his pants held up by a piece of rope, started toward us. Several others followed.
The bearded man was big, and he was wearing a pistol, as were some of the others.
My walking staff was a handy weapon, if need be. A Welshman in the mountains had taught me the art of stick fighting, and I was ready.
The bearded man stopped in our path as we drove off the ferry. He glanced from the Tinker to me, and it was obvious that neither of us had a gun.
Four men behind him ... a dirty, boozing lot, but armed and confident. My mouth was dry and my belly felt empty.
"Stoppin' around?"
"Passin' through," I said.
One end of my stick rested on my boot toe, ready to flip and thrust. A stick fighter never swings a wide blow--he thrusts or strikes with the end, andforthe belly, the throat, or the eyes.
"Have a drink!" The big man thrust the bottle at the Tinker.
"Never touch it," the Tinker replied.
Two of the other men were closing in on me, about as close as I could afford for them to get.
"You'll drink and like it!" The big man suddenly swung with the bottle, but he was too slow. The Tinker's hand shot out, flicking this way and that as though brushing the big man with his fingers' ends, but the big man screamed and staggered back, his face streaming blood.
Even as he lifted the bottle, the two men nearest me jumped to get close. My stick barely had room, but the end caught the nearest man in the throat and he fell back gasping horribly. As he did so, without withdrawing the stick I struck sidewise with it, not a hard blow, but the other man threw up an arm to block it and staggered. Instantly I jerked back the stick, which was all of five feet long and broom-handle size, and grasping it with both hands, struck him in the face with the end of it.
The fight was over. The Tinker glanced at the other two men, who were withdrawing. Then he coolly leaned over and thrust the blade into the turf near the road to cleanse it of blood.
Three men were down and the fight gone out of the others, and it hadn't been twenty seconds since they stopped us. No doubt they'd robbed many a traveler at this point and believed us easily handled.
We paid them no more mind, starting off up the rise toward the high ground back of the river. And that big man was dead. From time to time I'd seen fighting done, but not a man killed before, and it seemed there ought to be more to it. One moment he was coming at us blustering and confident, and the next he was dying in the trail mud.
We did not stop that night, but went on, wanting distance between us and trouble. West and south we kept on going, through sunlight and rain, the Tinker plying his trade, and me swapping here and there.
The mare was filling out, carrying her colt, and I was in fine shape.
Down at Jefferson in Texas, we laid in supplies. We walked out of town before we made camp, and we were just setting up to eat when we heard horses soft-footing it along the trail.
Turning to warn the Tinker, I saw him standing outside the firelight, a blade in his hand.
Me, I held to my place at the fire, letting them think me alone.