A Difficult Boy (26 page)

Billy's mouth spread into a grin. “Nearly got it, too, didn't I?”

Mr. Stocking made a humphing noise. “About as near as Boston is to Timbuktu. Anyway, I sent him off with a kick on the backside to match the one on my shin, and figured our accounts was quits. But what do you think happened when I was down to the tavern having my dinner?”

“What?” Ethan asked.

Mr. Stocking bent closer to the boys, an elbow on his knee. “I come out, having satiated my appetite, and what do I see but this hellion had unhitched Phizzy and was trying to run away with him.”

“What did you do then?” Ethan said.

Mr. Stocking spread a hand across his chest. “Well, boys, I was torn. Sorely torn. On the one hand, there's nothing worse than a horse thief. But you see, there were three other horses tied up outside that tavern alongside of Phizzy. This ruffian could'a chose any one of them horses to steal, but he picks mine. And that spoke to his character.”

Billy's mouth pursed, softening the hard edges from his face. “Phizzy had a nice face, is all. I thought he liked me.”

The peddler knocked Billy's hat askew to ruffle the boy's hair. “There, you see? The boy's a judge of horses, and the horse is a judge of boys. So I had him by the collar, wondering what to do with the rapscallion. And it was like trying to hold a wildcat, with him kicking and spitting and biting and cursing in that heathen tongue of his. By this time, a crowd's starting to collect. And that's when Providence steps in, if that's what you call that ugly layabout who walks up, grabs
Billy out of my hands and commences to beating him for me.”

“The constable?” Daniel wondered aloud.

The peddler shook a finger at the boys. “Now, you'd'a thought so, and so would I, but I'm familiar with the constabulary most places, and I hadn't seen this rogue before. So I steps up and says, ‘Here now, sir. You're just going to have to wait your turn. I had him first.' The fellow turns to me and says I couldn't have had him first, unless I'd had his mother, too. And if I did, he'd be sure and beat me, too, just as soon as he finished kicking the boy from here to Donegal and back.”

“It was his da?” Daniel asked.

The little man nodded. “So he said. Well, if I'd been tore before, I was in a quandary now. I'm all for a father making his children mind, but if I'd'a stood there and done nothing, there'd'a been nothing left of Billy for
me
to thrash.” He clapped his hand on the boy's shoulder. Billy grinned easily now, as if the story had thawed him. “So I waded in there between the two of 'em and said, ‘Mr. O'Something or McThingamebob, how'm I to get my satisfaction if you beat that boy to death?'” Mr. Stocking turned the other way as he played Billy's father, lowering his voice to a fierce growl. “He says, ‘To hell with your satisfaction.' That's when I tell the brute I'm more than willing to pay for my satisfaction. Cash money.”

“Pay?” Ethan and Daniel repeated together.

The little man winked. “Got your attention, didn't it, boys? Got his attention too. I asked how much he wanted for me to take Billy off his hands.”

“He sold—I mean—you—you
bought
him?” Ethan stared from the peddler to Billy and back.

“Hired, son, hired. Selling people ain't legal—leastaways, not white ones.”

“So—so you hired him just so you could thrash him?” Ethan felt a wave of sympathy for the surly blond boy.

Mr. Stocking tipped his head to one side and frowned. “Thrash him? Now why would I want to do a thing like that?”

“Didn't you just say—”

“Well, now, maybe I did feel like slapping him around a bit on Phizzy's account, but there was this idea rattling around in my brain.” He tapped his forehead.

“You see, when Billy started cursing in that Irish of his, it made me think of you boys.” Mr. Stocking gestured toward Daniel. “I got to thinking how handy it would be to have Mr. Linnehan here along just so I'd know the exact nature of how I was being cursed. And that led me to thinking about how this particular curse”—he tugged Billy's ear—“could be turned into an asset. Ain't that right, son?” He winked at the boy.

The blond recited an incomprehensible string of words that sounded half like Daniel's magic language and half like a revival preacher that Mr. Merriwether had once invited to give the sermon.

“What did he say?” Ethan asked.

Daniel's lips moved silently before he explained, “He's praising Mr. Stocking's tin.”

The peddler smiled. “So I believe. Though I only have his word for it—well, that and the coins in my pocket. Remember how I said I could use a boy like you selling tin to the Irish?”

Daniel nodded, his face growing dark and thoughtful.

“It don't hurt that Billy's got a sweet voice for singing the songs of the old country. Get one of them Irish ladies weeping about the green fields of home, and the next thing you know, you've sold a set of milk pans to a household that's got no cow nor pig nor even chicken in it.”

Billy grinned. “We'll be rich.
And
I can ride Phizzy.” The riding sounded more important than the riches.

Mr. Stocking took Billy by the scruff of the neck and gave him an affectionate shake. “Anyway, now I got some pleasant company and musical entertainment, and Billy's got himself some fancy duds and a trade to learn, and Phizzy has someone besides me to talk to.” The gelding's ears pricked lazily up. Mr. Stocking bent half out of his seat to poke Ethan and Daniel on the shoulders. “And it's you fellas we have to thank for it. Billy's even teaching me a little bit of his Irish talk.” A garbled sentence dribbled out of his mouth. Daniel's magical words sounded coarse and peculiar in Mr. Stocking's voice, like somebody trying to play a fiddle tune on the Jew's harp.

Billy giggled and said something that sounded vaguely like what Mr. Stocking had said, except that the boy's tones danced nimbly around each other instead of clattering together.

Mr. Stocking tried again, the words blending better this time, but still not right, even to Ethan's unknowing ears. “There. What d'you think?” He poked Daniel.

Daniel nodded reluctantly. He responded in Gaelic with something that sounded encouraging, though his words seemed sluggish and uncertain.

Billy giggled again, rattling off a long string of words that flew by like startled birds.

Pink scalded Daniel's cheeks. His words faltered as they came out, then stopped, as though he'd suddenly lost the way of them.

Billy howled with laughter.

Ethan waited for the boys to share the joke. But whatever it was, Daniel wouldn't tell, and Daniel wasn't laughing.

“Get up there! Go on, you old witch!” Daniel threw a clod of dirt that shattered against Nell's rump. Nell's horns clattered
against Mary's, then Lily's. The cattle trotted raggedly toward the pasture, tails lashing, eyes wide at the unexpected pace Daniel had set them.

Ethan brought up the rear at a jog instead of the easy stroll they usually took down to the night pasture. He darted across the road, arms spread wide, to drive a wayward steer back into the herd.

“Come on,” Daniel barked. “We ain't got all night.” The cattle stirred up a cloud of dust at the pasture's barway, blocking the road in a swirl of milling hooves, swishing tails, and clanking horns.

Usually, Ethan would come around from the back of the herd and help Daniel slide back the five horizontal rails that barred the pasture's entry. But usually the cattle stood in a quiet, sleepy-eyed straggle. Not tonight. The press of cattle made a solid wall across Ethan's path.

Up ahead, Daniel slapped and punched at rumps and shoulders, thumped his stick on horns, shouted and shoved his way through to the barway. If Daniel was cross now, Ethan thought, he'd be angrier still if Ethan wasn't there to hold the cattle at bay. Eager to get at the green grass, they often tried to charge into the pasture before the bars were down. He saw no way around the cattle in the road, so he climbed the fence to cut through the pasture. As Ethan hauled himself to the top of the fence, Daniel and Nell faced off against each other. The cow shook her head and edged forward toward the gate.

“Yah!” Daniel shouted, stamping his foot and waving his arms. The other cattle retreated. Nell stood her ground. Daniel shouted again. His lash stirred up the dust in front of the brindle cow. She backed slowly into the herd, her horns bobbing from side to side. Then she pivoted on her hind legs and turned her back on Daniel as if he were beneath her notice.

Ethan hopped down into the pasture, his stick tucked under his arm. “Wait for me!” he called out as Daniel turned to slide the top bar back. His mouth was grim and his shoulders taut as he grasped the pole and pulled.

“Fine. Do it yourself. See if I care,” Ethan muttered, wondering what had made Daniel so cross.

Daniel shoved the bar back hard. The sudden release of weight as the bar left his hands pulled him off balance. He stumbled against the fence, grabbing for a rail to steady himself. Ethan saw Daniel's arms flail and his legs do a little dancing step as he tried to get his feet back underneath him.

Nell must have seen, too, because that was when she charged.

“Daniel!” Ethan screamed as Daniel went down. He felt as though he were running underwater, unable to reach Daniel fast enough. He dropped to his knees at the gate, expecting to find a bloody heap on the other side.

Daniel lay motionless, his back pressed against the bottom rail, his body open to Nell's horns. For a moment, Ethan thought Daniel had fainted, but when he looked at Daniel's face, he saw the gray-green eyes opened wide, an eerily passive expression on his face.

“Come on, Daniel!” Ethan tugged at Daniel's braces. But Daniel made no move to help himself.

Nell lowered her head.

“No!” Ethan thrust his arm between the rails and jabbed his stick at the soft spot in the middle of Nell's nose. She retreated, eyes blinking with the sting of the blow.

Ethan grabbed Daniel again, trying to wrestle him through the fence before Nell recovered, or before the other milling cattle grew impatient and crashed through the gate. He threw his weight backward and dragged Daniel partway through the rails.

Nell lowered her head again.

“Daniel! You have to help!” Daniel didn't seem to hear. Ethan dug his nails into Daniel's arm, hoping the sting would rouse him from his stupor. Daniel looked at Ethan. His eyes narrowed slightly, his lips parted as if about to ask a question. Then his head turned back toward Nell.

She seemed to nod in response to a silent command. Her head bowed and she pawed the ground.

“Daniel!” Ethan punched him in the shoulder. “Come on!” At last Daniel rolled toward Ethan. Nell's waving horns slashed Daniel's sleeve from elbow to shoulder as he squeezed between the bars and slid through onto the soft green grass. He lay still, breathing deeply, steadily, strangely calm.

“You're crazy!” Ethan shouted, fists doubled. “You're crazy!”

“I never told you no different, did I, lad?” Daniel's voice was soft and emotionless.

“You didn't even try!” Ethan fought the urge to kick some sense into Daniel.

Daniel hauled himself to his feet. “S'pose we better let them cattle in, eh?”

Ethan gaped as Daniel stepped toward the gate, almost as though nothing had happened. Almost, except that his shirt hung in ragged bloody shreds at his right side and arm. Almost, except that the hands he laid on the bar trembled.

“What's wrong with you?” Ethan grabbed Daniel's elbow hard enough to make the older boy wince.

Daniel shook him off. “We got to do this first, lad.”

Ethan eyed the cattle warily.

“We can't be leaving 'em in the road, now, can we?”

The boys worked together silently, Ethan keeping the cattle at bay while Daniel slid the bars back. Nell cast a baleful eye on the boys but kept her distance this time.

“What did I do to make you so angry?” Ethan asked, once the cattle were securely barred into the pasture and he and Daniel were on the other side of the fence.

Daniel leaned his forearms against the fence and rested his chin on the back of his hands. He squeezed his eyes closed. “It's naught to do with you, lad.”

Ethan took out his handkerchief. He pulled the ragged tails
of Daniel's shirt away to look at the gash Nell's horns had made along Daniel's ribs. Ethan mopped clumsily at the blood.

Daniel slapped Ethan's hands away. “Leave it.” He bunched up a corner of his shirt and dabbed at the cut.

“She could'a killed you,” Ethan said. “What's wrong with you? You been acting crazy since—since—” Ethan strained to pinpoint the moment. “Since we saw Mr. Stocking.” For once, Ethan had no trouble keeping pace with Daniel as they walked. “That's it, isn't it? You're angry because you wish it was you instead of Billy working for Mr. Stocking.”

Daniel spat out a humorless laugh. “I can't be working for no peddler.”

“You could. You can talk Irish, just like Billy. You could be helping Mr. Stocking with his selling and all, and get away from here—”

Daniel pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. “No, I can't.”

Ethan grabbed Daniel's sleeve. “Why?” Daniel tried to shake him off, but he clung fast. “Why?”

Daniel stared down at Ethan for a long time. “I ain't no Irish prince. I ain't even Irish no more. I'm just . . . just . . . nothing.”

The revelation stunned Ethan into loosening his grip. Daniel tugged free and limped down the road. Fields and pastures yielded to a small rocky patch of woods watered by a narrow stream. Daniel trudged off the road and lowered himself at the edge of the water. He dragged out his handkerchief, soaked it, and dabbed at the scrape where Nell's horn had caught his arm.