CHRISTIAN THE BLACKSMITH
We ate our dinner from the quaint old Dutch blue bowls, and the teacups
with the queer kneeling purple cows on them. Then we went to feed the
horses. Roy brought us a hickory split basket filled with white corn on
the cob, and wiped out a long chestnut trough which lay by the roadside.
We took the bits out of the horses' mouths, leaving the headstalls on
them, and they fell to with the hearty impatience of the very hungry.
I have always liked to see a horse or an ox eat his dinner. Somehow it
makes the bread taste better in one's own mouth. They look so
tremendously content, provokingly so I used to think when I was little,
especially the ox with the yoke banging his horns. I remember how I used
to fill my pockets with "nubbins" and, holding one out to old Berry or
some other patriarch of the work cattle, watch how he reached for it
with his rough tongue, and how surprised he was when I snatched it away
and put it back in my pocket, or gave it to him, and then thrust my
finger against his jaw, pushing in his cheek so that he could not eat
it. He would look so wofully hurt that I laughed with glee until old
Jourdan came along, gathered me up under his arm, and carried me off
kicking to the kingdom of old Liza.
My early experience with the horse was not so entirely satisfactory to
my youthful worship. Somewhere on my shoulder to this day are the faint
marks of teeth, set there long ago on a winter morning when I was taking
liberties with the table etiquette of old Charity.
We lolled in the sunshine while the horses ate, Jud on his back by the
nose of the Cardinal, his fingers linked under his head. I sat on the
poplar horse-block with my hands around my knee, while Ump was in the
road examining El Mahdi's feet. For once he had abandoned the Bay Eagle.
He rubbed the fetlocks, felt around the top of the hoofs with his
finger, scraped away the clinging dirt with the point of a knife blade,
and tried the firmness of each shoe-nail. Then he lifted the horse's
foot, rested it on his knee, and began to examine the shoe as an expert
might examine some intricate device.
Ump held that bad shoeing was the root of all evil. "Along comes a
flat-nose," he would say, "with a barefooted colt, an' a gabbin',
chuckle-headed blacksmith nails shoes on its feet, an' the flat-nose
jumps on an' away he goes, hipety click, an' the colt interferes, an'
the flat-nose begins a kickin' an' a cursin', an' then--" Here the
hunchback's fingers began to twitch. "Somebody ought to come along an'
grab the fool by the scruff of his neck an' kick him till he couldn't
set in a saddle, an' then go back an' boot the sole-leather off the
blacksmith."
I have seen the hunchback stop a stranger in the road and point out with
indignation that the shoe on his horse was too short, or binding the
hoof, or too heavy or too light, and then berate the stranger like a
thief because he would not turn instantly and ride back to a smith-shop.
And I have seen him sit over a blacksmith with his narrow face thrust up
under the horse's belly, and put his finger on the place where every
nail was to go in and the place where it was to come out, and growl and
curse and wrangle, until, if I had been that smith, I should have killed
him with a hammer.
But the hunchback knew what he was about. Ward said of Ump that, in his
field, the land of the horse's foot, he was as much an expert as any
professor behind his spectacles. His knowledge came from the observation
of a lifetime, gathered by tireless study of every detail. Even now,
when I see a great chemist who knows all about some drug; a great
surgeon who knows all about the body of a man; or a great oculist who
knows all about the human eye, I must class the hunchback with them.
Ump explored El Mahdi's shoes, pulled at the calks, picked at the nails,
and prodded into the frog of the foot to see if there was any tendency
to gravel. He found a left hind shoe that did not suit him, and put down
the foot and wiped his hands on his breeches.
"Who shod this horse, Quiller?" he said.
"Dunk Hodge," I answered.
The hunchback made a gesture as of one offered information that is
patent. "I know Dunk made the shoes," he said, "by the round corks. But
they've been reset. Who reset 'em?"
"Dunk," said I.
"Not by a jugful!" responded Ump. "Old Dunk never reset 'em."
"I sent the horse to him," I said.
"I don't care a fiddler's damn where you sent the horse," replied the
hunchback. "Dunk didn't drive them nails. They're beat over at the point
instead of being clinched. It's a slut job."
"I expect," said Jud, "it was his ganglin' son-in-law, Ab."
"That's the laddiebuck," said Ump, "an' he ought to be withed. That hind
shoe has pulled loose an' broke. We've got to git it put on."
"Then we shall have to try Christian," said I; "there's no other shop
this side of the Stone Coal."
"I know it," mused Ump, "an' when he goes to the devil, flat-nosed
niggers will never shovel dirt on a meaner dog."
Jud arose and began to bridle the Cardinal. "He's mighty triflin'," said
he; "he uses store nails, an' he's too lazy to p'int 'em."
Now, to use the manufactured nail was brand enough in the Hills. But to
drive it into a horse's foot without first testing the point was a piece
of turpitude approaching the criminal.
"Well," said I, "he'll drive no nail into El Mahdi that isn't home-made
and smooth."
"Then Ump 'ill have to stand over him," replied Jud.
"Damn it," cried the hunchback, striking his clenched right hand into
the palm of his left, "ain't I stood over every one of the shirkin'
pot-wallopers from the mountains to the Gauley an' showed him how to
shoe a horse, an' told him over an' over just what to do an' how to do
it, an' put my finger on the place? An' by God! The minute my back's
turned, he'll lame a horse with a splintered nail, or bruise a frog with
a pinchin' cork, or pare off the toe of the best mare that ever walked
because he's too damn' lazy to make the shoe long enough."
Ump turned savagely and went around El Mahdi to the Bay Eagle, put the
bit in her mouth and mounted the mare. I bridled El Mahdi and climbed
into the saddle, and we rode out toward the Valley River, on the way but
an hour ago taken by the lieutenants of Woodford. We had watched them
from the tavern door, Peppers riding between the other two, rolling in
his saddle and brandishing his fist. Both he and Malan rode the big
brown cattle-horses of Woodford, while Lem Marks rode a bay
Hambletonian, slim and nervous, with speed in his legs. The saddles were
all black, long skirted, with one girth,--the Woodford saddles.
We followed in the autumn midday. It might have been a scene from some
old-time romance--musketeers of the King and guards of his mighty
Eminence setting out on a mission which the one master wished and the
other wished not; or the iron lieutenants of Cromwell riding south in
the wake of the cavaliers of Charles.
For romance, my masters, is no blear-eyed spinster mooning over the
trumpery of a heyday that is gone, but a Miss Mischief offering her
dainty fingers to you before the kiss of your grandfather's lips is yet
dry on them. The damask petticoat, the powdered wig, and the coquettish
little patch by her dimpled little mouth are off and into the garret,
and she sweeps by in a Worth gown, or takes a fence on a thoroughbred,
or waits ankle deep in the clover blossoms for some whistling lover,
while your eyes are yet a-blinking.
The blacksmith-shop sat at a crossroads under a fringe of hickory trees
that skirted a little hill-top. It was scarcely more than a shed, with a
chimney, stone to the roof, and then built of sticks and clay. Out of
this chimney the sparks flew when the smith was working, pitting the
black shingle roof and searing the drooping leaves of the hickories.
Around the shop was the characteristic flotsam, a cart with a mashed
wheel, a plough with a broken mould-board, innumerable rusted tires,
worn wagon-irons, and the other wreckage of this pioneer outpost of the
mechanic.
At the foot of the hill as we came up, the Cardinal caught a stone
between the calks of one of his hind shoes, and Jud got off to pry it
out. Ump and I rode on to the shop and dismounted at the door. Old
Christian was working at the forge welding a cart-iron, pulling the pole
of his bellows, and pausing now and then to turn the iron in the glowing
coals.
He was a man of middle size, perhaps fifty, bald, and wearing an old
leather skull-cap pitted with spark holes. His nose was crooked and his
eyes were set in toward it, narrow and close together. He wore an
ancient leather apron, burned here and there and dirty, and his arms
were bare to the elbows.
I led El Mahdi into the shop, and Christian turned when he heard us
enter. "Can you tack on a shoe?" said I.
The smith looked us over, took his glowing iron from the forge, struck
it a blow or two on the anvil, and plunged it sizzling into the tub of
water that stood beside him. Then he came over to the horse. "Fore or
hind?" he asked.
"Left hind," I answered; "it's broken."
He went to the corner of the shop and came back with his kit,--a little
narrow wooden box on legs, with two places, one for nails and one for
the shoeing tools, and a wooden rod above for handle and shoe-rack. He
set the box beside him, took up the horse's foot, wiped it on his apron,
and tried the shoe with his fingers. Then he took a pair of pincers out
of his box, and catching one half of the broken shoe, gave it a wrench.
I turned on him in astonishment. "Stop," I cried, "you will tear the
hoof."
"It'll pull loose," he mumbled.
Ump was at the door, tying the Bay Eagle. He came in when he heard me.
"Christian," he said, "cut them nails."
The blacksmith looked up at him. "Who's shoein' this horse?" he growled.
The eyes of the hunchback began to snap. "You're a-doin' it," he said,
"an' I'm tellin' you how."
"If I'm a doin' it," growled the blacksmith, "suppose you go to hell."
And he gave the shoe another wrench.
I was on him in a moment, and he threw me off so that I fell across the
shop against a pile of horseshoes. The hunchback caught up a sledge that
lay by the door and threw it. Old Christian was on one knee. He dodged
under the horse and held up the kit to ward off the blow. The iron nose
of the sledge struck the box and crushed it like a shell, and, passing
on, bounded off the steel anvil with a bang.
The blacksmith sprang out as the horse jumped, seized the hammer and
darted at Ump. I saw the hunchback look around for a weapon. There was
none, but he never moved. The next moment his head would have burst like
a cracked nut, but in that moment a shadow loomed in the shop door.
There was a mad rush like the sudden swoop of some tremendous hawk. The
blacksmith was swept off his feet, carried across the shop, and
flattened against the chimney of his forge. I looked on, half dazed by
the swiftness of the thing. I did not see that it was Jud until old
Christian was gasping under the falling mortar of his chimney, his feet
dangling and his sooty throat caught in the giant's fingers, that looked
like squeezing iron bolts. The staring eyes of the old man were glassy,
his face was beginning to get black, his mouth opened, and his extended
bare arm holding the hammer began to come slowly down.
It rested a moment on the giant's shoulder, then it bent at the elbow,
the fingers loosed, and the hammer fell. Old Christian will never be
nearer to the pit of his imperial master until he stumbles over its rim.
The hunchback glided by me and clapped his hand on Jud's shoulder. "Drop
him," he cried.
The blood of the giant was booming. The desperate savage, passed
sleeping from his father and his father's father, had awaked, and awaked
to kill. I could read the sinister intent in the crouch of his
shoulders.
The hunchback shook him. "Jud," he shouted, "Jud, drop him."
The giant turned his head, blinked his eyes for a moment like a man
coming out of a sleep, and loosed his hand. The blacksmith slipped to
the floor, but he could not stand when he reached it. His knees gave
way. He caught the side of the leather bellows, and stumbling around it,
sat down on the anvil wheezing like a stallion with the heaves.
Ump stooped and picked up the hammer. Then he turned to the puffing
giant. "Jud," he said, "you ain't got sense enough to pour rain-water
out of a boot."
"Why?" said Jud.
"Why?" echoed the hunchback, "why? Suppose you had wrung the old
blatherskite's neck. How do you reckon we'd get a shoe on this horse?"