“What I heard,” Jake drawled slowly, smiling as Old Cob tried furiously to chew his mouth clear, “was that Jessom was out running his traplines and he got jumped by a cougar. Then while he was legging it away, he lost track of hisself and went right over Littlecliff. Busted himself up something fierce.”
Old Cob finally managed to swallow. “You’re thick as a post, Jacob Walker. That ain’t what happened at all. He fell off Littlecliff, but there weren’t a cougar. Cougar ain’t going to attack a full-grown man.”
“It will if he’s all smelling of blood,” Jake insisted. “Which Jessom was, on account of the fact that he was baggin’ up all his game.”
There was a muttering of agreement at this, which obviously irritated Old Cob. “It weren’t a cougar,” he insisted. “He was drunk off his feet. That’s what I heard. Stumbling-lost drunk. That’s the only sense of it. ’Cause Littlecliff ent nowhere near his trapline. Unless you think a cougar chased him for almost a mile …”
Old Cob sat back in his chair then, smug as a judge. Everyone knew Jessom was a bit of a drinker. And while Littlecliff wasn’t really a mile from the Williams’s land, it was too far to be chased by a cougar.
Jake glared venomously at Old Cob, but before he could say anything Graham chimed in. “I heard it was drink too. A couple kids found him while they were playing by the falls. They thought he was dead, and ran to fetch the constable. But he was just head-struck and drunk as a lord. There was all manner of broken glass too. He was cut up some.”
Old Cob threw his hands up in the air. “Well, ain’t that wonderful!” he said, scowling back and forth between Graham and Jake. “Any other parts of my story you’d like to tell afore I’m finished?”
Graham looked taken aback. “I thought you were—”
“I wasn’t finished,” Cob said, as if talking to a simpleton. “I was reelin’ it out slow. I swear. What you folk don’t know about tellin’ stories would fit into a book.”
A tense silence settled among the friends.
“I got some news too,” the smith’s prentice said almost shyly. He sat slightly hunched at the bar, as if embarrassed at being a head taller than everyone else and twice as broad across the shoulders. “If’n nobody else has heard it, that is.”
Shep spoke up. “Go on, boy. You don’t have to ask. Those two just been gnawing on each other for years. They don’t mean anything by it.”
“Well, I was doing shoes,” the prentice said, “when Crazy Martin came in.” The boy shook his head in amazement and took a long drink of beer. “I ain’t only seen him a few times in town, and I forgot how big he is. I don’t have to look up to see him. But I still think he’s biggern me. And today he looked even bigger still ’cause he was furious. He was spittin’ nails. I swear. He looked like someone had tied two angry bulls together and made them wear a shirt!” The boy laughed the easy laugh of someone who’s had a little more beer than he’s used to.
There was a pause. “What’s the news, then?” Shep said gently, giving him a nudge.
“Oh!” the smith’s prentice said. “He came asking Master Ferris if he had enough copper to mend a big kettle.” The prentice spread his long arms out wide, one hand almost smacking Shep in the face.
“Apparently someone found Martin’s still.” The smith’s prentice leaned forward, wobbling slightly, and said in hushed voice, “Stole a bunch of his drink and wrecked up the place a bit.”
The boy leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms proudly across his chest, confident of a story well told.
But there was none of the buzz that normally accompanied a piece of good gossip. He took another drink of beer, and slowly began to look confused.
“Tehlu anyway,” Graham said, his face gone pale. “Martin’ll kill him.”
“What?” the prentice said. “Who?”
“Jessom, you tit,” Jake snapped. He tried to cuff the boy on the back of his head and had to settle for his shoulder instead. “The fellow who got skunk drunk in the middle of the day and fell off a cliff carrying a bunch of bottles?”
“I thought it was a cougar,” Old Cob said spitefully.
“He’ll wish it was ten cougars when Martin gets him,” Jake said grimly.
“What?” The smith’s prentice laughed. “Crazy Martin? He’s addled, sure, but he ain’t mean. A couple span ago he cornered me and talked bollocks about barley for two hours.” He laughed again. “About how it was healthful. How wheat would ruin a man. How money was dirty. How it chained you to the earth or some nonsense.”
The prentice dropped his voice and hunched his shoulders a bit, widening his eyes and doing a passable Crazy Martin impression. “You know?” he said, making his voice rough and darting his eyes around. “Yeah. You know. You hear what I’m sayin?”
The prentice laughed again, rocking back on his stool. He had obviously had a little more beer than was good for him. “People think they have to be afraid of big folk, but they don’t. I’ve never hit a man in my life.”
Everyone just stared at him. Their eyes were deadly earnest.
“Martin killed one of Ensal’s dogs for growling at him,” Shep said. “Right in the middle of market. Threw a shovel like it was a spear. Then gave it a kicking.”
“Nearly killed that last priest,” Graham said. “The one before Abbe Leodin. Nobody knows why. Fellow went up to Martin’s house. That evening Martin brought him to town in a wheelbarrow and left him in front of the church.” He looked at the smith’s prentice. “That was before your time, though. Makes sense you wouldn’t know.”
“Punched a tinker once,” Jake said.
“Punched a tinker?” the innkeeper burst out, incredulous.
“Reshi,” Bast said gently. “Martin is fucking crazy.”
Jake nodded. “Even the levy man doesn’t go up to Martin’s place.”
Cob looked like he was going to call Jake out again, then decided to take a gentler tone. “Well, yes,” he said. “True enough. But that’s ’cause Martin pulled his full rail in the king’s army. Eight years.”
“And came back mad as a frothing dog,” Shep said.
Old Cob was already off his stool and halfway to the door. “Enough talk. We got to let Jessom know. If he can get out of town until Martin cools down a bit …”
“So … when he’s dead?” Jake said sharply. “Remember when he threw a horse through the window of the old inn because the barman wouldn’t give him another beer?”
“A tinker?” the innkeeper repeated, sounding no less shocked than before.
Silence descended at the sound of footsteps on the landing. Everyone eyed the door and went still as stone, except for Bast, who slowly edged toward the doorway to the kitchen.
Everyone breathed a huge sigh of relief when the door opened to reveal the tall, slim shape of Carter. He closed the door behind him, not noticing the tension in the room. “Guess who’s standing a round of bottle whiskey for everyone tonight?” he called out cheerfully, then stopped where he stood, confused by the roomful of grim expressions.
Old Cob started to walk to the door again, motioning for his friend to follow. “Come on, Carter, we’ll explain on the way. We’ve got to find Jessom double quick.”
“You’ll have a long ride to find him,” Carter said. “I drove him all the way to Baden this afternoon.”
Everyone in the room seemed to relax. “That’s why you’re so late,” Graham said, his voice thick with relief. He slumped back onto his stool and tapped the bar hard with a knuckle. Bast drew him another beer.
Carter frowned. “Not so late as all that,” he groused. “I’d like to see you make it all the way to Baden and back in this time, that’s more’n forty miles …”
Old Cob put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Nah. It ain’t like that,” he said, steering his friend toward the bar. “We were just a little spooked. You probably saved that damn fool Jessom’s life by getting him out of town.” He squinted at him. “Though I’ve told you, you shouldn’t be out on the road by yourself these days …”