Chapter 5

Alexander Beall rode up the twisting lane between bare-limbed trees to the McNish home. They were among his closest neighbors, less than a mile away. It was a fairly typical farmhouse, one story and a half, weatherboard with a porch out front facing south and a stone chimney that was putting out a steady stream of wood smoke. Behind the house stood a tired looking shed, a corn crib and a fair-sized bank barn. Two dark oxen and a few sheep grazed in the front field near a tumbled hay rick.

Beall rode to the small back porch that sheltered a pile of split cord wood. He dismounted and led his mare down to the barn where he heard voices. Log Town's best-liked blacksmith, Micah Waters, was explaining something, and Jim McNish and his father were listening and looking worried.

"Gentlemen," said Beall in greeting, nodding to all three, while tying up his horse and loosening her girth strap.

"Good to see you, Sheriff," said the smith with a wide grin. "You can help me explain something here if you will."

"I'll try." Beall pulled out his twist of tobacco and offered it to the others. They were already chewing and shook their heads.

"Well, McNish just got these here oxen from Joe Briggs. He decided to give it up and move up to Frederick Town. Fool thing to do. I looked at them, and they's good animals but they need shoeing. Joe did tend to let some things go. Now most everybody's seen me shoe horses, but oxes is something else. Takes eight shoes on account of them split hooves, and you gotta lift 'em up so's you can shoe them right. Big old beast won't stand on three legs long enough. That's why it costs a lot more."

"He's right, McNish. Howdy Jim, good to see you." Beall ignored the young man's sullen look. "I got my oxen shoed last spring. Must a'took the best part of three-four hours all told. He's got to measure those cloven feet and cut them shoes just right. Pain in the ass."

The smith chimed in, "I've got a good sling. Can lift the biggest beast and not hurt him none. They beller some, but it does the job. Built out of oak, eight-by-eights and twelve-by-twelves mostly."

"All right, all right," said the elder McNish, his hands stuffed deeply into his coat pockets. "I'll bring them down. You tell me when." He and the leather-aproned blacksmith, bared armed even in the chill weather, went off toward the house, but Beall put up a hand and stopped James McNish as he started to follow them.

"Talk a minute?" Beall asked.

Young McNish was silent, his mouth set and his cheeks reddened. "Rather not," he finally said.

"I understand, but I'd appreciate it."

"Go ahead." Jim McNish leaned back against the barn door, chewing his cud of tobacco. His dark, tied-back hair glowed in the winter sunlight.

"You heard from your brother?"

"Nope, not for a while. Why?"

"He finished his apprenticeship, did he?"

"Yep. He was planning to get married, but that all came apart, and he up and left. Headed for Fort Pitt I think. He'd heard about some work out there."

"Hm, aren't there plenty of jobs over in Annapolis these days, rebuilding?" Beall asked, pushing his hat back to get more of the weak sun.

"Most a'them job's going to Tories is what he heard."

"You been down to Georgetown lately?"

"No. Why? None of your damn business, is it?" McNish stood up straight and turned to face Beall. "Pa told me 'bout that lady getting killed. That what this's about?"

"Maybe," Beall admitted, feeling a bit chagrined. "You know I think you and your brother know something about the Clagetts that you ain't told yet. Something that might help catch whoever did that thing."