Speaks the Nightbird

a pair of very broad hips. A small, unadorned wooden box also slid from the sack, and came to rest against Matthew's left shoe.

'Sophie's clothes,' the blacksmith said. 'Ever'thin' she owned. Pick up that box and open it.' Matthew hesitated; he was feeling at the moment like a complete horse's ass.

'Go on, open it!' Hazelton commanded. Matthew picked it up and lifted the lid. Within the box were four ivory hairpins, a comb fashioned from golden-grained wood, a silver ring that held a small amber stone, and another silver ring etched with an intricate rope-like design.

'Her ornaments,' the blacksmith said. 'Weddin' ring, too. When she passed, I couldn't bear to throw them things away. Couldn't bear to have 'em in the house, neither.' He pressed a hand against the bloody cloth. 'So I put 'em in a sack and hid 'em in my barn for safekeepin'.' Hazelton's dark-rimmed eyes stared furiously at Matthew. 'Thought it was someplace nobody'd go pokin'. Then I come in and there you be, tryin' to drag it out.' He turned his gaze upon Woodward. 'You be the magistrate, huh? A man of the law, sworn to uphold it?',

'That's correct.'

'If it be so, I want some satisfaction. This whelp come in my barn uninvited and go to diggin' out my dear wife's belongin's. I ain't done nothin' wrong, I ain't tryin' to hide nothin' but what's mine and nobody else's business.' Hazelton looked at Bidwell for a response. 'Maybe I did go some crazy, like to try to kill that boy, but damn if I didn't think he was tryin' to steal my Sophie's things. Can you blame me, sir?'

'No,' Bidwell had to admit, 'I cannot.'

'This boy'—Hazelton lifted an accusing, bloodstained finger to point at Matthew—'cut my face wide open, like to blinded me. I'm gonna lose work over it, that's for sure. A wound like I've suffered won't bear the furnace heat 'til it's near mended. Now you tell me, Mr. Bidwell and Mr. Magistrate, what you're gonna do to give me my satisfaction.'

Bidwell stared at the floor. Woodward pressed his fingers against his mouth, realizing what had to come out of it, and Matthew closed the lid of Sophie Hazelton's ornament box. At last the magistrate had to speak. 'Mr. Hazelton, what would you consider a proper satisfaction?'

'If it was up to my quirt, I'd lash 'im,' the blacksmith said. 'Lash 'im until his back was laid open good and proper.'

'His back has already received injury,' Woodward said. 'And he'll have your fingermarks on his throat for some time to come, I'm sure.'

'Don't make no mind! I want him whipped!'

'This is a difficult position you put me in, sir,' the magistrate said, his mouth tightening. 'You ask me to sentence my own clerk.'

'Who else'll sentence 'im, then? And if he wasn't your clerk, what would your judgment be?'

Woodward glanced quickly at Matthew and then away again; the younger man knew what torments of conscience Woodward was fighting, but he also knew that the magistrate would be ultimately compelled to do the correct thing.

Woodward spoke. 'One lash, then,' he said, almost inaudibly.

'Five!' the blacksmith thundered. 'And a week in a cell, to boot!'

Woodward drew a long breath and stared at the floor. 'Two lashes and five days.'

'No sir! Look at this!' Hazelton tore the bloody bandage away from his face, revealing a purple-edged wound so ugly that Bidwell flinched and even Mrs. Nettles averted her eyes. 'You see what he done to me? Tell me I ain't gonna wear a pretty scar the rest of my life! Three lashes and five days!'

Matthew, dazed at all this, sank down into the chair again. He reached for the rum cup and emptied it.

'Three lashes,' Woodward said wearily, a vein beating at his temple, 'and three days.' He forced himself to meet the power of Hazelton's stare. 'That's my judgment and there will be no addition or reversal to it. He will enter the gaol at six o'clock in the morning and will receive his lashes at six o'clock on the third morning. I expect Mr. Green will administer the whip?' He looked at Bidwell, who nodded. 'All right, then. As a magistrate under the King of England and the governor of this colony, I have made my decree.'

The blacksmith scowled; it was an expression fierce enough to scare the shine from a mirror. But then he pushed the cloth back against his injury and said, 'I reckon it'll have to do, then, you bein' such a fair- minded magistrate and all. To Hell with that sneakin' bastard, is what I say.'

'The decree has been made.' Woodward's face had begun to mottle with red. 'I suggest that you go pay a visit to the physician.'

'I ain't lettin' that death-doctor touch me, no sir! But I'll go, all right. It smells like a pigsty in here.' He began to quickly stuff the clothes back into the burlap sack. The last item in was the ornament box, which Matthew had set down upon the table. Then Hazelton held the sack in his thickly corded arms and looked defiantly from Woodward to Bidwell and back again. 'It's a damn bad world when a man has to wear a scar for de-fendin' his wife's memory, and the law won't lay the lash on good and proper!'

'The lash will be laid on good and proper,' Woodward said coldly. 'Three times.'

'You say. Well, I'll be there to make sure, you can mark it!' He turned around and started out of the parlor.

'Mr. Hazelton?' Matthew suddenly said. The blacksmith stopped and cast a brooding gaze upon his antagonist.

Matthew stood up from the chair. 'I wish to say . . . that I'm very sorry for my actions. I was grievously wrong, and I beg your pardon.'

'You'll have my pardon after I see your back split open.'

'I understand your emotions, sir. And I must say I am deserving of the punishment.'

'That and more,' Hazelton said.

'Yes, sir. But. . . might I ask something of you?'

'What?'

'Might you let me carry that sack for you to your wagon?'

Hazelton frowned like five miles of bad road. 'Carry it?

Why?'

'It would be a small token of my repentance.' Matthew took two steps toward the man and extended his arms. 'Also my wish that we might put this incident behind us, once my punishment is done.' Hazelton didn't speak, but Matthew could tell that his mind was working. It was the narrowing of the smithy's eyes that told Matthew the man knew what he was up to. Hazelton, for all his brutish behavior and oxlike countenance, was a crafty fox.

'That boy's as crazy as a bug in a bottle,' Hazelton said to Woodward. 'I wouldn't let 'im loose at night, if I was you.' And with that pronouncement the blacksmith turned his back on the company, strode out of the parlor and through the front door into the drizzling rain. Mrs. Nettles followed behind him, and closed the door rather too hard before she returned to the room.

'Well,' Woodward said as he lowered himself into his chair like a suddenly aged invalid, 'justice has been served.'

'My regrets over this situation,' Bidwell offered. 'But to be truthful about it, I would have imposed the five lashes.' He looked at Matthew and shook his head. 'You knew better than to disturb a man's private property! Boy, you delight in causing grief wherever you wander, don't you?'

'I have said I was wrong. I'll repeat it for you, if you like. And I'll take the lashes as I deserve . . . but you must understand, Mr. Bidwell, that Hazelton believes he's made a fool out of all of us.'

'What?' Bidwell made a face, as if he'd tasted something foul. 'What're you going on about now?'

'Simply that what Hazelton revealed to be in that sack was not its contents when it was hidden beneath the hay.'

There was a silence. Then Woodward spoke up. 'What are you saying, Matthew?'

'I'm saying that the weight of the sack when I tried to dislodge it was much heavier than old clothes and some shoes. Hazelton knew I was trying to ascertain its weight, and of course he didn't want me touching it.'

'I should say not!' Bidwell dug into a pocket of his waistcoat for his snuffbox. 'Haven't you had enough of Hazelton for one day? I'd mind my step around him!'