Mending Horses by M. P. Barker

minute, before you beat all the profit out of him.”
    â€œProfit, huh? I’ll be thanking you not to interfere.” The stick cracked down on the boy’s back again. The boy’s stillness unnerved Jonathan more than his curses had
.
    â€œI’ll give you fifty dollars for him.” Good God, had those words come out of his mouth? Fifty dollars? Nearly a month’s profits—a month of dusty travel and sore throats and buggy beds. Two months’ pay for a man like the boy’s father
.
    â€œYou think I’d be selling me own flesh and blood like I was selling a dog?”
    â€œNot selling. Hiring him out. He learns a trade, you get some money, I get a helper.”
    â€œMind your own affairs.” The boy’s father raised the stick again
.
    â€œA hundred.” The men around fell silent, their wagering momentarily stopped
.
    The man let the boy fall to the ground. “You’d never.”
    Jonathan pulled his pocketbook out, fanned his thumb across an assortment of banknotes. “A hundred. I’ll give you a hundred for him.”
    Jonathan could see the calculations working behind the man’s eyes. The man rubbed a sleeve across his mouth before he spoke. “Five.”
    Five hundred? He didn’t have that even if he threw in the horse, wagon, and unsold goods. “One twenty-five.”
    â€œFour.”
    â€œOne fifty.”
    They settled on two hundred. Jonathan cursed himself for a fool as he counted out the coins and banknotes. Four months’ profits for something that looked like a pile of filthy rags and greasy hair crumpled in the gutter. “There you go, my friend. Now let’s go inside and have a drink while we draw up the papers.”
    The man stuffed the money into his pockets. “I’m not signing no papers.”
    â€œYour word then. Give me your word you got no more claim to him.”
    A chuckle gurgled in the man’s throat. “Aye, you can have him and welcome, for what he’s worth.” The man thrust out a grimy hand
.
    It was hard not to wipe his palms on his trousers after shaking the Irishman’s hand. Harder still not to slap the barely suppressed grin from the man’s face
.
    What sort of devilish deal had he made? The boy was probably a half-wit. He knelt and turned the boy over. The child was filthy and bloody at nose and mouth. Jonathan pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the boy’s face
.
    â€œWhat in blazes are you going to do with him?” Jeremy Warriner, the tavern-keeper, asked
.
    â€œI’ll figure it out after he’s done puking.”
    â€œI’m not—” The boy gasped as his breath returned, then he promptly turned his stomach inside out in the gutter
.
    Jonathan wiped the boy’s mouth and helped him to his feet. He felt like being sick himself as he led the boy into the tavern. “You got a private room free, Jerry?”
    Jerry nodded and jerked a thumb toward the stairs. “Second right.”
    â€œAnd a tub and some soap and hot water. And something to eat that’ll lie easy on his stomach.” Private rooms and baths and a nearly empty purse. Oh, yes, Jonathan had no doubt who was the half-wit here
.
    He half dragged, half carried the boy up the stairs, amazed at how little he weighed and how close to the skin his bones sat. He dropped the boy into a chair, then stood with his back against the door while the boy stared about, wary as a cornered fox. The purple bruise around his left eye gave him a comically fierce look. Jerry dragged a tub into the room. Next came a parade of Jerry’s nieces and hired girls withkettles of hot and pitchers of cold water, soap and towels, a plate of bread and jam, and a mug of gingery-smelling tea. The boy’s nose twitched, and his eyes followed the plate as the girl placed it on a table near the bed. He rose to follow it, but Jonathan stopped him with a hand on his shoulder
.
    â€œBath first,