“No,” he says staring past me, to the walls of the shop where we hang the tools.

I sigh. A drunk man is a terrible thing to reason with.

“As you wish, Mister Reardon. But it seems to me you’ll have to do something. The problem’s not likely to fix itself.”

He nods. “You’re right,” he says. “I have to deal with this.”

I pull up a chair for him, so he’ll sit before he falls. “Why don’t you have a seat there? I’ll make us some coffee, and we can think of a plan.”

When I come out with the coffee he’s not in the shop. I hear the neigh of his horse and rush outside, hot coffee sloshing over my hand. He mounts the horse and I throw the cups in the yard, the steam rising in great billows, as I run toward him. I’m less than halfway to him when he gallops off clutching his blacksmith’s hammer in his hand.

I know where he’s going and I know this can’t end well.

I sprint after him as fast as I can. By the time I get to the clearing where the traveling blacksmith has set up camp, I’m hunched over with a cramp in my side, dragging myself on, wheezing in the cold air.

Ahead of me, the left arm of the traveling blacksmith is bloody and bludgeoned, but with his right arm he’s pounding at Mister Reardon’s face. He’s got him pinned to the floor with his knee, beating him in rhythmic strikes, like he’s hammering out lead. Off by the horse’s feet, Mister Reardon’s hammer lies in the dirt.

I lunge myself at the traveling blacksmith and wrestle him off, rolling with him on the frozen ground as each of us tries to get the upper hand and the top position. Somewhere in all the tussling and grappling, his hands find their way to my neck. He plants himself on top of me and I can’t fling him off. I pry at his fingers but they stay locked around my throat. I hit him twice in the gut, but since I can’t get my hand back for the momentum, the blows don’t shift him. Black spots cloud my vision.

Off to my side, I see Mister Reardon stand up. I’ve got to hold on till he gets to me. I strike again at the traveling blacksmith but the power’s gone out of me. Mister Reardon drags himself over to us. I need air. I need him to hurry. He stands behind the traveling blacksmith and raises his hands. I can just see that he’s holding the hammer. It comes down as a shattering blow with a sound like cracking rock, and the traveling blacksmith goes limp on top of me.

I push him off and roll out from under him, gasping and coughing. The hammer’s torn through the side of his head and the wound is gushing blood. I kneel over him and press my hands to the wide gash to stop the bleeding, but the blood flows through my fingers, pooling on the ground, soaking the frosted grass. My whole body shakes like teeth rattling in a cold winter.