Slim walked slowly, as was his wont; with deadly directness, as
was his nature. The blacksmith shop was silent, closed--as grimly
noncommittal as a vault. You might guess whatever you pleased
about its inmate; it was like trying to imagine the emotions
pictured upon the face behind a smooth, black mask. Slim stopped
before the closed door and listened. The rusty, iron hasp
attracted his slow gaze, at first puzzling him a little, making
him vaguely aware that something about it did not quite harmonize
with his mental attitude toward it. It took him a full minute to
realize that he had expected to find the door locked, and that
the hasp hung downward uselessly, just as it hung every day in
the year.
He remembered then that Andy had spoken of chaining Dunk to the
anvil. That would make it unnecessary to lock the door, of
course. Slim seized the hanging strip of iron, gave it a jerk and
bathed all the dingy interior with a soft, sunset glow. Cobwebs
quivered at the inrush of the breeze, and glistened like threads
of fine gold. The forge remained a dark blot in the corner. A new
chisel, lying upon the earthen floor, became a bar of yellow
light.
Slim's eyes went to the anvil and clung there in a widening
stare. His hands, white and soft when his gloves were off, drew
up convulsively into fighting fists, and as he stood looking, the
cords swelled and stood out upon his thick neck.
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