Chapter Thirty-Seven: Scrambling for Food

In ancient China, shoeing a horse was known as “hanging the hoof.” Horses possess a unique skill among animals, able to gallop with the tips of their hooves. In the wild, their hooves naturally wore down at the same rate they grew, maintaining a natural balance. But once domesticated and made to bear loads or carry riders, their hooves wore down faster, disrupting that balance; hence, the need for horseshoes.

Cao Yao had left several horses with Madam Cao. Though she seldom ventured out, the horses’ hooves continued to grow, and without wear, the previously nailed shoes would inevitably loosen. The practice was called “hanging the hoof” not only because the shoe hung onto the hoof, but also because, in most places, people would actually suspend the horse during the process to avoid being kicked.

Whether shoeing hurt the horse depended on the farrier’s skill. The process was akin to a manicure, but if the nail was pried off, pain was inevitable. Yet whether a horse would kick during shoeing didn’t depend solely on pain; temperament and familiarity with having its hooves handled were more important.

Horses have their own tempers, just as people do. Ever since Liu Chengzong had begun learning horsemanship, he’d encountered many horses. Some were docile, tolerating any treatment without complaint; others were fierce, lashing out with a kick at anyone who drew near. Some had sly tempers, seeming gentle and compliant but, the moment you let your guard down, would suddenly lash out and leave a man bedridden for weeks.

The horse Liu Chengzong had borrowed from Madam Cao was a warhorse with a stubborn streak and refused to step up to the shoeing post no matter what. He had no choice but to risk flipping the hoof from the side and bracing it between his knees to trim it.

Naturally, undertaking such a risky job required a bit of ancestral superstition. The newly arrived pig butcher, Guo Zhashi, was called into the stable to sit vigil on a small stool. Guo’s real name was Guo Ruqi. According to him, wherever he went, dogs would either bark furiously or freeze in fear—never behaving normally.

Liu Chengzong had memories from another life that he couldn’t explain, but suspected such men carried a unique scent from their trade, one that dogs’ keen noses could detect. This “special ability” was not unlike that of his old master, a veteran executioner from Mizhi County, whose presence was so fearsome even people dared not speak to him.

While Liu Chengzong deftly scraped the muck from the horse’s hoof with a hoof knife, he explained, “Unless it’s absolutely necessary, never shoe a horse this way. But if you must—hand me the horseshoe.”

He took the horseshoe and nails from Shiliu, his hands never pausing. “You have to be quick—if you can finish in one stroke, don’t use two. These big beasts are strong; you never know when they’ll kick.”

As he spoke, a vivid image flashed in Liu’s mind: the horse suddenly jerking its leg and kicking him squarely on the backside. If such a thing were to happen, it would be an instructive lesson for both Guo Ruqi and Shiliu.

Fortunately, the glossy black warhorse showed no such intention. Instead, it seemed to enjoy the shoeing, even narrowing its eyes in pleasure, as if it were simply having its feet tended.

With the horse’s cooperation, Liu Chengzong worked with practiced ease, swiftly scraping away the grime, paring down the excess hoof, and nailing on the new shoe. He bent the tips of the nails outward and finished three hooves in no time.

Trimming hooves demanded skill; if the thickness varied between the four, prolonged walking could leave a horse lame and unfit for work. Liu Chengzong was so adept he could almost be considered a professional—certainly more reliable than the village blacksmith who shoed horses on the side.

As he finished the third hoof and began on the last, the sound of galloping hooves echoed through the village. Liu’s expression turned instantly grave. He snatched up his belt and saber from the hitching post and threw Shiliu a look. “Go see who it is.”

Before Shiliu could reach the stable door, the hooves outside ceased, and a familiar voice called, “Shiliu, come help bring out some benches. I’ll fetch a ladle of water—I’m dying of thirst!”

It was his elder brother, Liu Chengzu.

Relieved, Liu Chengzong replaced his belt, wiped his hands, and stepped out of the stable. He heard the clatter of armor as the familiar old border soldiers filed in, filling the previously empty courtyard.

Cao Yao took a swig from his water pouch and passed it on, then strode over, grinning. “Lion, your old brother’s back again!”

He paused, arching an eyebrow at the stable. “You brought out the horses?”

“Brother Cao, I was just shoeing them when I heard you coming. There’s been trouble up north—bandits, as you may have heard. I was planning to check things out, since Guanghongqi can’t leave his post.”

Cao Yao nodded several times and waved a hand. “No need. Those bandits are still holed up at Laomiaozhuang. Best to prepare for what’s ahead these next few days.”

“Damn it! I just opened a new kiln up in the hills, and now those bastards are swarming through, one after another. I had to watch helplessly as they overran Laomiaozhuang—too many of them to take on.”

“These are seasoned bandits, with plenty of horses, donkeys, and mules.”

Cao Yao was clearly frustrated. He had once led his men to Xingpingli at Black Dragon King Temple, hoping for a few days of peace. He knew his men were former outlaws—restless, prone to trouble—and feared friction with the locals might sour relations with the Liu brothers. So, he’d led his men away to set up elsewhere.

Life in the northern hills was far harsher than in Xingpingli. Digging caves, building camps—it was all dirty, exhausting work. They had to keep in contact with neighboring villages, extorting what they could from the wealthy, bargaining for daily necessities elsewhere.

But at least they could get by.

A band of bandits had camped in the hills for over a dozen days, working themselves to exhaustion—for what? Was it not to shelter the local villagers, to survive in these troubled times?

He might be a villain, but even bandits had their code. Even wolves, to survive, must ensure there are sheep nearby. He cared nothing for what happened beyond ten miles—if corpses piled up outside that range, it wasn’t his concern. But the villages around him had to remain stable.

If his neighbors stayed safe, so could his men.

Now, though, even that small comfort was gone. Wang Zuogua had suffered a minor defeat in Yaozhou against the government troops—three hundred dead—and the routed bands scattered in all directions. Today, a dozen bandits would rob a teahouse on the main road; tomorrow, dozens would raid a nearby village. The day after, a hundred well-armed bandit cavalry would storm into Laomiaozhuang, slaughter all the men, and seize the women for their pleasure.

Once they left, all that remained for Cao Yao were wastelands. What point was there in staying?

“These dogs never meant to linger in Yan’an Prefecture. After they butcher Laomiaozhuang, it’ll be our turn. We ran into them on the way here today. You should discuss with Master Liu whether to hold this place or abandon it for now.”