The stallion turned into the tunnel and vanished in the darkness, and Harold called, "Grace, Grace, wait."
The mother said evenly, "Let me get by, please," but when Gwen started to plead again, murmuring, "Harold doesn’t . . ." said sharply, "Take your hands off me," and Gwen let go of her and flattened herself back against the doorframe.
"It’s Curt’s horse," the father mumbled. "Something’s happened to Curt. What was that on him? Could you see?"
The mother didn’t answer, but stepped down into the snow and began to walk steadily, with long strides like a man’s across the yard toward the tunnel. Her arms hung down at her sides, hardly swinging at all, as if she carried something heavy in each hand. Ahead of her, Grace disappeared between the sheds, and then Harold after her.
Gwen hung for a moment in the doorway, but then glanced at the old man leaning beside her and said, more to herself than to him, "Oh, she mustn’t," and ran out, calling, "Mother, Mother," though not loudly, but as if fearing that unfriendly listeners would hear her. The mother didn’t slow her walk, or hasten it, or turn.
The father suddenly became afraid, waiting alone in the doorway.
"They’re crazy," he said quaveringly. "They’ve all gone plumb crazy."
He stepped down and started across the yard too, leaving the door open behind him. A first, easy return of the wind whirled the falling snow around him, and stirred his thin hair. His shadow went before him in the pale oblong of light that reached out from the lamp shining in the empty kitchen.
10
Harold caught up with Grace just inside the mouth of the tunnel. In the glimmering twilight at the other end, they could see the big black standing at the corral gate, his back faintly frosted with snow, and a whiter snow on the bundle that lay across him. Joe Sam was there too, but standing back away from Kentuck, against the corral fence, looking at him and not moving. Kentuck was restless. He turned, trampling the snow at the gate, nickered softly, and was answered by some horse in the corral.
Harold took Grace’s arm and said, "Don’t go in there, Grace. Go on back to the house and keep Mother company. I’l1 see to this."
Grace didn’t answer, but only whimpered like an animal confused by great fear, and stumbled on toward the corral. He caught her by the shoulder then, saying, "Grace, listen to me," but she wrenched away from him, pushing at him and crying wildly, "Let me alone, let me a10ne," as if she didn’t know him and was afraid of him.
He let her go and followed her, not running now, but only striding quickly. He saw her put her hands on the bundle, not to do anything, but only to make sure it was real, and heard her cry, "Oh, it’s Curt," and was a little stung by shame, as if guilty of the same unkindness, at the relief, almost joy, in her voice.
"It’s not Arthur, Hal," she cried back at him. "It’s not Arthur."
"Grace, let him alone," he called sharply, seeing the black sidle and turn with its head up at the shrill excitement in her voice. "Get back. You’ll get hurt."
He came up and shouldered her aside, and felt the stiff body with his own hands, and half guessed the truth as Curt’s coat sank in about the narrower back. He spoke to Kentuck to quiet him, a meaningless patter of endearments, and among them said to Grace, "Is that anything to celebrate? Go on back now. You won’t do anything here but get in the way."
Grace wouldn’t go, though, but only backed away toward Joe Sam, to be clear of the nervous stallion, and kept staring at the bundle on the saddle, while Harold tugged at the frozen knot in the lariat. She spoke with each out-breath, saying over and over again, like a meaningless, rote prayer,
"Oh, my God; Oh, my God; Oh, my God," but still half in relief.
The mother came up then, with Gwen close behind her. She was breathing steadily, but very deeply, so that each breath was like a quiet sigh.
"It’s not Arthur, Mother," Grace cried at her.
The mother didn’t look at her, but said in a deep voice, almost a man’s, "It’s Arthur, all right. Be quiet, will you?"
She came beside Harold’s shoulder, "It’s Arthur, isn’t it, Harold?"
"No,” Grace cried. "Look at the coat, Mother. It’s Curt’s red coat."
Harold said, trying to keep the temper out of his voice,
"I don’t know, Mother. Now go back to the house, will you, please, and take Grace with you. She frightens the horse with that squealing. Joe Sam," he said sharply, "hold the horse."
The old Indian didn’t move or answer, but stayed there against the fence, watching as if these were the troubles of people he didn’t know. It was the mother who took the reins, close to the bit, and when the father came up, and Grace would have cried out her hope again, said, "Grace, you keep stil1."
The knot gave, and Harold drew the end through, and pushed at the stiff rope, and at last slipped the coil loose. He drew the body down carefully, feeling sickness rise as against a stopper in his throat, when it came stiffly, and keeping the curve the saddle had given it. Breathing hard, he laid it on its side in the snow. He saw the beard in the wrapping of the black scarf, and tried to kneel between Grace and the head, but she saw, or guessed, and pushed past him, crying, "Oh, oh, oh," and saw clearly the deep caverns of the eyes, and the narrow nose and bearded cheek. She wailed, so the others stiffened and held their breath at the sound, and threw herself down and laid her breast against the rigid shoulder of the body, creeping against it, her knees working in the snow, as a kitten or puppy struggles in against the mother to feed. She murmured Arthur's name again and again, the pent anguish breaking out more loudly at moments, her cheek against the dead cheek, her hands playing with aimless fluttering and stroking about the black scarf.
Harold was the first to break out of the trance her grief made. He knelt beside her and tried gently, speaking her name gently and repeatedly, to draw her away from the dead man. She stopped her chattering and wailing then, but only to cling to the body, trying to burrow into it when he pulled at her.
It was the mother who broke the frenzy, saying in the deep, man’s voice, "Gwen, hold the horse, will you?" and when Gwen had taken the reins, coming to the three on the ground and pulling Grace up fiercely by the shoulder.
"Stop it, you little fool," she said clearly. "Do you think you can make him hear you by screaming? Get up."
When Grace still struggled to escape her hand, she jerked her back onto her knees, and, breathing hard, her eyes staring wide, struck her across the face, once on each cheek, not even hearing Harold’s quick protest. Grace went limp and, still kneeling, buried her stung face in her hands and began to weep aloud.
The mother straightened up, lifting her chin a little, and took a deep quivering breath. "Pa," she said, "take her in now, will you? She only makes it worse."
The old man was standing there, staring down at Arthur, his mouth working soundlessly under the big moustache, and he didn’t tum to her or make any reply.
"Has everybody lost their wits?" the mother asked. "Gwen, you seem to have some sense still. Take her back to the house, will you, and keep her there. Joe Sam, unsaddle Kentuck and turn him in and give him some hay."
The old Indian came forward slowly and stiflly, and took the reins. Gwen and Harold lifted Grace to her feet. Her grief broke out more loudly for a moment, but she didn’t resist them. Gwen put an arm around her, holding her closely, and began to lead her along the tunnel toward the yard, speaking to her softly as they went, trying to reach her mind with words that might have been used to a frightened child. She had to stop when Grace’s knees weakened and gave, and hold her up until she could move ahead again herself.
"Harold," the mother said, "help Joe Sam. He don’t know what he’s doing."
He turned to her. "Mother, you go in too, please."
"What help would you have out of these two, walking in their sleep?" the mother said. "Turn the horse in." Harold would have replied, but was cut off by Grace’s voice suddenly screaming, so the big stallion swerved away again,
"No, let go of me, le
t go of me," and Gwen’s voice, low and pleading, broken by her struggles.
Then the mother called, still in the hollow voice that had power, but no life, "I’m coming, Gwen," and said to Harold, "I’1l go in with them, I guess. Grace is too much for her alone. I’ll fix the bed for him. Make Joe Sam help you."
She turned, saying, "Come, Pa," to the old man, and taking hold of his elbow.
"Eh! What?" the old man asked.
"Come on in. You’ll catch your death of cold out here."
"Yes, yes, I’m coming. It’s getting dark anyway, and there’s nothing I can do out here. Do you need any help, son?"
"No, we’ll manage all right," Harold said.
"Wel1, I’ll go in then. If there’s nothing I can do out here, I might as well go in. Get out of the way, at least."
After a few steps, following the mother, he stopped and turned back. "Why didn’t Curt come?" he asked plaintively.
"It’s getting late and it’s snowing."
Curt can take care of himself, Dad. Don’t worry about Curt."
"Of course," the old man said, nodding. "Curt can take care of himself. Curt won’t make a fool of himself."
He nodded slowly, as if he had summed the situation up and was leaving it in good order, and turned and went on after the women. They were going out into the yard now, Grace bowed between the other two, half carried in their arms.
Harold looked after them, the three women together ahead and the old man following them, asleep in his mind, all going toward the open door of the house, with the lamp showing white inside, like a big star, and its faded light reaching toward them in a path. He felt the snow coming down on him softly, beating against him with gentle tappings when the night breathed, and looked down at Arthur’s long, narrow body lying on its side, curved and dark on the snow, with the new snow gathering along it as it would along the top rail of a fence. Then, for a few seconds, the dusk seemed to him sadly and enormously charged with meaning.
The impression passed, though, without leaving anything clear for his mind to keep, except that he was a little eased by the bigness of the moment, and he turned to Joe Sam and Kentuck.
The old Indian was holding the reins, but doing nothing else. The saddle was still on, and the tangled rope still hung from it, dragging on the snow. Harold coiled the rope and tied it onto the saddle and took the saddle off, and slung it upside down against the wall of the tunnel, with the blanket over it.
"Let the bars down, Joe Sam," he said, taking the reins.
Slowly, and as if they were very heavy, Joe Sam slid back the three poles of the gate and let their ends down to make a narrow opening. Harold led Kentuck through, and took off his bridle, and was about to come back out, when he saw the two pale horses among the dark ones against the fence on the other side. He went across toward them until he was sure what they were, seeing the dark mane and tail of his own buckskin, Kit, and the near whiteness of the other horse.
It’s his, all right, he thought, and turned and came back out and set the bars into their slots again. He dropped the bridle over the saddle and blanket, and returned to the gate, where Joe Sam was standing. It was almost dark now, so there wasn’t much difference when he came out from under the roof of the tunnel. Joe Sam’s face was only a darkness against the high, gray post of the gate.
"When did the Smudge come in?" Harold asked him.
Joe Sam didn’t move or answer him.
"Joe Sam," he said sharply.
After a moment he thought the dark face was turned toward him.
"Did you see the little gray mare come in? Arthur’s?"
Joe Sam was a long time answering, but finally said, “Me feed."
"That’s good," Harold said. “When did he come in? What time?"
"L0ng time," Joe Sam said. “Not dark. Arthur’s horse. Feed."
"Sure," Harold said. "That’s right. That’s good."
Curt’s out there without a horse, he thought. He must be tracking, then. That’s more news for . . . but he let it go unfinished, thinking, Well, that’s not getting this done. He went over and stood at Arthur’s head and looked down at him. Finally he took a deep breath, and let only part of it out.
"Give me a hand, Joe Sam," he said, but had to say again, "Joe Sam."
The old man came slowly across then, and stood on the other side of the body from him, looking down at it too.
"We have to carry him in the house," Harold said. "You take the legs."
Joe Sam bent over and touched the body as he might, in electrical weather, have touched some metal before taking hold of it, and straightened up again.
"Dead now," he said.
Harold nodded. "We have to take him in, Joe Sam."
"Know all time," Joe Sam said. "Know all time, but not tell Arthur. Me tell other one. He go. No good."
"You told them," Harold said.
"Think me not know," the old Indian said, almost triumphantly. Then he said again, slowly, sadly, "Not tell Arthur."
"You couldn’t help it, Joe Sam," Harold said. "He knew. He heard you tell Curt."
The old Indian stared through the tunnel at the yellow light in the window of the kitchen, and seemed to be thinking about that. While he was looking, the kitchen door opened, and the mother’s figure appeared in the doorway, black in the rectangle of light.
"Yes," Joe Sam said, but whether to prevent the mother, or to agree with Harold, or to finish some argument with himself, there was no way to guess.
The mother didn’t call, but stepped down out of the doorway, and closed the door behind her, so the light was shut off and she disappeared.
"We take him in now, Joe Sam."
"Arthur dead. Black painter no dead," Joe Sam said, and bent to gather the stiff legs into his arms. Harold could make nothing certain of these words either, and, after a moment, raised Arthur by the shoulders, which were unbending as wood in his hands, and hard to keep his hold on.
The mother met them as they came out into the yard, and, without a word, turned and walked back ahead of them. She opened the kitchen door and stood aside, holding it open for them.
"I fixed up the bed in the north room," she said. "Lay him in there."
The father was alone in the kitchen, sitting in his place at the table, with a glass of whisky in front of him, and a new bottle beside his right hand. He didn’t look around, or even seem to hear them, as they carried Arthur past him, and around the table and into the north bedroom. The lamp on the dresser in there was lighted, so their shadows came in behind them, and then beside them, the two forward-bending figures, and the sagging one between them. The eagle with his wings spread that perched on the false crest on the head of the bed cast a greater shadow eagle up onto the white-washed wall. The mother’s finest spread, a heavy, dark blue one, covered with curving, interlaced figures of fabulous beasts and long-tailed birds in a woven jungle of leaves and stems and flowers, with a unicorn looking out of the center, was on the bed and pulled up over the pillows. Harold had seen that spread only twice a year, when it was taken out of the chest and hung on a line in the sun. He’d never seen it used before. It gave to the room, and to the big, walnut bed, and even to the crest and the eagle, a new and heavy dignity.
Carefully, breathing hard, and not altogether from the Weight of their burden, either, Harold and Joe Sam laid Arthur on the bed on his side. Then they stood there, looking down at him. The mother brought the lamp from the dresser and placed it on the small, round table in front of the north window. For a moment, then, the melted snow on Harold’s face, and Joe Sam’s, shone like sweat in the lamplight, and the shadow of the eagle grew enormous and stretched away toward the west wall. Then the mother straightened up and stood there looking down at Arthur also, and her shadow reached over Harold and Joe Sam, putting their faces in darkness. The light, streaming toward the bed from beyond her, showed clearly the part of the thin face there that wasn’t hidden by the encircling black scarf.
After a moment the mother said, "I’ll s
et in here with him tonight. You go along now. I have to lay him out proper."
"You’d better let me help you, Mother."
"Later on. You go along now.”
When they were at the door, she said, "The girls’ll have to sleep in the bunk-room tonight. Gwen’s keeping Grace company in there now, till she gets to sleep. Harold, you’ll have to move out to the shack with Joe Sam."
"I’ll be in the kitchen, Mother, in case you need me."
“I’m all right," the mother said. "There’s no need more’n one should set up, that I can see, and there’ll be things to do tomorrow. You’ll have to make the coffin, for one thing. You get your sleep. Gwen’ll put some supper on for you and Pa, and you see to it that Joe Sam eats something this time, too." Her words were clear and steady, but not full, as if her mind had arranged them a long time before, and her mouth was only repeating them now.
"And Harold," she added, as he turned away again, "take the rest of that whisky in the sideboard out with you when you go."
The mother bent over and began to untie the knot in the black scarf.
She’s holding up all right, at that, Harold thought. It won’t do any good; the old man always has plenty more stowed away, one place and another. No matter how drunk he gets, that’s the one thing he never forgets, where he put the rest of his whisky. But if she can still play that game, she’s all right.
"We’ll get at the chores now, Joe Sam," he said.
The old Indian didn’t say anything, but turned and went out into the kitchen ahead of him, and Harold looked once more at the mother, busy over the bed, and then followed him.
In the kitchen he crossed to the sideboard and opened the cabinet and took out the two bottles of whisky that were left. When he turned back with them in his arm, the father was watching him. The glaze of dull seeing was over his eyes already, but he saw well enough to know what Harold was doing. He held his glass up at Harold, as if making a toast, and laughed feebly, and put back his head and drained off the whisky, and at once set the glass down and half-filled it slowly and carefully. Then he looked at Harold again, and grinned and winked. It wasn’t easy to grin back at him now. It put the old man way apart from the others in the house, that he had already forgotten what was lying in the north room. It made it so one could almost feel with his hand the separate, dead world he built around himself when he was drinking.
The Track of the Cat Page 13