He looked as if he had
been kicked in the face. Mart tried to think of an excuse to lay a hand on him, to see if he had a fever; but before he could
think of anything Amos took off his hat and wiped sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. That settled that. A man doesn’t
sweat with the fever on him.
“You look like you et something,” Mart said.
“Don’t know what it could have been. Oh, I did come on three-four rattlesnakes.” Seemingly the thought made Amos hungry.
He got out a leaf of jerky, and tore strips from it with his teeth.
“You sure you feel—”
Amos blew up, and yelled at him. “I’m all right, I tell you!” He quirted his horse, and loped out ahead.
They off-saddled in the shelter of the hump. A northering wind came up when the sun was gone; its bite reminded them that
they had been riding deep into the fall of the year. They huddled against their saddles, and chewed corn meal. Brad walked
across and stood over Amos. He spoke reasonably.
“Looks like you ought to tell us, Mr. Edwards.” He waited, but Amos didn’t answer him. “Something happened while you was gone
from us today. Was you laid for? We didn’t hear no guns, but... Be you hiding an arrow hole from us by any chance?”
“No,” Amos said. “There wasn’t nothing like that.”
Brad went back to his saddle and sat down. Mart laid his bedroll flat, hanging on by the upwindedge, and rolled himself up in it, coming out so that his head was on the saddle.
“A man has to learn to forgive himself,” Amos said, his voice unnaturally gentle. He seemed to be talking to Brad Mathison.
“Or he can’t stand to live. It so happens we be Texans. We took a reachin’ holt, way far out, past where any man has right
or reason to hold on. Or if we didn’t, our folks did, so we can’t leave off, without giving up that they were fools, wasting
their lives, and washed in the way they died.”
The chill striking up through Mart’s blankets made him homesick for the Edwards’ kitchen, like it was on winter nights,
all warm and light, and full of good smells, like baking bread. And their people— Mart had taken them for granted, largely;
just a family, people living alone together, such as you never thought about, especially, unless you got mad at them.
He had never known they were dear to him until the whole thing was busted up forever. He wished Amos would shut up.
“This is a rough country,” Amos was saying. “It’s a country knows how to scour a human man right off the face of itself. A
Texan is nothing but a human man way out on a limb. This year, and next year, and maybe for a hundred more. But I don’t think
it’ll be forever. Someday this country will be a fine good place to be. Maybe it needs our bones in the ground before that
time can come.”
Mart was thinking of Laurie now. He saw her in a bright warm kitchen like the Edwards’, and he thought how wonderful
it would be living in the same house with Laurie, in the same bed. But he was on the empty prairie without any fire—and he
had bedded himself on a sharp rock, he noticed now.
“We’ve come on a year when things go hard,” Amos talked on. “We get this tough combing over because we’re Texans. But the
feeling we get that we fail, and judge wrong, and go down in guilt and shame— that’s because we be human men. So try to remember
one thing. It wasn’t your fault, no matter how it looks. You got let in for this just by being born. Maybe there never is
any way out of it once you’re born a human man, except straight across the coals of hell.”
Mart rolled out to move his bed. He didn’t really need that rock in his ribs all night. Brad Mathison got up, moved out of
Amos’ line of sight, and beckoned Mart with his head. Mart put his saddle on his bed, so it wouldn’t blow away, and walked
out a ways with Brad on the dark prairie.
“Mart,” Brad said when they were out of hearing, “the old coot is
been kicked in the face. Mart tried to think of an excuse to lay a hand on him, to see if he had a fever; but before he could
think of anything Amos took off his hat and wiped sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. That settled that. A man doesn’t
sweat with the fever on him.
“You look like you et something,” Mart said.
“Don’t know what it could have been. Oh, I did come on three-four rattlesnakes.” Seemingly the thought made Amos hungry.
He got out a leaf of jerky, and tore strips from it with his teeth.
“You sure you feel—”
Amos blew up, and yelled at him. “I’m all right, I tell you!” He quirted his horse, and loped out ahead.
They off-saddled in the shelter of the hump. A northering wind came up when the sun was gone; its bite reminded them that
they had been riding deep into the fall of the year. They huddled against their saddles, and chewed corn meal. Brad walked
across and stood over Amos. He spoke reasonably.
“Looks like you ought to tell us, Mr. Edwards.” He waited, but Amos didn’t answer him. “Something happened while you was gone
from us today. Was you laid for? We didn’t hear no guns, but... Be you hiding an arrow hole from us by any chance?”
“No,” Amos said. “There wasn’t nothing like that.”
Brad went back to his saddle and sat down. Mart laid his bedroll flat, hanging on by the upwindedge, and rolled himself up in it, coming out so that his head was on the saddle.
“A man has to learn to forgive himself,” Amos said, his voice unnaturally gentle. He seemed to be talking to Brad Mathison.
“Or he can’t stand to live. It so happens we be Texans. We took a reachin’ holt, way far out, past where any man has right
or reason to hold on. Or if we didn’t, our folks did, so we can’t leave off, without giving up that they were fools, wasting
their lives, and washed in the way they died.”
The chill striking up through Mart’s blankets made him homesick for the Edwards’ kitchen, like it was on winter nights,
all warm and light, and full of good smells, like baking bread. And their people— Mart had taken them for granted, largely;
just a family, people living alone together, such as you never thought about, especially, unless you got mad at them.
He had never known they were dear to him until the whole thing was busted up forever. He wished Amos would shut up.
“This is a rough country,” Amos was saying. “It’s a country knows how to scour a human man right off the face of itself. A
Texan is nothing but a human man way out on a limb. This year, and next year, and maybe for a hundred more. But I don’t think
it’ll be forever. Someday this country will be a fine good place to be. Maybe it needs our bones in the ground before that
time can come.”
Mart was thinking of Laurie now. He saw her in a bright warm kitchen like the Edwards’, and he thought how wonderful
it would be living in the same house with Laurie, in the same bed. But he was on the empty prairie without any fire—and he
had bedded himself on a sharp rock, he noticed now.
“We’ve come on a year when things go hard,” Amos talked on. “We get this tough combing over because we’re Texans. But the
feeling we get that we fail, and judge wrong, and go down in guilt and shame— that’s because we be human men. So try to remember
one thing. It wasn’t your fault, no matter how it looks. You got let in for this just by being born. Maybe there never is
any way out of it once you’re born a human man, except straight across the coals of hell.”
Mart rolled out to move his bed. He didn’t really need that rock in his ribs all night. Brad Mathison got up, moved out of
Amos’ line of sight, and beckoned Mart with his head. Mart put his saddle on his bed, so it wouldn’t blow away, and walked
out a ways with Brad on the dark prairie.
“Mart,” Brad said when they were out of hearing, “the old coot is
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