Curt
said to Gwen, saying more with his grinning stare. "Then Art
here can explain it all to you. He’s good at talk, Art is. He gets
it out of all them books he’s always readin’."
Harold spoke from the door. "Joe Sam will freeze
out there, waiting for you to finish your joking."
Curt turned a little and looked at him, and he wasn’t
grinning now. "Any time you catch me rushin’ myself for that
old bastard," he said. "Let him freeze. Spookin’ the
horses with his crazy antics."
“ They were spooky enough already," Harold
said. "And how long had he been out there in the middle of ’em?
Half the night, for all we know. If . . .”
He stopped because' Arthur brushed against him going
past to the door. Harold stood aside to let him by, but didn’t look
away from Curt.
"He’s only got that shirt on," he said.
Arthur opened the door and went out, carrying the
Winchester.
“ Hey,” Curt called, and strode after him. "Better
let me have that, padré, before you hurt yourself."
After that they could hear, through the open door,
his pleased voice saying loudly, "Just the same, you old
heathen, I bet you a pint of the old man’s best it’s yellow."
"I’ll be back in a minute," Harold told
Gwen, and went out with the lantern and closed the door. The lamp
steadied again, and gradually the warmth of the stove came back where
the cold had drawn in along the floor. Outside they could hear Curt’s
voice still baiting the old Indian.
"Sit down, my dear, Sit down," the father
said once more, and, when Gwen moved aside, drew out the chair for
her. Gwen sat down, smiling up quickly at him, but then looking away
quickly too, keeping herself secret against the admiration in his
voice and eyes.
Outside there was a muffled, turning trample of hoofs
in the snow. Harold’s voice called, "Well, get him, whatever
color he is," and Curt’s voice made some short and laughing
answer. The hoofbeats quickened suddenly into a multiple drumming,
and then were lost at once, without fading, as the wind turned and
roared down across the trees on the mountain. The door opened,
letting in another serpent of snow along the floor. Harold entered,
carrying the lantern, waited for Joe Sam to pass him, and closed the
door.
4
The old Indian stood there, trying to hide his
shivering, and squinting against the light in the white kitchen.
Harold, standing behind him, took off his cap, so his fine, bright
hair shone like gold in the light. The cold had brought high color
under the tan of his face too, and the old man looked dark and wooden
and slight as a young boy, standing in front of him. His body was so
flat there seemed to be nothing under his blue work shirt, and the
black canvas pants he wore were as flat behind as they were in front.
Gwen thought, looking curiously at his face and hands, and two short,
tight braids with strips of red-and-blue cloth woven into them that
hung down before his shoulders, He’s like one of those dolls with
only the head and hands and feet made to look real and all the rest
just cloth to hold them together.
Joe Sam turned his head and looked at her then, as if
he had heard her thinking, and after a moment she had to look down.
His face didn’t change.
It really is like a face carved out of wood, she
thought. It can’t change. It’s like Arthur had made it with his
whittling Harold’s always talking about; deep wrinkles, like Mrs.
Bridges, only all broken up with little ones too, like dried-out
earth or old leather, on his forehead and cheeks and chin, and by the
puckering at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth.
She wanted to look at the face for a long time, but
she couldn’t because of the eyes. It wasn’t that he looked at
her, but rather that he didn’t look at her, although his eyes were
turned at her face, and that only his right eye seemed to be watching
whatever it was he saw behind her. His right eye was surprisingly
young and liquid and alive in the old, dry face, but the left eye
said to Gwen, saying more with his grinning stare. "Then Art
here can explain it all to you. He’s good at talk, Art is. He gets
it out of all them books he’s always readin’."
Harold spoke from the door. "Joe Sam will freeze
out there, waiting for you to finish your joking."
Curt turned a little and looked at him, and he wasn’t
grinning now. "Any time you catch me rushin’ myself for that
old bastard," he said. "Let him freeze. Spookin’ the
horses with his crazy antics."
“ They were spooky enough already," Harold
said. "And how long had he been out there in the middle of ’em?
Half the night, for all we know. If . . .”
He stopped because' Arthur brushed against him going
past to the door. Harold stood aside to let him by, but didn’t look
away from Curt.
"He’s only got that shirt on," he said.
Arthur opened the door and went out, carrying the
Winchester.
“ Hey,” Curt called, and strode after him. "Better
let me have that, padré, before you hurt yourself."
After that they could hear, through the open door,
his pleased voice saying loudly, "Just the same, you old
heathen, I bet you a pint of the old man’s best it’s yellow."
"I’ll be back in a minute," Harold told
Gwen, and went out with the lantern and closed the door. The lamp
steadied again, and gradually the warmth of the stove came back where
the cold had drawn in along the floor. Outside they could hear Curt’s
voice still baiting the old Indian.
"Sit down, my dear, Sit down," the father
said once more, and, when Gwen moved aside, drew out the chair for
her. Gwen sat down, smiling up quickly at him, but then looking away
quickly too, keeping herself secret against the admiration in his
voice and eyes.
Outside there was a muffled, turning trample of hoofs
in the snow. Harold’s voice called, "Well, get him, whatever
color he is," and Curt’s voice made some short and laughing
answer. The hoofbeats quickened suddenly into a multiple drumming,
and then were lost at once, without fading, as the wind turned and
roared down across the trees on the mountain. The door opened,
letting in another serpent of snow along the floor. Harold entered,
carrying the lantern, waited for Joe Sam to pass him, and closed the
door.
4
The old Indian stood there, trying to hide his
shivering, and squinting against the light in the white kitchen.
Harold, standing behind him, took off his cap, so his fine, bright
hair shone like gold in the light. The cold had brought high color
under the tan of his face too, and the old man looked dark and wooden
and slight as a young boy, standing in front of him. His body was so
flat there seemed to be nothing under his blue work shirt, and the
black canvas pants he wore were as flat behind as they were in front.
Gwen thought, looking curiously at his face and hands, and two short,
tight braids with strips of red-and-blue cloth woven into them that
hung down before his shoulders, He’s like one of those dolls with
only the head and hands and feet made to look real and all the rest
just cloth to hold them together.
Joe Sam turned his head and looked at her then, as if
he had heard her thinking, and after a moment she had to look down.
His face didn’t change.
It really is like a face carved out of wood, she
thought. It can’t change. It’s like Arthur had made it with his
whittling Harold’s always talking about; deep wrinkles, like Mrs.
Bridges, only all broken up with little ones too, like dried-out
earth or old leather, on his forehead and cheeks and chin, and by the
puckering at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth.
She wanted to look at the face for a long time, but
she couldn’t because of the eyes. It wasn’t that he looked at
her, but rather that he didn’t look at her, although his eyes were
turned at her face, and that only his right eye seemed to be watching
whatever it was he saw behind her. His right eye was surprisingly
young and liquid and alive in the old, dry face, but the left eye
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