was
turned a very little out and up from it, so they didn’t appear to
be looking together. The lid drooped over it more too, as if from an
old injury that had made him unable to lift it.
Harold said, "It’s all right, Joe Sam. Go on
in," and the mother turned from the stove with Gwen’s plate in
her hand and saw the old Indian standing there. Even the father
stopped watching Gwen and, turning his glass on the table between his
thumb and fingers, looked around too.
"Go ahead, Joe Sam, go ahead," he said
impatiently.
The mother brought Gwen’s plate to the table and
set it down in front of her as if there were no one sitting there
yet.
"Get over by the stove and warm yourself,"
she said.
"It’s a wonder you don’t take your death of
cold, wandering around in your shirt sleeves."
Joe Sam didn’t answer, or even show in his face
that he’d heard her. Appearing to start only by his own wish, he
walked slowly, very upright and very softly in his buckskin
moccasins, dark and shiny with use, over to the wood box in the
shadow by the stove. He turned around in front of the wood box and
crossed his ankles and let himself down slowly and without a sound
and then sat there, as upright as he’d walked, his hands lying limp
and palms up in his lap. His face almost disappeared in the shadow,
only tiny points of reflected light showing where his eyes were.
Harold followed him across, his boots clumping.
Standing in front of him, he blew out the lantern and reached across
him and set it on the shelf behind the stove. Then he went back to
the pegs by the door and stuffed his cap into the pocket of his
mackinaw and took the mackinaw off and hung it up in the row of
coats. He turned, trying to comb his hair back with his big hand, and
came to the table and sat down in Arthur’s chair, across from Gwen.
He leaned on the table, and locked his big hands in front of him and
looked at Gwen, smiling a little, and when she smiled back at him,
looked down at his hands.
The father spoke loudly and importantly. "What
was all that Curt was talking about? Joe Sam been up to something
with the horses?"
"Oh, nothi.ng," Harold said. "He was
already out there when Curt got there, and the horses were kind of
spooky, so Curt blamed him. He wasn’t doing anything."
"Was he in the corral?"
"Yes, he was, but he was just standing there by
the fence. He wasn’t doing anything. It was the snow spooked the
horses."
"The old fool’s going to get himself killed
some time," the father said, "warndering around without the
slightest notion where he is."
"I wouldn’t worry about it," the mother
said. "He’ll look out for himself. Another cup of coffee,
Harold?"
"Please."
The mother filled a mug and brought it over and set
it down in front of him.
"Curt might be able to hunt at that," he
told her. "It’s just about stopped snowing."
"It wouldn’t make no difference anyway,"
she said. "Curt would hunt anything, once he got started, if he
had to make the tracks himself."
"And he’d get it too," the father
declared. "Curt’s about the best hunter I’ve ever known,"
he told Gwen. "He has a gift for it. He knows right away,
without giving it a thought, what other men can’t even figure out.
He knows what a cat will do; he knows what a deer will do, better
than they know it themselves. He’ll outguess them every time. He
doesn’t need tracks. Just a start, and he knows what they’ll do.
He’s a remarkable shot, too, remarkable, one in a thousand, one in
ten thousand. Why, I remember once . . ."
"I dor1’t guess Gwendolyn cares about Curt’s
fancy shooting enough to listen to all that," the mother said.
The father stared at her, the whisky slowness showing
in his eyes already.
Before he could speak, Gwen smiled at him, and said
"Harold told me about it. He must really be a wonderful shot,"
and looked back at her plate.
After a moment the father said, "He’s all of
that, and I then some. I’ll tell you about a couple of the
turned a very little out and up from it, so they didn’t appear to
be looking together. The lid drooped over it more too, as if from an
old injury that had made him unable to lift it.
Harold said, "It’s all right, Joe Sam. Go on
in," and the mother turned from the stove with Gwen’s plate in
her hand and saw the old Indian standing there. Even the father
stopped watching Gwen and, turning his glass on the table between his
thumb and fingers, looked around too.
"Go ahead, Joe Sam, go ahead," he said
impatiently.
The mother brought Gwen’s plate to the table and
set it down in front of her as if there were no one sitting there
yet.
"Get over by the stove and warm yourself,"
she said.
"It’s a wonder you don’t take your death of
cold, wandering around in your shirt sleeves."
Joe Sam didn’t answer, or even show in his face
that he’d heard her. Appearing to start only by his own wish, he
walked slowly, very upright and very softly in his buckskin
moccasins, dark and shiny with use, over to the wood box in the
shadow by the stove. He turned around in front of the wood box and
crossed his ankles and let himself down slowly and without a sound
and then sat there, as upright as he’d walked, his hands lying limp
and palms up in his lap. His face almost disappeared in the shadow,
only tiny points of reflected light showing where his eyes were.
Harold followed him across, his boots clumping.
Standing in front of him, he blew out the lantern and reached across
him and set it on the shelf behind the stove. Then he went back to
the pegs by the door and stuffed his cap into the pocket of his
mackinaw and took the mackinaw off and hung it up in the row of
coats. He turned, trying to comb his hair back with his big hand, and
came to the table and sat down in Arthur’s chair, across from Gwen.
He leaned on the table, and locked his big hands in front of him and
looked at Gwen, smiling a little, and when she smiled back at him,
looked down at his hands.
The father spoke loudly and importantly. "What
was all that Curt was talking about? Joe Sam been up to something
with the horses?"
"Oh, nothi.ng," Harold said. "He was
already out there when Curt got there, and the horses were kind of
spooky, so Curt blamed him. He wasn’t doing anything."
"Was he in the corral?"
"Yes, he was, but he was just standing there by
the fence. He wasn’t doing anything. It was the snow spooked the
horses."
"The old fool’s going to get himself killed
some time," the father said, "warndering around without the
slightest notion where he is."
"I wouldn’t worry about it," the mother
said. "He’ll look out for himself. Another cup of coffee,
Harold?"
"Please."
The mother filled a mug and brought it over and set
it down in front of him.
"Curt might be able to hunt at that," he
told her. "It’s just about stopped snowing."
"It wouldn’t make no difference anyway,"
she said. "Curt would hunt anything, once he got started, if he
had to make the tracks himself."
"And he’d get it too," the father
declared. "Curt’s about the best hunter I’ve ever known,"
he told Gwen. "He has a gift for it. He knows right away,
without giving it a thought, what other men can’t even figure out.
He knows what a cat will do; he knows what a deer will do, better
than they know it themselves. He’ll outguess them every time. He
doesn’t need tracks. Just a start, and he knows what they’ll do.
He’s a remarkable shot, too, remarkable, one in a thousand, one in
ten thousand. Why, I remember once . . ."
"I dor1’t guess Gwendolyn cares about Curt’s
fancy shooting enough to listen to all that," the mother said.
The father stared at her, the whisky slowness showing
in his eyes already.
Before he could speak, Gwen smiled at him, and said
"Harold told me about it. He must really be a wonderful shot,"
and looked back at her plate.
After a moment the father said, "He’s all of
that, and I then some. I’ll tell you about a couple of the
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