Now he was the last of the six bulls they were looking at on this cold and overcast morning in October. The other bulls were already sorted into the next corral. The McPheron brothers were inside the corral with him, studying him, walking around him, the corral dirt under their feet soft and loose, dusty with the wisps of dried manure. They were dressed for the weather and looked almost like twins in their canvas chore jackets and their jeans and boots and leather gloves, their old white dirty hats pulled low over their eyes on their round heads. Their faces were chafed red, their eyes bleary with the dust, and their noses had begun to run a little in the cold.
Well, Raymond said, he looks all right.
He’ll do for another year, Harold said. He’s taken a little gaunt in the flank there. But he’s all right.
While they were talking about him the bull eyed them steadily. He turned to face them head-on as they walked around him.
He don’t look like he wants to quit.
Not today, Raymond said. He looks like he could go on for another five years. He’ll probably outlast the both of us.
All right then, Harold said.
He walked past the bull over to the heavy pipe-iron gate to throw it open so the bull could pass in with the others. Nervous from being kept back by himself, the bull moved up snorting and pawing to go through, but the gate was open only a little when he rushed the narrow opening, and all his weight was carried forward, slamming into the end-post of the gate as he hit it with his shoulder, and he was knocked backward, his feet slid in the dirt, and he went down as the gate clanged shut. He rose up massively and lunged forward, bellowing and snorting, his great head swinging back and forth, his eyes fixing on Harold. He dropped his head and smashed Harold in the chest, knocking him off his feet against the closed gate. You son of a bitch! Harold hollered. He slapped at him, tried to kick at him. But the bull smashed him again, lifting him, burying his head in Harold’s chest and stomach, splaying him out flat against the iron gate. Harold tried to holler but nothing came out. The bull stepped back and Harold slid down in the dirt, and then the bull began to ram at him with his head.
Raymond saw it all and came running up from behind, whipping the bull in the hip with his gloved fist and grabbing his tail to distract him, to turn him away. Goddamn you! he hollered. Hey! Hey! The bull spun around, swinging heavily, all his power and weight, and flung Raymond across the corral, sprawling him out on the ground, and then came after him, his head down, swinging and plunging, and slammed him in the back. Raymond rolled onto his face in the dirt and managed to scramble up. Hey! he hollered. Hey! The bull knocked him down again, smashed him in the leg, Raymond all the time was trying to kick at him, and then he scrambled up once more and limped backward, moving away. The bull stood looking at him.
Then the bull turned again toward Harold, who lay on his face across the corral. The bull trotted across to him and began bumping at him with his thick head. Tumbling in the dirt, kicking and twisting, Harold finally rolled under a short plank panel they’d nailed into the corner of the corral to prevent cattle from climbing into the stock tank. Inside the little enclosure he was out of reach. His face was filthy now, there was blood smeared across his nose and cheeks. He turned his head and vomited into the dirt and tried to breathe. The bull sniffed at him through the fence panel.
Seeing his brother safe for the moment, Raymond hurried limping into the barn and grabbed a hay fork leaning against the wall and stumbled back out in a kind of one-legged hopping motion, and went out and around the fence and climbed into the corral on the far side to shove the gate open again. The bull stepped forward, sniffing at the gate, then plunged through, and seeing Raymond on the other side of the plank fence, the bull snorted and swung around, pawing dirt up over his back. You son of a bitch, Raymond said. Try something now. He hollered and waved his arms, and as the bull turned away he jabbed him in the hip with the hay fork. Bright blood spurted out and the bull bellowed, he spun back to face Raymond again, his head lowered, tossing back and forth, but the old man stood him off, brandishing the long-handled hay fork as if he and the bull had been flung together in some ancient arena, and all the time Raymond was speaking in a low hard mean voice. Come on, goddamn you. Come on. The bull snorted once more and at last moved away.
Raymond fastened the gate and hobbled across the corral to the corner where his brother lay in the dirt. Harold had removed his gloves and he was touching at his chest very carefully.
How bad is it? Raymond said, kneeling over.
Bad, Harold said. He was only whispering, his voice raspy and tight. I can’t get my breath. I’m all busted inside.
I’m going to run up to the house and call somebody.
I ain’t going nowhere.
I’ll just go up and call.
No. Stay here, Harold said. I mean I ain’t going nowhere ever.
I got to call the ambulance.
I won’t last till you get back. They can’t do nothing for me.
You don’t know that.
Yeah, I do, Harold whispered.
He looked up at his brother kneeling beside him across the fence panel. Raymond’s face looked scared and dirty. His own face was chalk white now under the dirt and blood.
Pull me out from under this fence. I don’t want to die cramped up in here.
I don’t dare to move you, Raymond said. I got to call somebody.
No. Start pulling. I can’t wait for you to get somebody else.
Hold on then. Goddamn it anyway.
He took Harold’s canvas jacket at the shoulder and gripped his belt and began dragging him slowly through the loose dirt. His brother grunted and gritted his teeth, tears started up in his eyes, and there was blood trickling from the corner of his clenched mouth. Raymond slid him out from under the fence and Harold lay on his back at the edge of the corral, breathing in shallow gasps, with his hands moving at his chest, squeezing and pushing at his ribs as if this might help him breathe more easily. He opened his eyes and reached a hand up and wiped at his mouth. I’m missing my hat, he said.
I’ll get it. Raymond stood and limped out into the corral and picked up the hat and slapped it against his leg and then limped back and knelt again. When Harold raised his head he fit the hat onto his short iron-gray hair. His hair was filthy. The back of the hat was crumpled so Raymond smoothed it out.
All right, Harold said. Thanks. He shut his eyes and tried to breathe. It’s getting cold, he whispered.
Raymond removed his canvas jacket and spread it over him.
After a while Harold opened his eyes. He shivered and peered around. Raymond?
Yes.
Are you here?
I’m right here, Raymond said. Right next to you.
Harold looked up into his brother’s face and Raymond took hold of his thick calloused hand.
You got to take care of her by yourself now. His voice was just a thin raspy sound. That little girl too. I won’t be here to see how they come out. I was looking forward to it.
You’ll see them, Raymond said. You’re going to come out of this.
No. I’m done here, Harold said. I’m about finished.
He closed his eyes and shivered again, his breaths coming slower and harder. Then he stopped breathing. After a while he breathed once more, a long single rattling suck of air. Then he seemed to settle into the dirt more comfortably. After that he didn’t breathe again. Raymond watched him and his brother’s eyelids fluttered once, that was all, then Raymond began to weep, the tears ran down his face in dirty runnels. He held on to his brother’s hand and looked out through the corral toward the pastures and the blue sandhills beyond. The hills lay far away in the distance on the low horizon. The wind had started up again. He could feel it now. He looked again at his brother and pulled the canvas coat up over his blood-smeared face. He knelt for a long while beside him, not moving, an old man with his old brother scuttled down in the loose dirt of a plank corral under an overcast October sky.