Looks like a hoof, I said.
Hans and Pa were silent. I looked up at them, far away. Nothing now. Three men in the snow. A red scarf and some mittens… somebody’s ice and coal… the picture for January. But behind them on the blank hills? Then it rushed over me and I thought: this is as far as he rid him. I looked at the hoof and the shoe which didn’t belong in the picture. No dead horses for January. And on the snowhills there would be wild sled tracks and green trees and falling toboggans. This is as far. Or a glazed lake and rowdy skaters. Three men. On his ass: one. Dead horse and gun. And the question came to me very clearly, as if out of the calendar a girl had shouted: are you going to get up and walk on? Maybe it was the Christmas picture. The big log and the warm orange wood I was sprawled on in my flannel pajamas. I’d just been given a pistol that shot BBs. And the question was: was I going to get up and walk on? Hans’s shoes, and Pa’s, were as steady as the horse’s. Were they hammered on? Their bodies stolen? Who’d left them standing here? And Christmas cookies cut in the shape of the kid’s dead wet behind… with maybe a cherry to liven the pale dough… a coal from the stove. But I couldn’t just say that looks like a hoof or that looks like a shoe and go right on because Hans and Pa were waiting behind me in their wool hats and pounding mittens… like a picture for January. Smiling. I was learning to skate.
Looks like this is as far as he rid him.
Finally Pa said in a flat voice: what are you talking about?
You said he had a horse, Pa.
What are you talking about?
This here horse.
Ain’t you never seen a shoe before?
It’s just a horse’s hoof, Hans said. Let’s get on.
What are you talking about? Pa said again.
The man who scared the Pedersen kid. The man he saw.
Manure, Pa said. It’s one of Pedersen’s horses. I recognize the shoe.
That’s right, Big Hans said.
Pedersen only has one horse.
This here’s it, Big Hans said.
This horse’s brown, ain’t it?
Pedersen’s horse has got two brown hind feet. I remember, Big Hans said.
His is black.
It’s got two brown hind feet.
I started to brush away some snow. I knew Pedersen’s horse was black.
What the hell, Hans said. Come on. It’s too cold to stand here and argue about the color of Pedersen’s god damn horse.
Pedersen’s horse is black, Pa said. He don’t have any brown on him at all.
Big Hans turned angrily on Pa. You said you recognized his shoe.
I thought I did. It ain’t.
I kept scraping snow away. Hans leaned down and pushed me. The horse was white where frozen snow clung to his hide.
He’s brown, Hans. Pedersen’s horse is black. This one’s brown.
Hans kept pushing at me. God damn you, he was saying over and over in a funny high voice.
You knew all along it wasn’t Pedersen’s horse.
It went on like singing. I got up carefully, taking the safety off. Later in the winter maybe somebody would stumble on his shoes sticking out of the snow. Shooting Hans seemed like something I’d done already. I knew where he kept his gun — under those magazines in his drawer — and though I’d really never thought of it before, the whole thing moved before me now so naturally it must have happened that way. Of course I shot them all — Pa in his bed, ma in her kitchen, Hans when he came in from his rounds. They wouldn’t look much different dead than alive only they wouldn’t be so loud.
Jorge, now — look out with that thing, Jorge. Jorge.
His shotgun had fallen in the snow. He was holding both hands in front of him. Afterwards I stood alone in every room.
You’re yellow, Hans.
He was backing slowly, fending me off — fending — fending—
Jorge… Jorge… hey now… Jorge… Like singing.
Afterwards I looked through his magazines, my hand on my pecker, hot from head to foot.
I’ve shot you, yellow Hans. You can’t shout or push no more or goose me in the barn.
Hey now wait, Jorge — listen — What? Jorge… wait… Like singing.
Afterwards only the wind and the warm stove. Shivering I rose on my toes. Pa came up and I moved the gun to take him in. I kept it moving back and forth… Hans and Pa… Pa and Hans. Gone. Snow piling in the window corners. In the spring I’d shit with the door open, watching the blackbirds.
Don’t be a damn fool, Jorge, Pa said. I know you’re cold. We’ll be going home.
… yellow yellow yellow yellow… Like singing.
Now Jorge, I ain’t yellow, Pa said, smiling pleasantly.
I’ve shot you both with bullets.
Don’t be a fool.
The whole house with bullets. You too.
Funny I don’t feel it.
They never does, do they? Do rabbits?
He’s crazy, jesus, Mag, he’s crazy—
I never did want to. I never hid it like you did, I said. I never believed him. I ain’t the yellow one but you you made me made me come but you’re the yellow yellow ones, you were all along the yellow ones.
You’re cold is all.
Cold or crazy — jesus — it’s the same.
He’s cold is all.
Then Pa took the gun away, putting it in his pocket. He had his shotgun hanging easy over his left arm but he slapped me and I bit my tongue. Pa was spitting. I turned and ran down the path we’d come, putting one arm over my face to ease the stinging.
You little shit, Big Hans called after me.
3
Pa came back to the sleigh where I was sitting hunched up under the blanket and got a shovel out of the back.
Feeling better?
Some.
Why don’t you drink some of that coffee?
It’s cold by now. I don’t want to anyhow.
How about them sandwiches?
I ain’t hungry. I don’t want anything.
Pa started back with the shovel.
What are you going to do with that? I said.
Dig a tunnel, he said, and he went around a drift out of sight, the sun flashing from the blade.
I almost called him back but I remembered the grin in his face so I didn’t. Simon stamped. I pulled the blanket closer. I didn’t believe him. Just for a second, when he said it, I had. It was a joke. Well I was too cold for jokes. What did he want a shovel for? There’d be no point in digging for the horse. They could see it wasn’t Pedersen’s.
Poor Simon. He was better than they were. They’d left us in the cold.
Pa’d forgot about the shovel in the sleigh. I could have used it hunting for his bottle. That had been a joke too. Pa’d sat there thinking how funny Jorge is out there beating away at the snow, I’ll just wait and see if he remembers about that shovel. It’d be funny if Jorge forgot, he’d thought, sitting there in the blanket and bobbing his head here and there like a chicken. I’d hear about it when we got home till I was sick. I put my head down and closed my eyes. All right. I didn’t care. I’d put up with it to be warm. But that couldn’t be right. Pa must have forgot the same as me. He wanted that bottle too bad. Now it was all gone. It was colder with my eyes closed. I tried to think about all that underwear and the girls in the pictures. I had a crick in my neck.
Whose horse was it then?
I decided to keep my eyes closed a while longer, to see if I could do it. Then I decided not to. There was a stream of light in my eyes. It was brighter than snow, and as white. I opened them and straightened up. Keeping my head down made me dizzy. Everything was blurry. There were a lot of blue lines that moved.