Did they know the horse even so? Maybe it was Carlson’s horse, or even Schmidt’s. Maybe he was Carlson in yellow gloves, or Schmidt, and the kid, because he came in sudden from the barn and didn’t know Carlson had come, saw him in the kitchen holding a gun like he might of if it’d been Schmidt, and the kid got scared and run, because he didn’t understand and it’d been snowing lots, and how did Schmidt get there, or Carlson get there, if it was one of them, so the kid got scared and run and came to our crib where the snow grew around him and then in the morning Hans found him.
And we’d been god damn fools. Especially Hans. I shivered. The cold had settled in my belly. The sun had bent around to the west. Near it the sky was hazy. The troughs of some of the drifts were turning blue.
He wouldn’t have been that scared. Why’d Carlson or Schmidt be out in a storm like that? If somebody was sick, they were closer to town than either the Pedersens or us. It was a long way for them in this weather. They wouldn’t get caught out. But if the horse was stole, who was there but Carlson and Schmidt or maybe Hansen to steal it from?
He goes to the barn before the snow, most likely in the night, and knows horses. Oats or hay lead it out. He’s running away. The blizzard sets down. He drives himself and the horse hard, bending in the wind, leaning over far to see fences, any marks, a road. He makes the grove. He might not know it. The horse runs into the barberry, rears, goes to its knees; or a low branch of a mossycup he doesn’t see knocks him into a drift; or he slides off when the horse rears as the barbs go in. The horse wanders a little way, not far. Then it stops — finished. And he — he’s stunned, windburned, worn like a stone in a stream. He’s frozen and tired, for snow’s cold water. The wind’s howling. He’s blind. He’s hungry, frozen, and scared. The snow is stinging his face, wearing him smooth. Standing still, all alone, it blows by him. Then the snow hides him. The wind blows a crust over him. Only a shovel poking in the drifts or a warm rain will find him lying by the horse.
I threw off the blanket and jumped down and ran up the path we’d made between the drifts and trees, slipping, cutting sharply back and forth, working against my stiffness, but all the time keeping my head up, looking out carefully ahead.
They weren’t by the horse. A hoof and part of the leg I’d uncovered lay by the path like nothing more went with them. Seeing them like that, like they might have blown down from one of the trees in a good wind, gave me a fright. Now there was a slight breeze and I discovered my tongue was sore. Hans’s and Pa’s tracks went farther on — toward Pedersen’s barn. I wasn’t excited any more. I remembered I’d left the blanket on the seat instead of putting it on Simon. I thought about going back. Pa’d said a tunnel. That had to be a joke. But what were they doing with the shovel? Maybe they’d found him by the barn. What if it really was Schmidt or Carlson? I thought about which I wanted it to be. I went more slowly in Pa’s tracks. Now I kept down. The roof of Pedersen’s barn got bigger; the sky was hazier; here and there little clouds of snow leaped up from the top of a drift like they’d been pinched off, and sailed swiftly away.
They were digging a tunnel. They didn’t hear me come up. They were really digging a tunnel.
Hans was digging in the great drift. It ran from the grove in a high curve against the barn. It met the roof where it went lowest and flowed onto it like there wasn’t a barn underneath. It seemed like the whole snow of winter was gathered there. If the drift hadn’t ended in the grove it would have been swell for sledding. You could put a ladder on the edge of the roof and go off from there. The crust looked hard enough.
Hans and Pa had put about a ten-foot hole in the bank. Hans dug and Pa put what Hans dug in small piles behind him. I figured it was near a hundred feet to the barn. If we’d been home and not so cold, it would have been fun. But it would take all day. They were great damn fools.
I been thinking, I started out, and Hans stopped in the tunnel with a shovel of snow in the air.
Pa didn’t turn around or stop.
You can help dig, he said.
I been thinking, I said, and Hans dropped the shovel, spilling the snow, and came out. I been thinking, I said, that you’re digging in the wrong place.
Hans pointed to the shovel. Get digging.
We need something to carry snow with, Pa said. It’s getting too damn far.
Pa kicked at the snow and flailed with his arms. He was sweating and so was Hans. It was terrible foolish.
I said you was digging in the wrong place.
Tell Hans. It’s his idea. He’s the hot digger.
You thought it was a good idea, Hans said.
I never did.
Well, I said, it ain’t likely you’ll find him clear in there.
Pa chuckled. He ain’t going to find us neither.
He ain’t going to find anybody if he’s where I think.
Oh yeah—think. Hans moved nearer. Where?
As far as he got. It really didn’t make much difference to me what Hans did. He could come as close as he liked. In the snow near that horse.
Hans started but Pa chewed on his lip and shook his head.
Probably Schmidt or Carlson, I said.
Probably Schmidt or Carlson, shit, Pa said.
Of course, Hans shouted.
Hans scooped up the shovel, furious, and carried it by me like an ax.
Hans has been working like a thrasher, Pa said.
You’ll never finish it.
No.
It’s higher than it needs to be.
Sure.
Why are you digging it then?
Hans. Hans wants to.
Why, for christ’s sake?
So we can get to the barn without being seen.
Why not cross behind the drift?
Hans. Hans says no. Hans says that from an upstairs window he could see over the bank.
What the hell.
He’s got a rifle.
But who knows he’s upstairs?
Nobody. We don’t know he’s even there. But that horse is.
He’s back where I said.
No he ain’t. You only wish he was. So does Hans, hey? But he ain’t. What did the kid see if he is — his ghost?
I walked into the tunnel to the end. Everything seemed blue. The air was dead and wet. It could have been fun, snow over me, hard and grainy, the excitement of a tunnel, the games. The face of a mine, everything muffled, the marks of the blade in the snow. Well I knew how Hans felt. It would have been wonderful to burrow down, disappear under the snow, sleep out of the wind in soft sheets, safe. I backed out. We went to get Hans and go home. Pa gave me the gun with a smile.
We heard the shovel cutting the crust and Hans puffing. He was using the shovel like a fork. He’d cut up the snow in clods around the horse. He grunted when he drove the shovel in. Next he began to beat the shovel against the snow, packing it down, then ripping the crust with the side of the blade.
Hans. It ain’t no use, Pa said.
But Hans went right on pounding with the shovel, spearing and pounding, striking out here and there like he was trying to kill a snake.
You’re just wasting your time. It ain’t no use, Hans. Jorge was wrong. He ain’t by the horse.
But Hans went right on, faster and faster.
Hans. Pa had to make his voice hard and loud.
The shovel speared through the snow. It struck a stone and rang. Hans went to his knees and pawed at the snow with his hands. When he saw the stone he stopped. On his knees in the snow he simply stared at it.