His father had seen what happened and had leaped into the corral and come running, and he was bent over now beside him, kneeling at his head. Bobby. You okay? Son?
The boy’s eyes looked all around. He looked scared and surprised. He peered up at the faces over him. I think so, he said.
Did you break anything, do you think? Guthrie said.
He felt of himself. He tried his arms and legs. No, he said. I don’t guess so.
Can you sit up?
The boy sat up and hunched his shoulders. He moved his head back and forth.
You took a bad one, Guthrie said. But you seem to be all right. I guess you are. Are you? He helped the boy stand up and he brushed the corral dirt off his shoulders and where it was stuck to the back of his head. Here, he said. You need to blow your nose, son. Bobby took the handkerchief and used it and wiped his nose and looked at the handkerchief for blood, but it was only dirt and cow dust, and gave it back. His brother pushed the stocking cap back onto his head.
You boys have been doing a good job, Guthrie said. I’m proud of you.
They looked up at his face, then out across the corral.
You did just fine. You did the best you could, he said.
But what about her? Ike said.
Let me have that whip back, Guthrie said. You can help if you want to. But stay clear of her.
They moved once more toward the red-legged cow. She waited at the far side of the corral standing sideways, watching them. She looked as wild as some alley cat, like she might try to scramble over the six-foot-high corral fence and get free that way. She began to step and shift, sliding away. Guthrie walked steadily toward her, the boys following. Then as she was turning he ran up quick behind her and struck her hard with the whip, and she kicked back at him viciously and missed his face and he followed, running, and slashed her again and then just as she was about to head into the alley she wheeled sharply and ran at the fence, gathered herself and jumped at it. She got only halfway across. She crashed through the top pole and was stuck there. Now she was scissored over the fence and she began to bawl, crazy with terror. She thrashed and kicked.
Goddamn it. Quit it, Harold yelled at her. He and Raymond had come running over. Here now. Stop that. You goddamn crazy old raw-boned bitch.
They gathered around, wanting to stop her, to quiet her, but she was kicking and thrashing in a crazy frenzy, and they couldn’t get close. Finally Guthrie climbed over to face her, to shove her back, to see if she’d come that way, but she had thrashed and kicked so much, rocking, teetering on the corral board, that she managed to tip herself forward, and suddenly she went over headfirst into the holding pen, making a heavy crashing somersault, her old angular head down, her hindquarters following, flopping over with a great thump onto the ground. Then she lay still.
I want you to look at that, Harold said. Go ahead then. Stay there. Maybe that’ll knock some goddamn sense into you.
They watched her. Her sides heaved but nothing else was moving. Her eyes stared. Climbing into the holding pen, Guthrie approached and lifted her head with his foot. That seemed to rouse her. She began to tremble and suddenly she rose up, Guthrie stepped back, and then she stood wobbily, glaring around. There was a gash along one flank where it had torn on the splintered corral board. The torn hide quivered and dripped blood in bright quick drops, and all along the back of her and over the top of her head she was covered with a mantle of dirt. She looked like some kind of beast from a medieval pageant, dirty and gory, threatening. She shook her dirty head sideways and took a couple of steps and then limped, trotting, over to the other cattle and heifers. They seemed leery of her and backed away.
Guthrie said, You want me to bring her back around?
No. Let her go, Harold said. We’d have to about kill her to get her in here now. She either stuck when she was with the bull or she didn’t. She seems to think she did, since she wants over there so bad. He looked at her with the other cattle. Anyhow, she seems to of took a serious dislike to you, Tom.
I’ll sort her out again, he said. If that’s what you want.
No. Let her go. We’ll keep an eye on her.
What about that cut?
She’ll heal up. I reckon she’s too disgusted with us to go off and die. She wouldn’t want to give us the satisfaction.
The two boys helped push the tested cattle out into a nearby pasture. The wild red-legged cow limped along in the middle of them. The two open cows were left in the holding pen and they called after the other cattle, their heads lifted, bawling, and moved over to the fence where they stood looking out through the rails. At the chutes the boys helped collect the medicine and the vaccination guns and put them away in the back of the truck. Then they climbed into the Dodge pickup and sat beside their father with the heater pushing out hot air onto their knees while he talked a little more to Harold. Raymond came around to their side of the truck.
Roll your window down, their father said. He wants to say something to you.
The old man stood in the cold in the sandy gravel beside the pickup and took out a soft leather purse from an inner pocket of his canvas jacket and held the purse in his hands and unzipped it. He poked around and picked out two bills. He handed them in through the opened window to the two boys. I hope that’ll be compensation, he said.
They took the money shyly and said thank you to him.
You boys can come back here any time, he said. You’d be welcome.
Wait now, their father said. That isn’t necessary.
You stay out of this, Raymond said. This is between me and these boys here. This don’t concern you, Tom. You boys, you come again any time.
He stepped back. The two boys looked at him. At his old weather-chafed face and reddened eyes under the winter cap. He looked quiet and kindly. They held the money in their closed fists, waiting, not looking at it until their father had finally said goodbye and not until he had put the pickup in motion and they were turned back away from the cattle chutes and had driven past the house and were rattling on the county road with the gravel banging up under the fenders and then were pointed toward the west where the sky was beginning now to fade. Then they looked at the money. They turned it over. He had given them each a ten-dollar bill.
That’s too much, their father said.
Should we give it back?
No, he said. He took his hat off and scratched the back of his head and put the hat back on. I guess not. That would be an insult. They want you to keep it. They enjoyed having you out there.
But Dad, Ike said.
Yes?
Why didn’t they ever get married? And have a family like everybody else?
I don’t know, Guthrie said. People don’t sometimes.
In the pickup it was warm now, driving along the county road. Beyond the ditch the fenceline passed by, thickened and snarled with tumbleweed and brush. Above, on the cross arm of a telephone pole perched a hawk the color of copper in the lowering sun, and they watched him but his head didn’t turn at all when they passed under him.
I just guess they never found the right girl, their father said. I don’t rightly know.
Bobby looked out the window. He said, I guess they didn’t want to leave each other.