“Yep. I’m goin’ off to my brother’s ranch in Dakota. I’m gettin’ tired of the work here—it’s too hard. It’s work, work, work all the time with a little while for eatin’ and sleepin’. All summer you c’n work your head off and then in winter you can lay off for a couple of months and don’t know what to do.”
The boy looked out over the fields. Even Bill could go away. The heavy, flabby cheeks, from which the small eyes peered inquisitively, disgusted the boy. Bill picked up another bit of turf and threw it so that the colt jumped wildly, pulling the young willows almost to the ground.
The boy turned to Bill, his face flushed.
“Say—if you want to stay around here you got to cut out firing stones at that colt. You’ll never get ’im tame that way—you thick-headed fool!”
Bill stood quiet for a moment. The boy saw an expression of incredulous surprise on Bill’s face. Then it became brick-red. He did not wait for Bill to answer but started the horses.
When he looked back, Bill was riding away over the top of the hill, his body swaying with the rhythm of the gallop. The boy was glad that Bill was angry. He didn’t want people around. And besides, why did Bill have a chance to go away? His eyes grew hot.
The morning passed slowly. When finally the shadow of the cottonwood tree at the corner of the pasture pointed directly to the north, the boy unhitched, cleaned the cultivator shovels carefully with a handful of grass and placed them upon the hooks. With the reins about his back, he trudged up the long slope of the hill, through the warm dust, swinging his water-pail in cadence with his steps. They reached the top of the hill. The house was only a short distance from the road. He could see his father carrying a basket of wood to the house. He hoped that his father would not come and help him unharness the horses. He wanted to be alone; he dreaded facing their conversation at the dinner-table. His eyes grew hot again. Everything was so old to him! He always came home just at dinner time, his father always worked about the barn, finishing work a little before so that he might help unharness the horses. And dinner was always ready when they came in the house. The boy kicked a clod viciously.
At the water trough he stopped and the thirsty horses drank deeply. His father came out of the barn, a pitchfork in his hand, and sat down on the edge of the trough, fanning himself with his hat. The boy noticed that his father seemed more tired than usual. His brown hair was already mixed with gray and was damp where the hat had rested. His eyes seemed less cheerful than usual, and his face less red.
When the horses raised their heads from the trough, the boy led them to their stalls. His father followed him.
“How was cultivatin’, Frank?” he asked as he stepped into the barn.