Ike and Bobby.
In the early morning they woke in the same bed at almost the same moment, with the stain already visible and distinct above the north windows across the room. Ike got up and began to dress. Then Bobby got up and dressed while his brother stood beneath the water stain, looking out the windows past the well-house toward the barn and fence and windmill. Beyond the fence Elko was doing something to himself. Look at that crazy son of a bitch, Ike said.
Who?
Elko.
Bobby looked at him.
Then he was dressed and they went downstairs where Guthrie was drinking black coffee and smoking cigarettes at the kitchen table, and as usual on a Sunday morning, reading something, a newspaper or magazine opened to the sunlight on the table. Passing through the kitchen they went down off the porch and on across the gravel in a hurry. They opened the gate and stepped into the corral. But the horse wasn’t dead then. He was still only kicking himself in the stomach. He was standing off by himself against the barn, away from Easter and the cats, and the sweat was dark along his neck and ribs and flanks. While they watched he dropped down into the dirt and rolled, his feet kicking into the air like a black bug or insect overturned and crawling its legs, his belly exposed while he rolled, lighter colored than the rest of him, brownish, and then he grunted and stood up again and swung his long black head back across his shoulder to look at his stomach. Immediately he began to kick at himself as if he were tormented by flies. But it wasn’t flies. They watched him for another minute, until he fell down onto the dirt again beside the barn, then they ran back to the house.
Guthrie was at the stove, stirring eggs. Wait, he said. Can’t one of you boys talk at a time?
They told him again.
All right, he said. I’ll go look. But you stay here. Eat your breakfast.
He went outside. They could hear his steps on the porch. When the screen door slapped shut they sat down at the bare wooden table against the wall and began to eat, sitting across from each other, chewing quietly and then listening and looking at each other and beginning to chew again, their brown heads and blue eyes almost identical above the crockery plates. When he finished eating, Ike stood up and looked out the window. He’s coming back, he said.
I guess he’s going to die, Bobby said.
Who is?
Your horse. I guess he’s going to die today.
No he isn’t. Eat your breakfast.
I already ate my breakfast.
Well eat some more.
Guthrie came back into the house. He crossed to the phone and called Dick Sherman. They talked briefly. Then he hung up and Ike said: What’s he going to do to him? He’s not going to hurt him, is he?
No. He’s already hurt.
But what makes him do that?
I’m not sure.
Was he still kicking himself?
Yes. There’s something the matter with him. Something in his stomach, I guess. Dick’ll look him over.
I guess he’s going to die, Bobby said.
You be quiet, Bobby.
He could die though.
But you don’t know that. You don’t know anything about it. So keep your mouth shut.
Stop now, Guthrie said.
The two boys looked at each other.
Both of you, he said. And you better go get your papers started. I heard the train half an hour ago. It’s time you were leaving.
Can’t we do it later?
No. People pay on time and they want their papers on time.
But just this once? Dick Sherman’ll be gone already.
He might be. And if he is I’ll tell you about it. Go ahead now.
You won’t let him hurt him.
No, I won’t let him hurt him. But Dick wouldn’t anyway.
Anyway, Bobby said. He’s hurt already.