Black Angus by Newton Thornburg Page B

he was finished, he went into the living room and over to the davenport, where he found Whit still sound asleep, still dreaming. He went halfway up the stairs then, to see if Susan was up. But the bedroom door was closed, as was Tommy’s. Coming back down, he went outside, to the equipment shed, where he knew Clarence would be at work on the hay baler, getting it ready for the long days ahead.
    Over the years Blanchard had tired of saying good morning to the old man only to get nothing in return except a squirt of tobacco juice and an occasional grunt, so now there was never any greeting between them, no ceremony at all.
    â€œHow’s it look?” Blanchard asked.
    Clarence spat in contempt. “Like a pile of shit, that’s what. We be lucky to git a hunnert bales put up.”
    The baler was a fifteen-year-old Allis Chalmers that Blanchard had picked up at a farm auction soon after he had bought the ranch. It broke down often and the bales it made were small and light, bound with twine that tended to snap or come loose. Clarence seemed to consider the machine, like most of Blanchard’s equipment, a personal affront.
    â€œEverybody else, they goin’ to big bales,” he groused. “They know ya can’t make it with little old raggy bales like this thing makes.”
    â€œYou buy me a big baler,” Blanchard said, “and we’ll use it.”
    â€œ Me? With what I make? Hell, I can bare afford to eat.”
    â€œSo I’ve heard.”
    â€œYeah, I figger this old contraption be bustin’ down about every tenth bale this year. Old Russell’s crew buckin’ behind us, they be able to pick their noses full time this year.”
    But even as he denigrated the machine, the old man was carefully removing and cleaning the gears in the drive train.Blanchard asked him if he would need help on the baler and Clarence said no, that he could handle it alone. Blanchard told him that he had to go to town that afternoon and that his wife and Whit were going to leave within a few hours for a visit at her father’s in Saint Louis and he’d have to be at the house most of the morning, helping her get off.
    â€œYou gonna be batchin’ it, huh?” Clarence said.
    â€œFor a while.”
    â€œThat why you slep’ on the porch? Sorta gettin’ in practice?”
    Blanchard ignored the inquiry. “So I’ll just check the herd and feed the yearlings,” he said. “If you need me for anything, give a call.”
    Clarence wagged his head in consternation. “I jist didn’t figger it was that hot last night, I mean to sleep outside like you done.”
    Blanchard smiled. “You’re getting nosy in your old age, Clarence,” he said.
    The old man bristled. “What in hell you mean, nosy? I jist seen ya on yer porch when I come in, and I figured you was hot, that’s all.”
    â€œSure you did.”
    â€œWell, I did, goddamnit!”
    Blanchard knew he had him going for a change, and he liked the feeling. “That’s what I said.”
    â€œBut it ain’t what you mean!”
    Blanchard started out of the barn. “Remember, just call if you need any help,” he said again, as the baler’s steel shell rang out behind him. He did not stop, however, for it was a sound he was used to, Clarence kicking out at a stubborn, stupid world.
    It took him almost an hour to check the cattle in the various pastures. When he was finished, he loaded a dozen sacks ofwheat-base feed into the pickup and drove out to the dilapidated corral in the corner of the north field, where he unloaded and ripped the bags, pouring them into the feedbunks there before letting in the eager yearlings, all seventy of them. Normally a rancher like himself would have sold these steers and heifers at weaning the previous fall, but cattle prices had been so poor then that he had gambled on wintering them and selling at improved prices this