ceased to live among them. Only Karla knew it, and even Karla just suspected it. She couldn’t know it for sure, because he himself had just come to realize it within the last few minutes. Walking away was exactly what he had intended to do, but the intention had been so well submerged inside him, deep in his feelings, that he hadn’t realized it was there until, in the quiet of the cabin, it had suddenly surfaced, and surfaced powerfully, like a whale rising.
Then the sun vanished—the clouds from the northwest had just arrived. The little cabin was not well insulated. In a few minutes Duane felt the temperature begin to drop. He put on his coat and picked up the axe.
“Come on, Shorty, let’s go cut some firewood,” he said. “You and me had better get to work.”
Shorty, excited to be going somewhere with Duane, his favorite person, briskly led the way to the thicket of mesquite, on the slope of the hill to the south.
13
“W E AIN’T AS WELL EQUIPPED AS I THOUGHT , Shorty,” Duane said, an hour later. Despite the plummeting temperature he had worked up a good sweat cutting the abundant mesquite limbs into fireplace-size chunks. He had a respectable pile of nice burnable mesquite, but the cabin was two hundred yards away and he had no way to transport the firewood to the cabin except in his arms.
“We need a good wheelbarrow, or maybe a wagon,” he said to the dog, who was watching a hawk circle low over the hill, hoping to surprise a quail or a small rabbit or even a good-sized rat—there were plenty of rats living under the vast archipelagos of prickly pear which dotted the plain to the south. Shorty knew he couldn’t get the hawk but kept an eye on it anyway.
“Maybe I could fix up a travois—make you a sled dog,” Duane said, but, for the moment, Duane filled his arms with as much mesquite as he could carry and walked to the cabin. He came back and got three more loads before he had a pile of firewood that satisfied him. With a wheelbarrow or a small wagon he could have moved as much in one trip. It was mildly aggravating to realize how many basic tools it took just to enable one man to live a simple life.
Then he went back six more times to the woodpile he had created at the edge of the thicket. He decided his reflection about tools had been incorrect. It had been based on thepremise that there was some kind of hurry, and that convenience, not simplicity, was the basic, prime good in life. He was so used to that way of thinking, had proceeded on that premise for so long, that he had to twist himself around mentally in order to see that it didn’t have to be that way. A huge abundance of firewood was only a short walk away. In an hour or less, each day, he could carry more than he could possibly burn. In a week of steady work, even without a wagon or a wheelbarrow, he could have firewood stacked almost to the roof of his cabin. There was no reason to hurry about it, or to spend money on tools, when the one tool he really needed—his axe—he already had. The one thing he needed to get, next time he was home, was a file, so he could sharpen the axe.
“An axe don’t stay sharp forever,” he said to the dog, who decided he was being told to get those ground squirrels. Shorty went flashing off. He was so happy that Duane hadn’t put him in the pickup and taken him back to Juan, Jesus, and Rafael that he couldn’t refrain from frisking as he went about his duties—or what he supposed to be his duties.
The hawk that had been hunting near the mesquite thicket had been joined by its mate. Just as Duane was stacking his last armload of firewood the two hawks sailed by him and dipped off the edge of the hill. He looked down on their backs as they rode the wind and scanned the valley below.
The only paper in the cabin was a little notepad that dated from the year the cabin had been built. In the first months he had occasionally had two or three of his fishing buddies in—once or twice they
Then the sun vanished—the clouds from the northwest had just arrived. The little cabin was not well insulated. In a few minutes Duane felt the temperature begin to drop. He put on his coat and picked up the axe.
“Come on, Shorty, let’s go cut some firewood,” he said. “You and me had better get to work.”
Shorty, excited to be going somewhere with Duane, his favorite person, briskly led the way to the thicket of mesquite, on the slope of the hill to the south.
13
“W E AIN’T AS WELL EQUIPPED AS I THOUGHT , Shorty,” Duane said, an hour later. Despite the plummeting temperature he had worked up a good sweat cutting the abundant mesquite limbs into fireplace-size chunks. He had a respectable pile of nice burnable mesquite, but the cabin was two hundred yards away and he had no way to transport the firewood to the cabin except in his arms.
“We need a good wheelbarrow, or maybe a wagon,” he said to the dog, who was watching a hawk circle low over the hill, hoping to surprise a quail or a small rabbit or even a good-sized rat—there were plenty of rats living under the vast archipelagos of prickly pear which dotted the plain to the south. Shorty knew he couldn’t get the hawk but kept an eye on it anyway.
“Maybe I could fix up a travois—make you a sled dog,” Duane said, but, for the moment, Duane filled his arms with as much mesquite as he could carry and walked to the cabin. He came back and got three more loads before he had a pile of firewood that satisfied him. With a wheelbarrow or a small wagon he could have moved as much in one trip. It was mildly aggravating to realize how many basic tools it took just to enable one man to live a simple life.
Then he went back six more times to the woodpile he had created at the edge of the thicket. He decided his reflection about tools had been incorrect. It had been based on thepremise that there was some kind of hurry, and that convenience, not simplicity, was the basic, prime good in life. He was so used to that way of thinking, had proceeded on that premise for so long, that he had to twist himself around mentally in order to see that it didn’t have to be that way. A huge abundance of firewood was only a short walk away. In an hour or less, each day, he could carry more than he could possibly burn. In a week of steady work, even without a wagon or a wheelbarrow, he could have firewood stacked almost to the roof of his cabin. There was no reason to hurry about it, or to spend money on tools, when the one tool he really needed—his axe—he already had. The one thing he needed to get, next time he was home, was a file, so he could sharpen the axe.
“An axe don’t stay sharp forever,” he said to the dog, who decided he was being told to get those ground squirrels. Shorty went flashing off. He was so happy that Duane hadn’t put him in the pickup and taken him back to Juan, Jesus, and Rafael that he couldn’t refrain from frisking as he went about his duties—or what he supposed to be his duties.
The hawk that had been hunting near the mesquite thicket had been joined by its mate. Just as Duane was stacking his last armload of firewood the two hawks sailed by him and dipped off the edge of the hill. He looked down on their backs as they rode the wind and scanned the valley below.
The only paper in the cabin was a little notepad that dated from the year the cabin had been built. In the first months he had occasionally had two or three of his fishing buddies in—once or twice they
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