Track of the Cat - Walter Van Tilburg Clark (18 page)

Grace cried out twice. The cry was shrill and
hawk-like in the silence under the looming, veiled shadow of the
mountain. The burdened horse started at the sound, and began to trot
toward the mouth of the tunnel between the sheds. In the kitchen the
mother moved too, coming slowly, as if in a trance, to the door, and
pressing sideways to get past Gwen. Gwen held her arm with both
hands, pleading, "Please, Mrs. Bridges. Harold said stay here.
We’d better stay here, Mrs. Bridges."

The father came behind them, still asking, "What’s
wrong? What. . ." but then, weaving slightly where he stood, and
peering out between them, squinting against the fumes in his mind and
the gloom outside after the lamp over him, said "It’s Kentuck.
It’s Curt’s horse."

The stallion turned into the tunnel and vanished in
the darkness, and Harold called, "Grace, Grace, wait."

The mother said evenly, "Let me get by, please,"
but when Gwen started to plead again, murmuring, "Harold doesn’t
. . ." said sharply, "Take your hands off me," and
Gwen let go of her and flattened herself back against the doorframe.

"It’s Curt’s horse," the father
mumbled. "Something’s happened to Curt. What was that on him?
Could you see?"

The mother didn’t answer, but stepped down into the
snow and began to walk steadily, with long strides like a man’s
across the yard toward the tunnel. Her arms hung down at her sides,
hardly swinging at all, as if she carried something heavy in each
hand. Ahead of her, Grace disappeared between the sheds, and then
Harold after her.

Gwen hung for a moment in the doorway, but then
glanced at the old man leaning beside her and said, more to herself
than to him, "Oh, she mustn’t," and ran out, calling,
"Mother, Mother," though not loudly, but as if fearing that
unfriendly listeners would hear her. The mother didn’t slow her
walk, or hasten it, or turn.

The father suddenly became afraid, waiting alone in
the doorway.

"They’re crazy," he said quaveringly.
"They’ve all gone plumb crazy."

He stepped down and started across the yard too,
leaving the door open behind him. A first, easy return of the wind
whirled the falling snow around him, and stirred his thin hair. His
shadow went before him in the pale oblong of light that reached out
from the lamp shining in
the empty kitchen.

10

Harold caught up with Grace just inside the mouth of
the tunnel. In the glimmering twilight at the other end, they could
see the big black standing at the corral gate, his back faintly
frosted with snow, and a whiter snow on the bundle that lay across
him. Joe Sam was there too, but standing back away from Kentuck,
against the corral fence, looking at him and not moving. Kentuck was
restless. He turned, trampling the snow at the gate, nickered softly,
and was answered by some horse in the corral.

Harold took Grace’s arm and said, "Don’t go
in there, Grace. Go on back to the house and keep Mother company.
I’l1 see to this."

Grace didn’t answer, but only whimpered like an
animal confused by great fear, and stumbled on toward the corral. He
caught her by the shoulder then, saying, "Grace, listen to me,"
but she wrenched away from him, pushing at him and crying wildly,
"Let me alone, let me a10ne," as if she didn’t know him
and was afraid of him.

He let her go and followed her, not running now, but
only striding quickly. He saw her put her hands on the bundle, not to
do anything, but only to make sure it was real, and heard her cry,
"Oh, it’s Curt," and was a little stung by shame, as if
guilty of the same unkindness, at the relief, almost joy, in her
voice.

"It’s not Arthur, Hal," she cried back at
him. "It’s not Arthur."

"Grace, let him alone," he called sharply,
seeing the black sidle and turn with its head up at the shrill
excitement in her voice. "Get back. You’ll get hurt."

He came up and shouldered her aside, and felt the
stiff body with his own hands, and half guessed the truth as Curt’s
coat sank in about the narrower back. He spoke to Kentuck to quiet
him, a meaningless patter of endearments, and among them said to
Grace, "Is that anything to celebrate? Go on back now. You won’t
do anything here but get in the way."

Grace wouldn’t go, though, but only backed away
toward Joe Sam, to be clear of the nervous stallion, and kept staring
at the bundle on the saddle, while Harold tugged at the frozen knot
in the lariat. She spoke with each out-breath, saying over and over
again, like a meaningless, rote prayer,

"Oh, my God; Oh, my God; Oh, my God," but
still half in relief.

The mother came up then, with Gwen close behind her.
She was breathing steadily, but very deeply, so that each breath was
like a quiet sigh.

"It’s not Arthur, Mother," Grace cried at
her.

The mother didn’t look at her, but said in a deep
voice, almost a man’s, "It’s Arthur, all right.
Be
quiet, will you?"

She came beside Harold’s shoulder, "It’s
Arthur, isn’t it, Harold?"

"No,” Grace cried. "Look at the coat,
Mother. It’s Curt’s red coat."

Harold said, trying to keep the temper out of his
voice,

"I don’t know, Mother. Now go back to the
house, will you, please, and take Grace with you. She frightens the
horse with that squealing. Joe Sam," he said sharply, "hold
the horse."

The old Indian didn’t move or answer, but stayed
there against the fence, watching as if these were the troubles of
people he didn’t know. It was the mother who took the reins, close
to the bit, and when the father came up, and Grace would have cried
out her hope again, said, "Grace, you keep stil1."

The knot gave, and Harold drew the end through, and
pushed at the stiff rope, and at last slipped the coil loose. He drew
the body down carefully, feeling sickness rise as against a stopper
in his throat, when it came stiffly, and keeping the curve the saddle
had given it. Breathing hard, he laid it on its side in the snow. He
saw the beard in the wrapping of the black scarf, and tried to kneel
between Grace and the head, but she saw, or guessed, and pushed past
him, crying, "Oh, oh, oh," and saw clearly the deep caverns
of the eyes, and the narrow nose and bearded cheek. She wailed, so
the others stiffened and held their breath at the sound, and threw
herself down and laid her breast against the rigid shoulder of the
body, creeping against it, her knees working in the snow, as a kitten
or puppy struggles in against the mother to feed. She murmured
Arthur's name again and again, the pent anguish breaking out more
loudly at moments, her cheek against the dead cheek, her hands
playing with aimless fluttering and stroking about the black scarf.

Harold was the first to break out of the trance her
grief made. He knelt beside her and tried gently, speaking her name
gently and repeatedly, to draw her away from the dead man. She
stopped her chattering and wailing then, but only to cling to the
body, trying to burrow into it when he pulled at her.

It was the mother who broke the frenzy, saying in the
deep, man’s voice, "Gwen, hold the horse, will you?" and
when Gwen had taken the reins, coming to the three on the ground and
pulling Grace up fiercely by the shoulder.

"Stop it, you little fool," she said
clearly. "Do you think you can make him hear you by screaming?
Get up."

When Grace still struggled to escape her hand, she
jerked her back onto her knees, and, breathing hard, her eyes staring
wide, struck her across the face, once on each cheek, not even
hearing Harold’s quick protest. Grace went limp and, still
kneeling, buried her stung face in her hands and began to weep aloud.

The mother straightened up, lifting her chin a
little, and took a deep quivering breath. "Pa,"
she
said, "take her in now, will you? She only makes it worse."

The old man was standing there, staring down at
Arthur, his mouth working soundlessly under the big moustache, and he
didn’t tum to her or make any reply.

"Has everybody lost their wits?" the mother
asked. "Gwen, you seem to have some sense still. Take her back
to the house, will you, and keep her there. Joe Sam, unsaddle Kentuck
and turn him in and give him some hay."

The old Indian came forward slowly and stiflly, and
took the reins. Gwen and Harold lifted Grace to her feet. Her grief
broke out more loudly for a moment, but she didn’t resist them.
Gwen put an arm around her, holding her closely, and began to lead
her along the tunnel toward the yard, speaking to her softly as they
went, trying to reach her mind with words that might have been used
to a frightened child. She had to stop when Grace’s knees weakened
and gave, and hold her up until she could move ahead again herself.

"Harold," the mother said, "help Joe
Sam. He don’t know what he’s doing."

He turned to her. "Mother, you go in too,
please."

"What help would you have out of these two,
walking in their sleep?" the mother said. "Turn the horse
in." Harold would have replied, but was cut off by Grace’s
voice suddenly screaming, so the big stallion swerved away again,

"No, let go of me, let go of me," and
Gwen’s voice, low and pleading, broken by her struggles.

Then the mother called, still in the hollow voice
that had power, but no life, "I’m coming, Gwen," and said
to Harold, "I’1l go in with them, I guess. Grace is too much
for her alone. I’ll fix the bed for him. Make Joe Sam help you."

She turned, saying, "Come, Pa," to the old
man, and taking hold of his elbow.

"Eh! What?" the old man asked.

"Come on in. You’ll catch your death of cold
out here."

"Yes, yes, I’m coming. It’s getting dark
anyway, and there’s nothing I can do out here. Do you need any
help, son?"

"No, we’ll manage all right," Harold
said.

"Wel1, I’ll go in then. If there’s nothing I
can do out here, I might as well go in. Get out of the way, at
least."

After a few steps, following the mother, he stopped
and turned back. "Why didn’t Curt come?" he asked
plaintively.

"It’s getting late and it’s snowing."

Curt can take care of himself, Dad. Don’t worry
about Curt."

"Of course," the old man said, nodding.
"Curt can take care of himself. Curt won’t make a fool of
himself."

He nodded slowly, as if he had summed the situation
up and was leaving it in good order, and turned and went on after the
women. They were going out into the yard now, Grace bowed between the
other two, half carried in their arms.

Harold looked after them, the three women together
ahead and the old man following them, asleep in his mind, all going
toward the open door of the house, with the lamp showing white
inside, like a big star, and its faded light reaching toward them in
a path. He felt the snow coming down on him softly, beating against
him with gentle tappings when the night breathed, and looked down at
Arthur’s long, narrow body lying on its side, curved and dark on
the snow, with the new snow gathering along it as it would along the
top rail of a fence. Then, for a few seconds, the dusk seemed to him
sadly and enormously charged with meaning.

The impression passed, though, without leaving
anything clear for his mind to keep, except that he was a little
eased by the bigness of the moment, and he turned to Joe Sam and
Kentuck.

The old Indian was holding the reins, but doing
nothing else. The saddle was still on, and the tangled rope still
hung from it, dragging on the snow. Harold coiled the rope and tied
it onto the saddle and took the saddle off, and slung it upside down
against the wall of the tunnel, with the blanket over it.

"Let the bars down, Joe Sam," he said,
taking the reins.

Slowly, and as if they were very heavy, Joe Sam slid
back the three poles of the gate and let their ends down to make a
narrow opening. Harold led Kentuck through, and took off his bridle,
and was about to come back out, when he saw the two pale horses among
the dark ones against the fence on the other side. He went across
toward them until he was sure what they were, seeing the dark mane
and tail of his own buckskin, Kit, and the near whiteness of the
other horse.

It’s his, all right, he thought, and turned and
came back out and set the bars into their slots again. He dropped the
bridle over the saddle and blanket, and returned to the gate, where 
Joe Sam was standing. It was almost dark now, so there wasn’t much
difference when he came out from under the roof of the tunnel. Joe
Sam’s face was only a darkness against the high, gray post of the
gate.

"When did the Smudge come in?" Harold asked
him.

Joe Sam didn’t move or answer him.

"Joe Sam," he said sharply.

After a moment he thought the dark face was turned
toward him.

"Did you see the little gray mare come in?
Arthur’s?"

Joe Sam was a long time answering, but finally said,
“Me feed."

"That’s good," Harold said. “When did
he come in? What time?"

"L0ng time," Joe Sam said. “Not dark.
Arthur’s horse. Feed."