OCR Text |
Show Chick Sales 7 is whorled in wild peaks of brown and white; i t s eyes are rimmed in red. I t moves slowly out of the pen, appraising the competition with a snort. When a departing family had suggested a trade--their Hereford for his t r a i l e r , Alf had seen the dollar signs but not the bull's confirmation, the short neck, the lineback. When Alf couldn't breed the bull, he tried to fatten i t on hopes. The time had come to sell. "Let's go, son. Keep your distance, and poke him hard when he goes in the wrong direction." Autumn tints the late November air as the three of them edge along the railroad track. Not one Nevada Northern box car rumbles past. No demand for copper. No buyers. Alfred and Herman sidestep the random foliage, too spare to give i t s leaves away to any season. The bull tramples whatever stands in i t s path until they reach a d i r t road. "Good day, Ma'am." Alfred tips his hat as a she in a skirt swishes by The she smiles, turns her head away and passes. "Herman," Alf says within her hearing, "I must teach you the rest of 'Thanatopsis.' " Herman is calculating how much money he will need to buy the washing machine that his mother keeps wishing for, the one on page 12 of his father's old catalogues. If only he could sell papers with his brother Jack. "Herman," Alf snaps his fingers, "you're wandering all over the road. Mind what you are doing." |