Free Dust by Arthur G. Slade Page B

coming out here so much now. She had forgiven and forgotten all her brother's sins. She was not as ... what was the word? Judgmental. She didn't sit in judgment as often as before.
    "We'd better lock the chickens up," Uncle Alden said. He was thin as a straight line, striding toward the barn. Robert followed. They chased chickens into the coop, running half stooped, stretching their arms out near the ground as though they were pretending to be airplanes.
    "One year I was too slow," his uncle said, hooking the latch on the coop door, "didn't get them all, and the brainless birds couldn't find cover. They were flattened dead as doornails by hail. Every bone in their bodies broken. Couldn't even make soup out of them. So I rolled them up and sold them as doormats." He paused. "Ha! Just kidding you, Robert."
    Robert laughed out loud. He bent over, held his breath, and nearly broke into a fit of giggles. It had been a long time since he'd laughed like that.
    Next Robert and Uncle Alden walked out to the pasture. His uncle's herd was small: ten cows, four calves, three steers, and one old Hereford bull named Mino. "I'll head the rotters this way and you steer 'em to the gate." His uncle clapped his hands together. "Steer 'em! Get that? It's a pun. Those are steers and you're going to ..."
    Robert gave him a blank look.
    "Oh, never mind," his uncle huffed. He jogged to the far end of the pasture, his cowboy boots barely touching the ground. Robert grinned at the sight of his uncle's gawky running. Careful, he wanted to yell, your legs might come flying off. Just like a grasshopper's.
    Steer the steers ... "Wait," he said, "I get it." But Uncle Alden was out of earshot.
    He examined the hills above him. His uncle had said the ice age formed those hills; there were indented rings where the ice had retreated, season by season. He imagined ice grinding everything flat across the land, pushing people ahead of it, south to America.
    The world was like a big clock, every day a second of time, every year a minute. His life was a blink in the passing of all that time. Perhaps one day the ice would return. He pictured it. Nothing but ice. Horshoe covered in ice. The roads, the fields all ice, packing everything flat. Like a huge, cold hand pressing down on the earth.
    "Hey, Don Quixote," Uncle Alden yelled, "it would be helpful if you got behind the cows instead of standing around in the middle of the pasture."
    Robert shook his head, mumbled, "Sorry," then circled into position. Why was his uncle calling him Don Coyote?
    The pasture narrowed into an alleyway that led to the barn, a long, rectangular building with an aging roof. He wondered if the hail would strafe it like the bullets of a war plane.
    When they guided the animals into the barn, the old bull was at the end of the line. He shook his shoulders and belly as though he were trying to drive off an army of flies. He slammed his horns against the gate and attempted to turn around but the alley wasn't wide enough. Uncle Alden grabbed the bull's tail and twisted. "Hyaa!" The bull then smacked the fence with his massive shoulder and two posts broke, giving him room to turn. He faced them, snorting.
    He'd always been a friendly bull, shuffling around the pasture. Robert had even petted him before. But now the bull's eyes were wild, as though the Devil were riding him. The bull dug in his feet, bawled once, and charged ahead, knocking Uncle Alden to the ground.
    He lay still. Robert ran to his side, worried that he'd been badly hurt.
    His uncle smiled. "Please excuse me whilst I swear," he said. "Damn. Damn! Damn bull!" he ranted as he struggled to his feet, wiping off his shirt. "Close the barn door and let him stay out. He can shelter by the tree, if he thinks of it. His head is thick enough he should be safe, in any case. Speaking of shelter, we'd better get home."
    They jogged out of the barnyard. Wind hissed between the shingles, making boards rattle, saying Hello, I'm here, guess