Lifting his feet up onto the couch he lay back with his head on a pillow. Then he turned on his side to look out the window at the pasture.
There, as big as life, stood his horse, cropping weeds. And, beyond the horse, he saw one of the sheep. Near the sheep lay a small dark shape that occasionally stirred. My god, he thought. A lamb. That ewe’s had a lamb. He tried to make out the other sheep, to see if they had had their lambs, too. But he could see only this one. It looked to be Alice, the oldest of the three. That’s a fine old ewe, he thought to himself, watching her. Almost eight years old, and wise as hell. Smarter than some humans.
He watched another ewe approach her, and her lamb amble toward it. The other ewe butted the lamb back to its own mother, and that gave him a charge. You’d think a blow like that would break it in half, he thought. But it doesn’t. She has to butt it; needs her own milk for her own lambs.
Big wise old black-faced sheep … he recalled the girls feeding Alice by hand, the great tranquil, intelligent face as the ewe bent to push its muzzle against their flat palms. Don’t curl your fingers, he told them. Like when you feed the horse… don’t stick up anything for her to nip off. They really have strength in those jaws … grind the grass, like rotary blades. Bone roto-tillers, and good for a hell of a lot longer than that monkey ward’s piece of tin.
He thought suddenly, Of course, when she gets to the hospital and finds me gone she could call Anteil and send him right over here. That would be approximately one o’clock. So maybe I don’t have so much time after all.
Getting up from the couch he stood for a moment. God, I’m weak, he thought. Wow. Unsteadily, he walked from the living room into the bathroom. There, with the door shut, he opened his parcel. He seated himself on the toilet seat and loaded the gun.
Carrying the gun in the pocket of his coat he went outdoors, onto the patio. The day had become warm, and the sun made him feel stronger. He walked to the fence, opened the gate, and stepped out onto the pasture.
The horse, seeing him, started in his direction.
Thinks I have something for him to eat, he thought. Sugar cube. The horse picked up speed,jogging toward him and blowing excitedly.
Oh dear god, he thought as the horse stopped a few feet away from him, eyeing him. How can I? The fucking horse; if they’re so smart, why doesn’t it run off? He got out the revolver and released the safety catch. Better the horse first, he decided. Lifting the revolver –his hand was shaking wildly– he aimed at the horse’s head and compressed the trigger. There was no recoil, but the sound made him tremble. The horse shook its head, pawed, and then turned and galloped off. I missed him, he thought. I fired right at him and missed him. But the horse suddenly fell forward as it ran; it pitched over, trumbled, and lay on its side, with its legs twitching. The horse screamed. Charley stood where he was, looking at it. Then he shot it again, from a distance. The horse continued to kick, and he started toward it, to fire again at close range. But by the time he reached it, it had stopped kicking. It was still alive; he could tell by its eyes. But it was dying. Blood ran down its head, from the wound in its skull.
In the pasture the three ewes watched.
He walked toward the first one. For a while it did not budge; he had gotten almost up to it before –as always– it ducked its head and began trotting off, its wide sides sticking out like packs. This one had not had its lambs. He raised the pistol and shot at it. The ewe bucked and picked up speed. It turned slightly to one side, erratically; catching sight of its head, he shot at that. The sheep fell head over heels, its legs flopping.
With less trouble he approached the second ewe. She had been lying down, and as he reached her she scrambled to her feet. He managed to shoot her before she had gotten entirely up; her weight, the weight of unborn lambs, held her back.
Now he had the trouble of the oldest ewe, with her lamb. He knew that she would not run because she was accustomed to having him approach her. He walked toward her, and she did not stir. She kept her eyes fixed on him. When he was still a few yards off she bleated loudly. The lamb let out its thin, metallic cry. What about the lamb? he asked himself. He hadn’t considered that. Well, it has to be included, he decided. Even though I never saw it before. It’s as much mine as any of them. He raised the revolver and shot at the ewe, but by now he had run out of bullets. The hammer only clicked.
Standing there, he reloaded the revolver. Far off, the eucalpytus trees stirred with the mid day wind. The ewe and lamb watched him and waited as he finished loading the gun and put the box of bullets away. Then he took aim and shot the ewe. It sank down on its knees and keeled over. At once he shot the lamb, before it could start making any racket. Like its mother it died soundlessly, and that made him feel better. He walked slowly back toward the house, conserving his strength. On the pasture, nothing stood upright; no shapes of cropping animals. He had swept it clean.
Where, he wondered, was the dog? Had she taken it with her? That made him angry. He passed through the house and out onto the front porch. Sometimes the dog spent its time down the street or across the street. Using the dog-whistle on his key chain he called it. Finally a muffled bark sounded somewhere in the house. She had shut the dog in, probably in one of the bathrooms.
Sure enough, he found the collie standing in the guest bathroom, wagging its tail happily to see him.
He led the dog outdoors onto the patio and shot it by putting the muzzle of the gun against its ear. The dog let out a screech, like a mechanical brake, so high-pitched that he scarcely could hear it. It leaped up and spun and fell down, scrabbling.
Next he walked down to the duck pen.
While he was busy shooting the ducks through the wire mesh he thought, Won’t somebody hear all the gunshots and call Sheriff Chisholm? No, he decided. There’s always hunters this time of year, bagging quail or rabbits or deer — whatever’s in season.
Having finished with the ducks he searched about for the chickens. The flock had gone off somewhere and he saw no sign of it. Damn them, he thought. He called them, using the sound that he and Fay made at feeding time, but no chickens appeared. Once, he thought he saw a red tail moving in the cypress thickets … possibly the chickens had gone up into the cypress trees and had roosted there, watching him. No doubt the noise of the shooting had sent them packing. Bantams, he thought. So damn crafty.
There was nothing left to shoot, so he returned to the house.
The business of shooting the animals had put him in a state of exhaustion. As soon as he had gotten into the house he shed his coat, threw the gun down, dropped down onto the couch, and lay on his back with his eyes shut. His heart surely was going to stop working entirely; he could feel it preparing to cease beating. God damn it, he prayed. Keep going, you motherfucker.
After a time he felt better. But he did not move; he continued to lie dormant, conserving himself.
Maybe two hours, he thought. By then I’ll either be dead or strong enough to get back on my feet.
From outdoors, beyond the patio, he heard a sound suggesting that one of the animals was not entirely dead. He heard whimpers, but although he listened, he could not make out which animal it was. Probably the horse, he concluded. Should he go out and shoot it again? Of course. But could he? No, he decided. I can’t. I’d fall over dead either going or coming. It’ll have to die by itself.
He lay on the couch, listening to the faint sounds of the animal out on the pasture dying, and meanwhile trying not to die himself.
All at once the noise of a car engine woke him.
He slid his feet to the floor and arose, his heart pounding. He reached around him for the gun and could not find it.