A Season of Fire and Ice

by Lloyd Zimpel

  Schwantz turned and walked to the back of his store, where he was only a shadow in the small light. Harris fixed the redhead with a stare and, with the big man smirking after him, walked without haste through the misaligned screen door: it had been askew like this since he was a small boy and been handed once a year, perhaps, a penny candy from a much happier Schwantz.

  Amidst the sunflower stalks, his ragged bay waited as patiently as ever. Beside it, Harris stood for a time, looking into the dark, stroking his animal’s nose and remembering the old man’s mealy-mouthed advice for solving youthful indecision: In for a penny, in for a pound. Then he slipped his rifle free of its strap on the saddle, stepped quickly to the front of the Mercantile, and without aiming fired one shot from his hip through the screen door; then, more quickly yet, he pushed back through the sunflower stalks to his animal and rode briskly south, the night becoming starrier and brighter as he went.

  HE WASN’T SURE he was awake. In his window it was bright and dark all at once, a jumble of shadow and lightning. But no thunder. Perhaps the sound of a strong breeze.

  He jammed his legs into trousers, pulling on a coat as he ran out, drew up short, the warmth hitting him; his barn wholly packaged in flame; and there was no thinking any one thing first—all that hay gone—what was in there? The mare he had swapped for—all that hay. Jesus Christ! All that hay!

  It was far gone already. He saw that at once. Too far gone for anything to be done. The water trough was hardly three rods from the flames but might as well have been a mile for all the good a puny few buckets of water could do now. He didn’t have a chance to do a Goddamned thing, the barn half gone before he knew it was afire. The dogs? Not a peep from them—and they should have torn the bastard apart.

  And now he saw why they had not; running to the west side of the flames, he stumbled, almost fell, over what was left of the bitch. On his knees he took up her head and in the wild light saw her jaw agape, lips drawn back, tongue aflop. He had seen many a coyote carcass looking just the same after a good dose of strychnine. . . . Schneider’s strychnine, always, Schneider being the only one hereabouts who fancied that particular dope—but surely it wasn’t Schneider—and why would she ever take it? He thought of the pups she carried—some of them promised and traded for—and smelled fish on her face.

  And nothing he could do. Heated by the flames, he ran back to the porch, grabbed his rifle, and fired three shots into the air, knowing as he did so that this alarm might have effect in daylight prairie blazes, but now the few people who might hear it were asleep. . . . His thoughts were all ascatter. God Almighty, all that hay, and that lame mare, tied in there to get her off her bad leg for a time. No animal movement in the flicker-lit yard, the yearlings and his big Percherons and the milkers having rushed to the far limits of their pasture; he hoped not beyond, panicked into tearing through the feeble excuse for a fence he had strung up back there.

  With the useless rifle in one hand, he ran round to the east of the barn. The burning alfalfa sent wafts of scent almost like the crushed herbs the Widow sometimes brewed into a suffusion she claimed was healthy. . . . All that good alfalfa . . .

  And there lay the black hound; and the smartest dog he had ever had smelled of fish too. It was beyond belief.

  His losses racked themselves up in his head. All that alfalfa, and timothy and swamp hay, that was all gone, his dogs poisoned, and the pups done in, the four he had promised to Johansen for the ragged little team of sorrels; and now the mare, in the barn, gone, burned up, God Almighty; her partner way off with the rest of the cattle, he hoped; but if not—

  Behind him, roused by the flames, a rooster crowed, and in the hen house, cackling started up. He should have had geese, like the Widow, or guinea hens, full of warnings day or night.

  Before the fiery stump of his barn, a high spurt of flame darted out suddenly and then died down to a glow, the whole furious mass of it higher than Beidermann’s head, but crumbling here and there to waist level, with a shower of sparks.

  Sparks; he remembered the gusts of sparks when his old man’s barn had burned—less a barn than a shed, a lean-to, really, barely sheltering the pair of cross-eyed, ugly-tempered black mules through the grim winters just short of the Canadian line. How that meager structure had ever caught fire and burned as fiercely as it did was a mystery to Beidermann, who at age twelve had watched in awe and delight as it went up. Well, he knew more than one affronted neighbor had reason to want prickly old Adolf Beidermann’s holdings to suffer, Leo himself entertaining occasions when he longed for the old man to kick the bucket, most determinedly when his pa had nixed the free pup old Vogelsang wanted to give Leo, claiming his damn kid was too lazy to take care of it, when all along it was Leo who fed and wormed and brushed the gaunt pair of killers the old man called his own but never took out unless some crony came around with a jug, wanting some company for a drunken chase. He was a little over fourteen when he got himself up and went south, and with two years gone since the lean-to burned, the author of the deed never uncovered, for all the old man’s armed forages and ranting accusations, the mules now huddled beside the tiny haystack, tails to the winter wind.

  Some green timber in his barn had life left, and popped like rifle fire; burning bits tipped down into the huge mound of burned-over hay, which looked like nothing so much as glowing dust. . . .That was his hay. And in December, when his animals breasted the drifted snows in the yard to reach the hay he threw down, then what would he throw to them? A small glimmer of possibility—the heavy growth surrounding the swamp, sawgrass to make a heifer’s mouth bleed, but some nourishment in it. With a scythe he might get a couple of loads—but he needed fifty, or more.

  Behind him the young sow and her pigs, the progeny of Praeger’s big red boar, stirred uneasily in the flickering light, the sow grunting with such primeval heaviness that the sound seemed to come from underground, and kept her family calm.

  He looked east, calculating the time. The glow from the barn having faded, the washed bluish-milk hue of the dawn showed over the even lay of the land, an autumnal sky promising a cold day and morning dew to settle the last embers of his hay. The last, he thought, the last. . . .

  Before it got so light that he could not avoid facing the crueler details of his job, he got the spade from where it rested against the hayrack, its handle still warm, and halfway between the granary and his outhouse, where the chickens had located their favorite dust bath and the soil was soft, he dug a grave for his two dogs, and laying them in side by side, he filled in the hole with care, saving the driest, softest earth for last, so the chickens would still have their place.

  Catastrophe for Beidermann, and Others

  1887

  OCT. 30. In this ledger I have recorded more than once, as they occur, both salubrious days and insalubrious ones; and surely there is little in the date set down above to qualify it as one of the former; and no one in my family so unfortunate as to witness the calamitous early forenoon visit of our neighbor—once our good neighbor, although few here now would assign him that benign standing; surely no one with the surname of Praeger—who will not say that this common observation shines with the clarity of a solemn and dreadful truth, indeed.

  And yet, however manifest that truth, it presents difficulty for me to set down on this page what turmoil and suspenseful anxiety our day has been thrown into—and the Good Lord only knows how many days and nights to come, likewise—by our visit from the fractious Mister Beidermann, with his bold impeachment of the Praeger name.

  Even as I sit here, these hours later, thinking a clear and straight thought is not easy. For who among us has heard such foul charges from the mouth of a once civil man; indeed one, who by his own bedstead keeps a copy of the Christian Bible: I have seen it there. And yet this man, a man of some probity I once thought, whom we called neighbor, even friend, now heaps upon us like piles of manure, imprecations and accusations we can scarcely comprehend; he foams like a mad dog. But in all the roar of hi
s fury and gesticulation atop his unfamiliar sorrel colt upon which he rides up, there is no doubt who has roused his agitation to such a level: it is Harris. Harris has undone him; but it is a while before the meaning of his charges unfolds, as he catches his thoughts together, in a way less excited individuals can comprehend.

  Before then, as he comes through dust up the road, Otto spots him soon enough, saying: There is a colt we have not seen before. We will learn its history, as the twins race up to grab its bridle, one of them saying: This is Johansen’s pony, one of them!

  Beidermann swings off the saddle, and utters the last civil words we shall hear from his mouth, as he tells the twins: Yes, I got the pair of them off Bud. You lads should of been there: we made some swap: that ragged pair of ponies for four pups off that litter from my bitch.

  Beidermann looks down at them, their eyes glittering, and he says: Eight, ten days, they are due. Bud gets the pick. . . . That is, he would of . . . And he grows ominously silent, glaring at us all.

  The twins draw surprised faces: those high-bred hounds with their Canadian pedigree he values so dear—it seems like the un-impressive colt and his mate are no prizes, no doubt, but they say nothing.

  Cornelius, however, does speak out, laughing: Four little pups for a team? And who agreed to that deal, sober?

  I would think that by now Cornelius, and all my boys, would have learned better than to scoff at Beidermann; but no. And across the nose of his sweaty, shabby recent acquisition, Beidermann leans into Cornelius’ face, saying: Which one are you? August? Naw, August has some sense. So you think Bud got cheated, eh? I got him drunk and f--ked him out of his horses, eh?

  Now he is straight into Cornelius’ face, spitting into the boy’s eye with the violence of his speech: One of those pups, sir, is worth any f--king horse you ever rode, sir! And two of those pups, dead, are worth any one of you, you Praegers!

  Otto raises an unavailing hand, bemused.

  Beidermann swings his arms to take in everyone in the whole section, yelling: And my hay! What is that worth? I tell you what it is worth—it is worth every c-k-r in this whole f--king Praeger clan! Every f--king one, I tell you!

  We stand aghast, to a man, audience to such filth, and why: Beidermann has his quirks, yes, but what is this?

  And, he answers that question, at last, in his own perverse way: Where is Harris? he cries. Where is he? that mis-marked bastard son of yours?

  He is spouting spittle and foam, like some virulent dog guarding the River Styx, barking and snarling.

  Where is he? I mean to have a word with him, old man. Where is that s--t-pants Praeger who poisons my dogs and burns my barn? Where is he?

  We can only stand astonished; that from out of his vile onslaught comes such a fairy-tale accusation: in this fulsome rant, an especially execrable nugget! And he connects Harris to this? This crime he shouts out at us?

  From the porch, having heard a little of Beidermann’s offensive discourse—surely not all or she would have fled into the house, hands over her ears—Ma comes halfway down the steps, speaking up: You ask after Harris, then? Well, he is not here, and he has not been here since first thing yesterday. So you are wasting your time with your loud talk, Leo.

  I think not, says Beidermann. I have some regard for your brain, Missus, for although you married a Praeger you are saved from being born one; but you may not know the ugly workings of your boy’s mind as well as I do—and surely not as well as my dogs do, poisoned by his hand; or the lame mate to this colt here, cooked up like a damn chunk of mutton by that coward with his matches and kerosene—you can still smell it. Come on over and get yourselves a sniff. You can smell the rotten fish he used on my dogs too. Come on, old man, hitch up that fancy buggy and come take a look at a masterpiece the Praeger family has produced; bring the missus, bring the whole damn tribe!

  Otto cries out: Beidermann, you get yourself off this land now! You come here accusing—

  Beidermann is louder still: I am not accusing, my fat friend, I am stating the truth. My dogs are dead of poison, my barn is burned, nothing left of it stands higher than that pus-gut of yours. And so I have no hay for the winter—ah, perhaps I can keep alive on one milker with what I can scrape up. He waited until I had it all in, to make a better fire, eh? Now, let me ask you this, since I cannot ask your fine brother Harris: Will you haul a few dozen loads of hay over to my place before it snows? Are you going to furnish enough fodder to get a hundred and twenty head through until spring? What are they going to eat, eh? Out on the range? One good storm and they cannot get through the snow to whatever old grass is underneath. My horses might, but not them cows. A couple of storms and half of them will be froze to the ground like marble statues. . . . Hah, but what I might do—yes, I think I will—is drive every damn one of them over here, right here in your yard, and then if you do not fancy feeding them, let them freeze their damn muzzles to your porch step instead of mine; and the Praeger family can get out their shovels and bury the stinking mess, eh? Hey? And I will bet a dollar you can make some good money even out of that, eh, old man? Skin them all and sell their hides and bones for a nice price—hell, you will probably sell some of it back to me—and raise enough money to buy me out, eh? If I am still alive then, living off the flesh of my butchered horses.

  But how are we, how is anyone, to bear such pained discourse?

  Beidermann, I say to him: Beidermann, here, here—

  The twins are nearly in tears, and turn their faces aside, as they still hold the colt’s bridle: they know well Beidermann’s hounds; and when he built his barn they helped him shave the poles for it, and more.

  Ma has come closer, her ears still uncovered, and says: We are very sorry for what you tell us. It is a terrible thing. But Harris is not here: I can tell you only that . . . and that no boy of ours was raised to . . . poison dogs . . . or burn down a man’s barn—

  Out of Beidermann’s throat comes a coarse explosion, perhaps a laugh. Yaas, Missus, he says: And when I ride out of here I am going to visit all the mothers who did raise their boys to poison dogs and burn down barns—.

  I hold up my hand: Mr. Beidermann, sir, you have had a history of disputes with Harris; it has been rocky between you, I know; and now this misfortune of yours—

  Misfortune! bellows Beidermann like a madman. You think I stubbed my toe? For Christ’s sake, my barn is gone, my dogs are dead—not just dead, poisoned, old man, by one of your kin—.

  Ma has untied her apron and waves it now like a flag of truce. Leo, she says: this is a terrible thing you have suffered, terrible. Yes, we will help you, surely. But Harris is not here, and has not been for two days.

  She looks at me, and at the ground, and quietly says: I want to know where he is too.

  Well, says Beidermann, that makes three of us: you, me and Pfeiffer. But his tone has moderated somewhat; he is running out of his steam of fury; as indeed, no man could sustain it for long, and his heart not burst.

  He turns back to his horse, takes the reins from the twins, and with a cruel grimace, says: I have a neighborly invitation for you all: come visit and see the remains of my barn, and where my dogs are buried. Without waiting for a reply, he hoists himself into the saddle.

  Leo! calls Ma, fluttering her apron as he turns the colt. Would you take a chicken with you, then? The boys can dress it in a minute.

  But for the twins I am closest to Beidermann, and I see across his face a panoply of expression, and perhaps a strangled smile, as his colt dances sideways.

  No, ma’am, says he: it was not my chickens that burned.

  And then he goes. . . . And leaves us all in a bog of dread wonder and suspicions beyond number and the feel of ruin. . . .

  I have not heart enough to write more tonight. . . . And where is Harris?

  NOV. 1. If we are to receive a caller this frosty morning, and it is other than Emil Pfeiffer, then someone has tinkered with the way matters work hereabouts, in circumstances where accusations may be flung about, reg
ardless.

  He comes up, his furry mittens holding the reins to as neat a pair of gray fillies as a man would hope to see, pulling his triple-shellacked buggy; the whole of it is more than any of us without a government salary can honestly aspire to; all full of how-de-do as he draws this handsome equipage to a stop amongst our uneasy dogs at the porch steps.

  Going out, I reach for a thick coat. Well, Emil, say I, this is an early visit.

  Yes, yes, yes, it is, he calls out, staying put on his slick-varnished bench. Cold as a witch’s tit, aint it?

  He wears some sort of wolf-furred collared overcoat, its hide seeming a half-inch thick. By God! I like to froze. And it aint even snowed yet, either.

  True, true, say I. The steam of our breath, and the huffs of his team send up vaporous clouds all around. In the road the mud is frozen into twisted ruts, providing our visitor with a most rolypoly approach, for all his well-sprung vehicle; but nothing subtracts from his lawman-like demeanor, which perhaps he has learned from magazine pictures—formal, upright, stern of visage—yet, by nature, puny and stoop-shouldered; and if he sees himself as a hero of justice, there are more than a few who see him as a horse’s ass.

  For all the chill, Ma, who has been whipping eggs at the stove, comes out in her shirt; whether to have some word on the desperate matter that has kept her without sleep, or to invite our chilled visitor in for breakfast, I cannot say. Cornelius comes forth too, twisting suspenders over the shoulders of his underwear sleeves, and to Otto, just behind him, he says: I be damned if that Beidermann aint swore a warrant out on us, on Harris. Otto gives him a shove, saying, Shut your mouth.

  If he has thoughts of descending from his perch to join us amongst the circling dogs by the porch, Emil abandons them, stuck to his polished seat; and says: So how you been, Gerhardt? Aint seen you since the Fourth, I do believe. He nods to Cornelius and Otto: Boys, he says; and at the same time touches his heavy wool cap and calls over their heads to Ma: Missus, you looking okay this morning.