In Open Spaces by Russell Rowland

little community. There hadn’t been anyone killed in our county formany years, and the only death I could think of that was even accidental in a while was George’s. And then it hit me. And a sudden anger rose up in me again.
    “Art, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
    Art’s head rotated again, back and forth, back and forth. “I ain’t saying,” he repeated.
    “Well, what the hell is it that you ain’t saying?”
    His jaw tightened, as if he was preparing to fight against any attempt to pry the words from his mouth. “I’m not gonna tell you what I ain’t saying.”
    “Goddamit, Art.” I got worked up, wishing there was a way to force him to tell me what the hell he was talking about. But I knew nothing I said would prompt any more information out of him. “So what the hell…goddamit.” I thought about what people might say, and the only conclusion that made any sense was that there might be speculation about Jack. But it was just so absurd to me at that moment that I hardly even thought about it.
    Then, out of the blue, Art decided to address something completely different. “Blake, I’m going to tell you something. Something important.”
    “Oh?” I refrained from saying something sarcastic. “Okay.”
    Art cleared his throat, in a great show of guttural gacking sounds. “Now listen here, Blake. I’m not a smart man. Everyone knows that.”
    He paused. I bit my tongue.
    “But I watch. I pay attention to things. More than people think I do.”
    I said nothing, letting Art set his own rhythm.
    “I never thought for one minute that I could go nowhere else, or do nothing else.” Art cleared his throat and spat. “But some people…some people are too goddam smart. Do you know what I mean, Blake? This place, this land, it beats hell out of people. Have you noticed that, Blake? Beats the holy hell out of folks. Do you know what I mean?”
    I didn’t really know what to say. This was a side of Art Walters that I’d never seen before, and I’d known him all my life. I’d never seen him, even with other adults, show any inclination toward carrying on a serious discussion about life. And I had a feeling that this was a rare occasion, that maybe nobody else had ever seen it before, either. It didn’t exactly explain why he was shooting at me, and yet I think in his mind, it did.
    “I’m sorry,” Art said after a moment of awkward silence. “I’m outta line talking to you about this. That’s your business, and I ought to know better.”
    “No, no. It’s okay, Art. Don’t worry about it. I’ll think about it. Really.”
    “Will you?” he asked, and he sounded genuinely surprised.
    “Yeah, I will. I mean it now.”
    “Okay,” he said, and I could hear in his voice that this pleased him. I was glad I had managed to look past my anger, and figure out what he wanted to say.
    Neither of us spoke again while we rounded up Ahab and went back to finish freeing the cow.
    For the next two hours, Art and I tugged, rested, watered, and tugged, rested and watered some more. Art had plenty of experience pulling cows from the bog, so he was full of good suggestions, like stuffing grass under the cow’s nose to give her some strength but also to firm up the mud a little. We secured ropes around each front leg, with one tied to each horse, once we had the cow’s torso clear of the mud. I don’t know if I would have been able to get the cow out without him. The ache in my head didn’t get any weaker, but it didn’t get any worse either.
    Once she was free, the cow stood unsteadily for a moment, her legs shaking. Then she lumbered across the pasture, giving a weak kick ofher heels. We stood watching her, and I felt the warm satisfaction of pulling a life from the brink of death. But then I noticed her brand, which had been covered when she was in the mud. I started laughing.
    “I’ll be damned, Art,” I said, pointing. “That’s your cow.”
    Art squinted, checking the old cow’s