Death of a Steer

When Mom called “Breakfast!” Cody was lying prone on his bunk looking at the Old West wallpaper next to the bed, mounted cowboys riding herd over a bunch of grazing longhorns. In another scene, a half-dozen cowboys around a campfire sipped coffee while the cook wrestled a big frying pan over the flames.

Cody had studied those images so many times he could close his eyes and picture every detail down to the rowels on the spurs. That simple artwork had birthed and nurtured a deep, brooding place in his heart, a longing he’d never said out loud, couldn’t even fully express to himself.

But after what happened yesterday, he wondered if there was still a cowboy life in his future.

Cowboying wasn’t just a future dream. He got a taste of it now and then.

Like with his best friend, Jack Calhoun. Jack lived on a ranch and Cody’s favorite thing was riding horseback at Jack’s place. Sometimes Jack’s dad gave them actual cowboy work, like riding fence lines. That was the best, but even when they just rode the pastures for fun, Cody knew somehow his future would include ranch work.

Just last Sunday after church, Cody’s folks had let him go home with Jack’s family. The boys wolfed down the fried chicken dinner and headed for the corral, their boot heels launching little clouds in the Texas dust. Beyond the home place the landscape rose and fell gradually in every direction, dry watercourses cut gently here and there, just enough to keep the topography one notch above tabletop status. Browned bunch grass waved in the summer breeze to the horizon.

“Let’s saddle up real quick,” Jack said. He stopped. “Oh wait, I almost forgot. Dad asked me to move the tractor out of the equipment shed.”

Cody stood rapt while his buddy, just three months older, climbed onto the tractor where he sat eight feet above the ground, and fired it up. He caught himself just in time from clapping hands over ears at the noise. Jack waved him back and eased the enormous machine out the door to park near the fuel tanks across the way. He cut the engine and scrambled down.

“Okay, let’s get going! I want to show you something I found a couple of miles from here at Brady Creek.”

The brief display of his buddy’s abilities enthralled Cody. Sometimes he felt cheated because he lived in town.

He beat Jack to the tack room and fetched down the bridles while Jack got a can of oats. In the corral, Jack shook the can in his outstretched arm and clicked his tongue. His feisty gelding, Banner, snorted and trotted for a treat, followed by the older mare Cody would ride. In three minutes, they’d saddled and mounted and rode out the gate with a Hi-yah!

At the creek, they slid off and poked a stick in a badger hole Jack had spotted a few days earlier, but after ten minutes without a response, they were back in the saddle exploring the north end of the ranch.

All afternoon they rode, stopping now and then? to sit in the shade for a few minutes before climbing on again. Cody’s dad arrived about 8:00 to take him home, just as the two finished brushing down their steeds.

“Thanks, Jack! See ya next weekend, maybe,” Cody offered, and jumped in the car.

“Well, did you enjoy yourself, son?”

“I loved it. Jack even let me ride Banner for part of the time. He’s a cool horse, so fast!” All the way home, he looked out the window and dreamed.

And all week, in the little one-room school, his mind wandered from the lesson. He doodled in the margins of his notebook, sketching horses, clouds, cows, saddles and spurs.

Then yesterday happened, and now the dream was murky.

Mom called again. “Last call for breakfast, boys.”

He wasn’t hungry, but if he didn’t go down, Mom would come up. She might want to talk about yesterday. Dad would already be at the store this morning, but Cody figured his folks had talked last night about the disaster. Better if he just came to the table; maybe someone else would carry the conversation.

He stuck a foot over the headboard to climb down. “Coming, Mom.”

Downstairs, his brother was already at the table. His mom stepped out of the kitchen, and looked at him. “How are you this morning, Cody? Are you feeling better?”

“I think so.” He sat and tried to look happy. “Breakfast sounds good.” Actually, eating food would be better than talking.

“Oh, good.” She stood beside the boys, prayed over the food and went back to the kitchen.

Cody drank some milk and forked a pancake on to his plate. Maybe the best way to avoid talking about yesterday was to start a conversation about something else.

“So, Jerry, are you going to fix that flat tire on your bike?” He filled his mouth with half a hotcake.

“Maybe this afternoon. I’m going to read this morning.”

“What have you been reading, dear?” Mom chimed in from the kitchen. She could prepare food, wash the dishes, listen to the radio, hum a tune, and hear every single word anybody spoke anywhere in the house.

Jerry finished his bite and raised a school book from his lap. “I’m on volume two of that advanced math series Mr. Scott loaned me.”

Cody groaned on the inside. How much conversation could you have about a boring book? His brother was a real screwball. How could two siblings be so opposite?

But he had to try.

“So, what’s so interesting about it?”

Jerry set down his glass of milk. A dreamy look washed over him. “You have no idea, little brother. No idea.” He took a big bite and started in, talking through the sticky syrup. “For example, have you ever heard of the golden ratio?”

“Uh, no.” Cody screwed his eyes nearly shut and continued. “Tell me about it.”

“Well, there’s this expression called Binet’s formula. It relates to the nth Fibonacci number in terms of n and the golden ratio. When you put that all together, the ratio of two consecutive Fibonacci numbers tends to the golden ratio as n increases.”

Cody nodded and tried to look interested. And it worked. Jerry rambled for ten minutes before coming up for air.

Right then, Mom popped out of the kitchen. “Boys, I’m going to take a meal over to the Woodruffs. She’s been sick. I’ll be back in about thirty minutes.”

The boys cleared the table and split. Jerry took his book to the couch and Cody bolted upstairs for his bunk. He lay on his back and tried not to think about yesterday’s fiasco. He failed.

It had all begun because Mom was planning an all-day shopping trip for back-to-school clothes. Dad was busy at the store, so Mom had asked Mrs. Culpepper if he and Jerry could stay with them for a few hours. Of course Mrs. Culpepper said yes, and right after breakfast, Mom dropped them off for the day.

“I’ll be back this evening,” she said as she got in the car. In the vast Texas plains the nearest town big enough for the shopping she needed to do was almost a hundred miles away. “You boys behave.” As she started off, she rolled down the window. “Sally, you make those boys mind, now.”

Sally blazed her famous grin. “Don’t you worry even a little bit, Betty Brandon. These boys will be just fine.” She meant it, too. She did not know the extent of Cody’s imagination.

The morning was perfect. Mr. Van needed to check his cattle on the far end of his range, above the river where the country was too rough for ATVs. Cody helped him saddle two horses and load them in the stock trailer. Jerry wanted to read, so he settled under a shade tree in the backyard while Mr. Van and Cody climbed in the pickup and headed north.

The gently rolling prairie stretched to beyond seeing. Cody could imagine feathered Comanche warriors and oceans of buffalo streaming in the sun. Maybe Billy the Kid had ridden somewhere right around here.

“Mr. Van?”

“Yes, Cody?”

“Could you tell some stories from your childhood?” He watched a hawk swoop low and grab a dead rabbit from the road. “That was a long time ago, right?”

Mr. Van laughed and tousled Cody’s hair. “I reckon it was. A long time ago, yes.”

Cody waited. He could see Mr. Van thinking. He’d been taught not to interrupt an adult in thought.

“Well, when I was your age, things were a lot different.” Then, “You’re twelve, right?”

“Eleven. Won’t be twelve till my birthday, October 17.”

“Well, maybe I was eleven.” Mr. Van took off his cap and scratched his head. Cody’d seen people do that before. Did people’s heads really itch when they tried to remember something?

“What year were you born, Mr. Van?”

“1912. About the same as your grandpa, I expect.”

“Grandpa Brandon was born in 1909.”

“Okay, didn’t know that exactly, but not surprised.” They met a southbound pickup and Mr. Van lifted a finger from the steering wheel in greeting. The other driver did the same. “Anyway, the world was a different place, in a lot of ways. But people have always been the same, pretty much.”

Cody’d heard that before, too. He wasn’t so sure. He thought nobody alive was like Kit Carson or Wyatt Earp, men who were practically giants in his mind. But he didn’t let on. He wanted Mr. Van to keep talking.

“Out here in the panhandle so far from the city, we didn’t have much civilization. I guess the biggest difference was, we didn’t have electricity till I was, let’s see … I guess I was eleven!”

Cody’s eyebrows shot up. “What? No electricity?”

Mr. Van laughed. “Hard to imagine today, isn’t it? Cities back east had electricity fifteen, twenty years before we had it here in west Texas. But we got it, and it changed things, for sure.”

“Like what?”

“Well, what do you use electricity for now?”

“Let’s see ... The light bulb in my bedroom. And my clock radio and my fan. I keep those right by my bed.”

“Me too!” Mr. Van chuckled. “But we didn’t have either before electricity, of course. We used oil lamps for light. When it was hot, we slept out on the screened porch. And my dad always woke us in time to do chores.”

“So no radio or TV?”

Mr. Van laughed again. “Wasn’t any such thing. Just the newspaper.”

They topped a ridge where the view opened to a broad valley cut through with a winding river. Grassed gullies bisected the hills dropping off to the river. Cattle dotted these slopes, Mr. Van’s cattle. He pulled off onto a graveled flat space and stopped.

“Time to ride, Cody.”

Mr. Van unloaded the horses and they mounted. Cody’s heart bubbled like the water fountain at school. He thought about singing “Home on the Range” but couldn’t work up the courage.

He reined his mount beside and a little behind Mr. Van as they dropped into a gully and rode to the top on the other side. The cows looked up briefly and went back to their grazing. Young calves skittered. Cody wasn’t sure if they were afraid of the horses or just playing.

Besides getting a good count, Cody knew the rancher was also watching for disease or signs of lameness. The two rode up one gully and down the next, and then again. Cows grazed along the slopes of each gully. Twice, a cow bolted with her calf into a copse of thick mesquite and Mr. Van let Cody flush her out so he could get a good look.

They rode to the last gully and saw no sign of problems.

“Okay, let’s see if everyone’s here.” Mr. Van pulled a small notebook and pencil from his pocket and reached it over to Cody.

“I’ll count out loud, one to ten, and then start over. When I reach ten, I’ll say “Tally!” Every time I say that, you put a hash mark on this paper.” ?

They moved easily through the cattle while Mr. Van pointed and counted. Cody sat his horse and marked till they moved to the next gully where they did it all again until the last gully closest to the truck.

“Well, what do you say, Cody? What was our count?”

“Sixty-three.” He handed the paper and pencil back to the rancher. “After the last tally you counted to three.”

“Perfect! Everyone here and accounted for.”

“Shouldn’t we have an even number?”

“One heifer lost her calf last week. That’s why we had an odd number. But just one is not bad.” The old man started whistling. After a few bars, Cody recognized the tune as “Buffalo Gals.”

Cody could not imagine a better way to spend a beautiful summer morning. In a couple of hours, they had finished. They took one last look across the valley and headed for the truck, about a half mile away.

“How much is a cow worth, Mr. Van?”

“Depends on her age and health, but about $250.”

Cody couldn’t multiple 63 by $250 in his head, but it sounded like a lot of money. Mr. Van seemed happy about it. Now he was whistling “The Yellow Rose of Texas.”

He reached the end of the song and looked at Cody.

“Let’s see, what were we talking about earlier, Cody?”

“About electricity, how it changed life on the ranch.”

“Ah yes, that’s right.” Mr. Van seemed lost in thought the rest of the way to the truck. After they trailered their horses and started home, he spoke again.

“Electricity changed a lot, but in some ways, the basics of ranching didn’t change that much. Electricity didn’t change saddles, or boots, or even operating equipment. Some of our most basic ranch tools have gone unchanged for generations.”

A covey of quail scurried across the road in front of them, running hard so they wouldn’t have to fly. Cody knew quail could fly just fine, but never did unless they absolutely had to.

“Take it with ropes, for example. Ropes are pretty much the same as they’ve always been, sort of a man-made vine, I guess you could call them.”

That was the comment that started it all.

If Mr. Van had never mentioned vines, Cody would not have thought about Tarzan. But in that moment, Cody remembered reading what Tarzan did with vines. That recollection from a book played over and over in his mind as they drove home.

All through the picnic lunch on the front porch, Miss Sally’s fat meatloaf sandwiches on homemade bread with pickles and mustard and potato chips and ice tea and a big vanilla shake with a piece of chocolate cake still warm from the oven, Cody hardly noticed the food.

He sucked the last of the shake through the straw. “That was a wonderful lunch, Miss Sally.” His grandmotherly host smiled. “Well, I’m glad you boys enjoyed it. It’s always good to have you young’uns around.”

“That’s for sure,” Mr. Van added, and then turned to his wife. “I have to go to town this afternoon. The tractor tire is ready, and I need a couple of things from the feed store.” She nodded, and he turned to the boys. “How about you two? Anyone want to come along?”

Jerry wanted to read, and Cody also declined. He was going to play Tarzan in the barn.

“Okay, I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I reckon I’ll stop at the coffee shop and get caught up with the latest local news.” He chuckled, kissed Miss Sally, got his cap and went to the truck.

She picked up dishes and spoke, “You boys just make yourself at home. I’m going to be busy making pickles this afternoon.”

Jerry found his shade tree and Cody went to the barn, walking on the outside but running on the inside. At the tack room he stood in the door, washed in the smell of worn leather and horseflesh. Saddles and blankets, bridles, stirrups, reins, halters, bits, feed bags and a few horseshoes filled it. With a foot on a low shelf, he could just reach a stiff, coiled rope from a hook in the wall.

He put his head and an arm through the loop and went to the east wall where a ladder reached the hayloft. He scrambled up the rungs and stepped out onto the vast floor. A high, tight stack of alfalfa hay bales covered one end. He drew in the sweet aroma, then walked to the north wall.

The last time he and Jerry had stayed at the Culpepper’s, he’d explored the barn and discovered the loft floor boards did not extend clear to the wall, so that from above you had a direct view of the feeding trough on the dirt floor below. Three yearling calves were munching there right now, oblivious to the stealthy boy hovering over them. The perfect place to play Tarzan with a modern-day vine.

In the Tarzan story, the jungle man perched high in a tree and took out the bad guys by dropping a noose to catch them as they ran by on the trail below. The narrative had fascinated Cody, and when Mr. Van mentioned vines earlier, that jungle scene flooded back into his head.

“What if I could catch a steer like that?” he wondered. Not to harm the calf, just for fun. After all, the calves had done nothing like the bad guys Tarzan was catching. Cody just wanted to see if he could actually capture an unwitting calf with a rope from on high. And right here, with the feeder directly below, was the perfect place to try.

Cody’s heart pounded as he tied one end of the rope to the exposed joist between the floor and the wall. On the other end, he opened the loop and slowly, quietly slipped it through his fingers straight down.

A yearling worked his nose through a bunch of hay in the trough, unaware of the noiseless noose descending toward his head. “Here comes a surprise!” he whispered without a sound. When the rope touched the calf’s ears, the critter jerked his nose from the hay and Cody slipped the loop over his head. “Gotcha!”

Immediately, the fun turned ugly. Just remembering it now was painful.

The calf backed up against the feel of the rope, shaking his head and pulling it tighter with each swing and step. Cody’s heart dropped to his shoes as the calf began wheezing, either too stupid or too crazed with fear to step forward and release the pressure. He leaned harder and harder against the noose, his eyes bulging, his chest heaving, unable to make a sound but slowly choking out his life.

Cody ran to the ladder to scramble down and rush behind the calf, trying to push it ahead, but it was too heavy. Great shudders ran through the animal as his beefy frame collapsed. He dropped to his front knees, head waving silently side to side.

Cody rushed to the workbench at the far end of the building, searched frantically until he found a knife, and ran back, ignoring his dad’s repeated warning, “Never run with a knife.”

He dropped by the animal’s head and sawed the rope furiously, the dull blade almost useless against the tough fibers. The animal shuddered one last time and lay still, but Cody carried on, nearly sick with the horror of what was happening. One strand finally parted, then another, and at last the noose released.

But too late. The calf was not breathing. The yearling was dead.

“NO! NO!” he screamed and beat against the animal’s rib cage. How could this happen? How could he have been so stupid, so thoughtless? He’d never stopped to think how he’d get the critter loose once he had him secured. Now the calf was dead, and nothing would bring him back.

He stood and dragged himself to the barn door to slump against the wall outside. Mr. Van would be back soon, and he had to tell him. He felt like hiding. Maybe he could get to the highway and hitch a ride home. But he knew that would be wrong. His dad had taught his sons to take responsibility for their actions, no matter how painful.

The bright sunshine failed to lift Cody’s spirits. He twirled a stick in the dust and shook his head. “What have I done? What have I done?” It was one thing to make a mistake, but this was much worse. This was not just a mistake, this was a stupid, stupid decision.

He could hardly think. What would he say to Mr. Van? He thought about telling Jerry, or Miss Sally, but decided no, Mr. Van had to hear it first.

Overcome with sorrow and shame, he drew up his knees and dropped his head against his arms crossed over his knees. When he heard vehicle brakes and a door open, he blinked and looked up. Mr. Van was back; Cody had fallen asleep.

“Well, looks like a morning of riding took all the energy out of Mr. Cody!” The rancher smiled and dropped the tailgate on his pickup. “Give me a hand with this tractor tire, okay buddy?”

Cody exhaled and stood up. “Sure.” He started toward the truck. “But, Mr. Van, I ... uh,” his mouth pulled into a grimace. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you.”

“Okay,” Mr. Van said, “Just hold that. I’ll be right back. I need to get something from the barn.” He walked past Cody to the barn door.

“But, Mr. Van ...”

“I’ll be right back.” He spoke over his shoulder. “Just hold on.”

Cody closed his eyes, his chin on his chest. He held his breath and counted. In twenty seconds, the rancher was back at the door holding the cut rope.

“Looks like you started something you couldn’t finish, Cody.”

Cody rubbed his temples. “Yes sir. I’m really sorry, Mr. Van. I don’t know how I could have been so stupid.”

“Why don’t you tell me about?” Mr. Van sat on a bench against the outside barn wall. “Come sit and let’s talk.”

Exhaling again, Cody stepped to the bench and eased down beside his friend and mentor. “Remember when you were telling me this morning about how electricity didn’t change everything?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“And one thing you said was ropes.”

“What did I say about ropes?”

“You said some things didn’t change. Ropes are the same as they’ve been for a long time, a sort of man-made vine, you said.”

“Ah, yes. I did say that.” Then, “Keep going, buddy. I’m listening.”

Cody sighed and looked into the distance. A neighbor was cultivating his field, standing on his John Deere tractor. It was a half mile away, but the tall man was clearly visible even from that distance.

“Well, I read a Tarzan story the other day.” Cody told him how Tarzan snagged a villain with a vine from high in the tree. “And I thought it would be fun to try that in your barn.”

He told Mr. Van about tying the loose end, forming the lasso, snagging the calf, how it reacted, his panic, finding the knife. Cody could not bring himself to use the word “dead.” He shook his head and looked at the ground. “I never figured something like that would happen, and I’m so, so sorry.”

Mr. Van watched the neighbor on the tractor without speaking for what seemed like a very long time.

“Well, that’s quite a story, Cody. That’s a new one for me.” The old rancher removed his ball cap and scratched his head. “We all make mistakes. Some are bigger than others.” He frowned a small frown and looked directly at Cody. “This is big.” He nodded. “A pretty big mistake.”

Cody’s heart was somewhere around his ankles. He could not remember feeling so low in his almost twelve years of life. Not even when his dog got run over and killed. That was a horrible day, but this was worse. Somebody else had run over the dog, and only after the dog had chased his truck. It wasn’t anybody’s fault, really. It just happened.

But this was different. This was exactly Cody’s fault. No two ways about it. He wished he could run away and hide and never come back.

Mr. Van stood and spoke. “I’m not angry with you, Cody. But it was a foolish thing to do. I think the next thing to happen is for me and your dad to talk.”

Cody nodded.

“Let’s go in the house. I need to call your dad.”

At the house, Cody got Mr. Van’s permission to sit on the porch. Jerry was still lost in his book and Cody could sit in silence. Mr. Van came back outside sooner than Cody had expected. He sat beside Cody on a rocker and spoke.

“Your mom is on the way. Your dad wasn’t available. We’ll talk in a few days.”

A barely audible “Okay” was all Cody could muster. They waited without speaking and Cody found the silence unbearable. Mr. Van always had something to say, almost always something fun to talk about. His silence now could only mean one thing: anger. He said he was not angry, and his face did not show anger, but on the inside he must be angry, or else he would be talking.

Cody’s chest felt like the scrambling of a thousand grasshoppers. He’d watched the road to the east for fifteen minutes when the family car topped the ridge. His mom pulled into the farmyard and parked without shutting off the car. She rolled down the window and called, “Jerry, Cody, time to go, boys!” Then, “Van, thank you so much.”

“You’re very welcome, Betty. Sally’s down in the garden. I’ll pass that along.”

He turned to Cody. “Okay, son, we’ll see you later.”

Jerry ran and took the front seat like he always did, but this time, Cody did not care. He dragged himself to the car and climbed into the back seat.

“How was your time with the Culpepper’s, boys?”

Cody was shocked. By her tone of voice, he knew she was unaware of what he had done. For once, he was glad his brother was such a gab. Jerry could always talk enough for both of them, so Cody’s brief replies to his mom’s direct questions seemed to satisfy her.

They were almost home when she suspected something. She stretched to catch sight of him in the rear-view mirror.

“What’s wrong, Cody? You seem quiet. Is everything okay?”

Here we go, he thought. No escaping it now. I should have known she would see through me. He squeezed his eyes shut ... and thought of an out.

“I just don’t feel real good. Nothing serious, just a little tired, I guess.”

Her eyes darted back and forth from him to the road ahead. “Did you drink enough water? Maybe you’re dehydrated.”

“Maybe so. I’m just tired.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but at least it wasn’t a complete lie, either. He lay down across the seat as if to reinforce his point.

At home, he got a glass of water and headed for the stairs. “I’m not hungry, Mom. I’ll drink this water and lay down. I don’t think I want any supper.” He risked arousing her motherly instincts but could not think about eating supper.

“Come here, sweetheart.” His mom held out her arms. “I want to feel your forehead.”

“Oh, Mom, I’m not sick.”

“Come here.”

He knew trying to resist would be about as successful as trying to sweep the street with a toothbrush. He stepped into her embrace. Her hand did not feel cool on his forehead.

“H’mm, no fever.” She stood back, holding him at arm’s length. “Do you have pain, son? Are you hurting anywhere?”

“No, Mom. I’m just tired.” Tired of pretending.

Her lips pressed into a straight line as she shook her head again. “Well, I guess if you want to go to bed and miss supper ... well, I don’t like it, but it’s up to you.”

“Thanks. I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning.”

Now it was morning, but he felt no better. Not even bacon and pancakes had eased the weight of his guilt. He agonized till noon, when his dad got home from the store and called up the stairs.

“Cody, time to go.”

The moment was here, ready or not. Cody slumped down the stairs and out to the car, where he waited till his dad joined him. Mr. Brandon reached for the ignition and then paused. “Mr. Culpepper told me what happened, and we agreed to meet today. Just the three of us.” He started the motor. “We’ll wait till we’re there to talk.”

The fifteen-minute-ride seemed both too long and too short at the same time. Cody could not understand how that could be. When they drove up, Mr. Van was sitting on the porch, two empty chairs beside him. They joined him and the three sat in silence for a moment before Cody’s dad spoke.

“Look at me, son.” Cody looked up, held his dad’s gaze. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Cody blew through pursed lips. “Okay.” He told his dad about the conversation in the truck, Mr. Van’s mentioning the word “vine,” which triggered the Tarzan memory.

“I started thinking about that right away, and I could hardly think about anything else. All through lunch. It sounds stupid now, but I was excited to try it out.” He sighed again and finished the story all the way to Mr. Van’s return from town.

“I know I should have been more careful. I’ll never do anything like that again.” He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Van. I hope you can forgive me.”

He looked up at Mr. Van, then at his dad. His dad looked at Mr. Van. “What say you, neighbor?”

Mr. Van looked Cody in the eye. He seemed to almost smile. “Yes, Cody, I forgive you.” He offered his hand and Cody, eyes full of tears, took it. “Thank you, Mr. Van. Thank you so much.”

His dad looked at Mr. Van. “What is the extent of your loss, Van?”

“Let’s not worry about that. Losses are normal.”

“Not this loss.” Mr. Brandon looked at his son. “What do you say, Cody? What do you think would be a fair settlement in this matter? Do you think Mr. Culpepper should be paid back for this loss?”

For the first time since the moment that noose went over the calf’s head, Cody felt something besides misery. A quick-rising tide of fierce, twelve-year-old indignation filled his chest.

“Of course I should pay him back!” He looked from his dad to Mr. Van and back. “I’ve already told him I would pay him back in full and I meant it.”

“How will you do that?”

“I’ve been thinking about it. I make about ten dollars a week mowing lawns. I will save all that money and pay for the dead calf.”

No one spoke for a long moment. Cody looked at the barn, then closed his eyes. A bobwhite whistled from the field across the road. And again.

Finally, his dad nodded and spoke. “So there you have it, Van. How many weeks of lawn mowing will this young man need?”

“Well, the critter was worth about $200.” He paused. “Cody, do you figure on mowing twenty more weeks?”

“When the grass stops growing, I’ll find some other way to earn money. If we get enough snow later on, I can shovel driveways.”

Mr. Van nodded and bit his lower lip before speaking. “Come to think of it, I’m going to need some help haying.” He looked at Cody. “You’re almost twelve. No reason you can’t learn to drive a tractor to pull the wagon in the field while I buck bales.” He pulled off his cap and scratched his head, “That job would pay ten dollars an hour.”

Cody’s jaw dropped a foot. He looked at his dad. Mr. Brandon didn’t move his mouth, but he spoke with his face. It said, “Well, now, that’s an interesting idea!”