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Maurice lay in his sleeping bag on the single mattress and glanced around the one-room cabin until his eyes adjusted to the dull glow. A flicker of amber light twisted and bent behind blackened glass, tossing shadows against the log walls. A yellowed calendar, thirty-five years old hung on a steel spike; faded pink stubs from raffle tickets bought for a local Rodeo Queen contest were pinned to a log, the draw made twenty-two years ago; wrinkled and warped hunting magazines sat stacked beneath the rack holding two polished shotguns; a washcloth, dishtowel, flannel shirt and navy pants drooped from a thin clothesline near the woodstove pipe.

He pulled on his baggy overalls, binder twine wrapped in loops over the bulk of a thick flannel shirt and a green wool sweater. The floorboards creaked under his boots. He glanced to where his brother Harold lay, snoring beyond the light from the kerosene lamp, then examined the door. Need more deer hair and moss to chink the cracks, he thought. Still too drafty in here. Too old for this. He opened the door and closed it quietly behind him; on the outside, he stopped the shriveled beaver's tail swinging from a rusted nail, back and forth like a pendulum.

On the prairie, the magpies were edgy, but it was too dark yet for them to move from the branches of the cottonwoods. Here and there, a nervous peep. An iron-grey sky in the east where the stars were dulling. About an hour to sun-up. Chilled, fresh, early-morning air washed over Maurice's face. He tasted the cool wind that ran over the open grass, crawling down from the Livingstones Range, chasing Chapel Rock Creek, rising out of the Tyson's coulee. Starlight and sagebrush on his tongue. He could smell winter coming on.

He watched and listened as his horse cropped grass; she needed a rest and a good fattening. A magpie sat on her back. Maurice heard the horse breathing as she tossed her tail. She was sooty black with a silver mane. Her muscles stuttered beneath her skin like tightly wound ropes. Lately she wasn't moving right. The bump on her foreleg had grown larger. He watched her shift weight from left to right and knew she would rest a while longer, wait for the stars to fade as the sun rose. She looked at him with her dark eyes, set deep in black hair. Eyes like gems, he thought. A narrow white strip on her nose. Not a smart horse, nor a great horse, just a horse to get along with. Then he walked past her, past the Delco generator towards the truck.

***

Orin drove up in the truck last week. "She's a regular beauty," Orin said, kicking the door shut with the heel of his boot. Rust from the bottom of the door fell in flakes to the dirt. The tailgate splashed with rusted circles.

The King brothers had known Orin for their whole lives. When they were kids, Orin had gone to school in town with them. When Maurice and Harold stopped school in order to work the ranch after their father died, Orin kept on, going up to the city to study law. Both Harold and Maurice said their ideas didn't cotton with town. The ways of cattle and horses made more sense to them than the ways of men and women. The brothers went on to become uneducated, land-rich ranchers with over 5,000 acres of the finest ground in the Porcupine Hills. Orin came down from the city and settled in Pincher Creek, opened his law practice.

When Orin drove up to their ranch with the truck, there was a generator in the flatbed. He handed Maurice and Harold a cheque for $102,149.47 and a bag of Oreo cookies to celebrate. Orin represented the brothers at the Okotoks auction and sold over 500 head of their cattle. The brothers trusted Orin with their town business, preferring to stay in the hills.

Maurice took the cheque from Orin and stuffed it in his overalls and handed his brother the cookies. Harold opened the package, began to eat them, splitting them and scraping the cream off each half with his front teeth. Maurice shuddered at the sound and eyed the truck. Neither he nor Harold had seen or driven many vehicles other than their tractor. Their ranch was blessed with streams and wooded groves of aspen, and from the top of Mason's Bluff you could see forever to the east, jagged mountains to the west. Their horses got them everywhere they needed to go.

"I think it's best if you take that back with you," said Harold, his teeth blackened with bits of cookie. "We've got no use for it here. If it's got wheels, it's bound to give us trouble."

Maurice kicked at the ground, stealing glances at the truck.

Orin looked at Maurice, who was walleyed, with a gaze that shifted outwards. White wisps of hair poked out from beneath his baseball cap, the same one Maurice always wore, faded brown with stitching across the front that read: Never Trust a Man Who Doesn't Drink. Maurice had never touched an ounce of booze in his life. Now that they had the generator, their monthly electricity bill would shoot up to $1.50, a sum Maurice and Harold would balk against. In running a ranch, they had to look out for small expenses. Little leaks sink great ships, was Harold's philosophy.

"What do you say, Maurice? Keep it and give your horse a rest," said Orin. "Besides, it's easier to drive than that tractor of yours. Keep the generator, too. I'm tired of running kerosene in from town." Maurice looked at the truck and felt Harold's eyes surveying him. "Try it out for a few weeks, see how it works for you," said Orin.

Maurice knew Orin wasn't really bothered by bringing them supplies from town; it gave him an excuse to check up on them. Maurice was seventy-two years old and Harold was two years younger. If anything happened to them, they'd have no way of contacting Orin or getting to town, other than by horseback. Even then, it was still the better part of a day's ride.

Maurice, did you want me to deposit that cheque for you boys, or are you aiming to hold onto it for a rainy day?" said Orin, chuckling. Maurice pulled the cheque from his overalls and handed it to Orin. Harold looked away.

***

Maurice glanced back towards the cabin that he and Harold built with their hands and axes. Harold wouldn't be awake for at least another hour. Maurice felt his heart beating in the canyon of his chest, echoing in his ears, trembling in his arms. He touched the truck. Shivers bolted through his arms. Maurice ran his hands along the cold metal, tracing the words with his rough hands: H-A-R-V-E-S-T-E-R, in large letters; International, like handwriting. He felt the curve of the wheel-well, gently sloping towards the headlights. Touched the silver circles where the headlights were, clockwise and then counterclockwise. He fingered the steel grill, poking the holes, and moved his fingers quickly across the grill, strumming a steel song. He climbed inside and gently closed the door. Orin had left the keys in the ignition, but Maurice didn't touch them. He looked in the rearview. Dissolved starlight. Beaver tail hanging still. Pewter sky. He looked at himself. Took off his ball cap and moved his hand through his straw-grey hair. Licked his fingers and tucked a few strands behind his ears. Put his cap back on. You never combed your hair that way before, he thought.

Maurice put his hands on the steering wheel and leaned back. He looked over the dashboard towards the Livingstones and squirmed himself comfortable. He turned the radio dial. Silently humming to himself. He held the steering wheel with both hands, and dropped his right hand to his thigh. That didn't feel right. He held the wheel with both hands and dropped his left hand to his thigh. That didn't feel right either. He propped his left arm on the window ledge. He turned the window lever and lowered the window. Propped his left arm up. Looked into the side-mirror. His reflection mocked him. He still didn't feel at ease but that's how Orin looked the day he drove up. And he looked relaxed. Orin always looked comfortable.

Maurice heard his horse give a snort and quickly rolled up the window. The magpies squawked. Harold was up. He had woken earlier than normal. Maurice glanced in the rearview, crimson sky. Heartbeat blinding his eyes, he slipped out of the truck, snapped the door shut and made it to his horse. He stood beside it, stroking her sore leg.

"You're up awful early again," said Harold.

"Couldn't sleep."

Harold eyed Maurice. "You forgot to make a fire." Maurice hadn't made a fire since the generator and truck showed up last week.

Harold had a five-hundred-yard stare that could split wood. He wondered if Harold had seen him get out of the truck. Harold looked past Maurice and nodded towards the truck.

"That mess still here?" said Harold.

"I guess it is."

"You guess it is, do you?"

Harold looked at the horse's leg, then down at Maurice's boots. One gumboot, one hiking boot. Maurice had made it a habit to wear two different boots since his last trip to town. He had been walking down the street when a storm blew in and dumped rain on the east side of the street. On the west side, sunlight streamed down. Since then, Maurice figured it was safer to hedge your bets.

"Fifty-per-cent chance of rain today, eh … boss?" said Harold. Maurice didn't answer. He flinched at the way Harold paused slightly before calling him boss. Harold always said the same thing when he was trying to get him to talk.

"What are you up to … boss? You looked so wound up, I couldn't pull a pin out of your ass with a tractor," said Harold.

"Maybe you should talk less and get that generator fired up. I'm needin' some…coffee." Maurice knew that Harold wouldn't start the generator. Harold refused to go near it, or the truck.

"That damn thing makes too much noise," said Harold. "Costs too much to run. Maybe you should start pulling your weight around here and fix us a fire instead," he said. "Then I'll brew the … coffee."

"I'll get right on that … boss," said Maurice as he turned away.

***

They drank their coffee, saddled their horses and rode to the summer range. They ran fence all day, using the backs of their axes to pound fence posts into chunky unforgiving ground. With the fence posts set, they strung barbwire from post to post, three lines evenly spaced, both brothers taking turns tightening strands, holding pliers with their gloved hands. They worked quickly. Harold hummed to himself, occasionally letting out a low chuckle, as though he were having a conversation with himself. They had several sections of fence to run and time was running short before the wind would carry snow down from the mountains. Each time Harold chuckled, Maurice looked at him to see if he was laughing at him, but Harold's eyes remained fixed to the fence post and wire as he continued to work.

Orin had suggested that the brothers hire a ranch hand or two. He doubted that they would get the fence up before the first snowfall. The hired hand had lasted half a day. When he asked Maurice when they would have a break, Maurice shook his head and said, "We'll be taking a break when we've earned a break." Later, during their break, Harold trapped a mouse and laid it between two slices of Wonder bread and gave it to the young shiny-faced man. Harold figured that if a cattleman flinched, then he wasn't cut out for the job. The man flinched. Harold grinned at Maurice.

***

Harold pounded in a fence post. He found a horse skull in the sagebrush and squatted to pick it up. He turned it around, placed it in front of his face and whinnied at Maurice.

"You keep messing around like that and we won't get any work done," Maurice said, pulling the skull away from Harold.

"Where's your sense of humour gone to … boss?" said Harold. Maurice examined the skull, turning it in his hands. Frail and brittle. Rows of tombstone teeth, loose and rattling in their plots. Dirt trickled out of the empty eyes. Maurice loved in horses what he loved in himself. Warm blood running through the both of them, intelligent and intuitive.

"That horse's knee ain't right," Harold said. "That lump is growing bigger."

Maurice placed the skull back in the brush. Grass swaying in the wind.

***

At night, the generator groaned against the moonless sky. In the cabin, under a flickering light bulb, Maurice flipped through a tattered copy of Mule Deer while Harold braided rawhide humming to himself, stopping and starting the same indecipherable song in the same place, as though he couldn't remember the next key to hum. The windowpane rattled lightly. Maurice couldn't stand it any longer. The generator droned like an unwanted guest. He knew Harold wouldn't stop humming until he went to sleep, the sound only to be replaced by snoring. Maurice got up to go.

"Where you headed … boss?" said Harold.

"Thought I'd check on the horses. Worked 'em pretty hard today."

"We just fed them an hour ago."

Maurice grunted and turned towards the door.

"What about your horse?" said Harold, weaving strands of rawhide together.

Maurice faced Harold. "She'll be fine."

"You know damn well that she ain't fine."

"She's got three strong legs. She'll come around," said Maurice.

"She's as useful as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest."

"The only ass that's gonna get kicked around here is yours if you keep pestering me."

"Turn off that racket when you come back in," said Harold. "That damn thing's giving me a headache."

Maurice walked past his horse towards the truck. It was dark and the wind was cool. Stars flickered overhead. He felt for the door handle, opened it and climbed in. Bright light slanted out of the cabin's window behind him. The generator is louder out here, he thought. He touched the pedals with his gumboot. First the gas, then the brake. He pushed in the clutch with his hiking boot and released it. Held the gear shift on the steering wheel. Tried to force it and thought better of it. Opened the glove box and closed it. Opened the ashtray. Empty. Pushed it back in. He leaned against the seat and shut his eyes and saw that it was as black as when his eyes were open. He opened his eyes and closed them again. He opened and closed them again before sliding out of the truck. Turned off the generator, his ears buzzing with its memory, trudged past his horse without a glance, into the cabin.

***

That night he dreamt he walked in a field strewn with boulders. He saw his horse running through the field, dodging rocks, her silver mane flowing and flapping like flags. It was too dark to see clearly and everywhere he tried to look, boulders closed in on him. He touched one and it felt like cold steel. Touched another. Again, cold steel. When his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that the boulders had turned into trucks, groaning closer towards him. He called for his horse, but she faded in the distance.

He woke to the sound of Harold snoring. Slapped the wall to shut him up.

***

For the next three weeks, the brothers spent long days fencing the summer range. The wind was up, blowing hard across the sagebrush and whipping topsoil upwards into small dust devils. The fresh snow line crawled down the peaks each day. Harold hummed and chuckled, hummed and chuckled. Maurice's horse was thinner, chewing on dry grass, her legs quivering as though a hand passed over them. The bump on her foreleg looked like a clump of briar hanging below the knee. Orin hadn't been to the ranch since he had left the truck. Maurice watched his horse feed and shuddered. Each evening, in the dark, Maurice limped her back to the cabin with Harold following on his horse.

In the mornings and evenings, Maurice returned to the truck, never once touching the keys in the ignition.

***

"If you don't do something about her, I will," Harold said, cleaning his rifle. He raised it and squinted through the scope. Maurice's horse had slowed considerably on the way back to the cabin today. For the last half mile, Maurice got off and limped her home. At standing rest, she could no longer put weight on her leg. Harold polished his gun, humming in an erratic low drone, placed it back on the rack. The light bulb flickered. Beyond the walls of the cabin, Maurice listened to the generator moan.

"Orin should be coming around any day now," Maurice said. "I'll talk to him about it."

"I'm gettin' tired of your talk. It's hurtin' my ears," Harold said his voice rising above the generator.

Maurice got up to leave.

"You've lost your horse sense. Hell, you've lost all your sense."

Maurice closed the door behind him.

***

Maurice dreamt that as he drove fence posts into the ground, blood shot high into the air. He watched his horse run swiftly towards him and when it got close he saw Harold's face.

***

He woke with a start, crept out of his sleeping bag, dressed in the dark. He shuffled across to the gun rack and pulled down the 30-30, grabbed two boxes of shells, stopped, listened. Silence. He walked with a light step and closed the door behind him.

He moved quickly to his horse. She shifted her weight and shook her head as he stroked her long nose. He touched her for a long time, speaking softly to her. Her skin warm and solid against his palm. The shotgun heavy in his other hand.

He ran his hand along her ribs and felt their waved contour shape. Her flanks poked out, as though the skin were hanging off her bones. He felt the tumour below her knee and she snapped her head back. He touched it again, this time lightly. He felt its hardness and heat. He kissed the strip on her nose and she blinked back at him. He walked towards the truck.

The wind blew sleet in from the north. He opened the door to the truck, climbed inside and just before closing the door, saw it. The horse skull sat on the front seat, passenger side. He stared at it. Familiar, fragile, clean. He sat a while longer and closed the door and walked back towards his horse. Well, well, well, well, well, he thought. Everything comes rushing at you at once. The gun felt cold in his hands. He stood looking at his horse a long time. She wouldn't make it through the winter. Harold had told him so. Maurice knew it himself. The sleet fell fast.

Maurice looked back at the truck and saw the generator behind it. He tightened his grip on the gun. He listened to the swish of his horse's tail and turned to face her. "We're gonna need all the luck there is," he said to her softly. "She's gonna be a bad one. I can feel it." He touched his horse on the nose, long strokes, brushing off the snowflakes. She pulled away and the magpies squawked. "Shhh. It's for the best," he said. "You're a good horse. One that will go until you can't go anymore. And then you'll go some more." He continued petting her and she calmed and laid her head in his hand. "Horses and men, eh …boss?" he whispered to her. "Horses and men."

Maurice turned around and lifted the 30-30 to his shoulder. Her outline was dark and looming and malignant through the sleet driving horizontally. His first shot shattered the windshield. The second blew a hole in the grill. He re-loaded and emptied again on the truck, moving around it and shooting and re-loading and shooting from every angle, until he stood facing it, sweating. The gun felt hot and light in his hands. Gaping holes of smoking, twisted metal on the truck. Tires flat and useless. He saw the generator.

"That one's mine," said Harold quietly. "Damn thing has done nothing but make a racket." Maurice looked at Harold for a sign of mockery and saw none.

Maurice handed him the gun. "I'm gonna head in and get the fire started," he said.

Harold nodded. "Coffee's on me."

"It's better to wear out than rust out," Maurice said softly, looking at his horse. He walked towards the cabin, dwarfed by the snowfall.