A WINTER DREADFUL COLD it was. He thought before it was over that he would look like one of the bitter spruces that grew slant downwind out of the shale and lichens on the hogback. Coming up the mountain through the blue winter twilight among great boulders and the ruins of giant trees prone in the forest he wondered at such upheaval. Disorder in the woods, trees down, new paths needed. Given charge Ballard would have made things more orderly in the woods and in men’s souls.

It snowed again. It snowed for four days and when Ballard went down the mountain again it took him the best part of the morning to cross to the ridge above Greer’s place. There he could hear the chuck of an axe muted with distance and snowfall. He could see nothing. The snow was gray against the sky, soft on his lashes. It fell without a sound. Ballard cradled the rifle in his arm and made his way down the slope toward the house.

He crouched behind the barn listening for sound of Greer. There in the frozen mire of mud and dung deeply plugged with hoofprints. When he came through the barn it was empty. The loft was filled with hay. Ballard stood in the forebay door looking down through the falling snow at the gray shape of the house. He crossed to the chicken house and undid the wire that held the hasp and entered. A few white hens eyed him nervously from their cubbynests on the far wall. Ballard passed along a row of roosting rails and went through a chickenwire door to the feedroom. There he loaded his pockets with shelled corn and came back. He surveyed the hens, clucked his tongue at them and reached for one. It erupted from the box with a long squawk and flapped past and lit in the floor and trotted off. Ballard cursed. In the uproar the other hens were following by ones and pairs. He lunged and grabbed one by the tail as it came soaring out. It set up an outraged shrieking until Ballard could get it by the neck. Holding the struggling bird in both hands and with his rifle between his knees he crowhopped to the small dustwebbed window and peered out. Nothing stirred. You son of a bitch, said Ballard, to the chicken or Greer or both. He wrung the hen’s neck and went quickly through the nesting boxes gathering up the few eggs and putting them in his pockets and then he went out again.