“Will you shut your everlasting trap?” Ginny said.

“We’re here for the horse,” Ella said.

“What we need is a plan, not catfights,” Saul said. “This is red-light stuff.”

“Let’s get her up,” Ginny said. “Then you two can get on home.”

Now it was time to tug on the halter, push her rump, rub her shoulder, speak into her ears. Dan tapped her with his whip, but gentle, then quit. The sun baked the blackened ground. The men unbuttoned and unpeeled to skin. The women rolled their jeans up. The roofs in town were pebbles. The stadium was a horseshoe. Crowd noise came from time to time.

“I wonder who’s winning,” Ella said.

“Sedalia will win,” Saul said. “Our ropers are better, but our riders are worse.”

“Who cares about roping?” Dan said. “Get her legs under her.”

“Come on, girl,” Ginny said. “Get on up.”

They urged, tugged, rocked her. “Son of a bitch,” Saul said.

“Lift her, goddamn it,” said Ella.

Saul ran down to make calls. The mare lay still. Another truck arrived in dust and parked at the barn under the saw blade. New arrivals climbed the hill with bottles in their free hands.

“I say it’s colic,” said one. He showed his pistol. “For the worst-case scenario.”

He set it in the crotch of the tree while Dan opened more beers with his ring, same as Saul. They talked cows and caliber for starters, then quick about the lawsuit on the Reservation, land claims the Indians were making, ridiculous, then sharpening hand tools—tips and turmoil over hoof clippers—an upcoming cannery auction, woodlots and a box truck with Canadian tags at a car lot in Romeo, looked like a find, kids off to college and empty nests, Shaw leaving town. Ginny sat by the mare and picked at her boot heels.

“How’d your place burn?” Saul asked.

“Fast and hot, thank God.” They chewed ice. “Colic for sure.”

“This ain’t colic,” said the third man, who borrowed a knife to slice buns that had just arrived.

“I’ve seen this before,” Saul said. “The foal presses the nerve during hard labor. Nerve goes numb.”

“Happens in all mammals,” said the neighbor with the pocketknife.

“That’s not it,” said the neighbor with the pistol.

“Get the weight off the nerve,” Saul said. “Stand her up and pressure’s off it.”

“Her intestines are inflamed,” said the pistol.

“They’re tangled with the female organs,” said pocketknife.

“She’s tired,” Ginny said. “That’s all.”

“Can’t be tired if she wants to live,” Ella said. “If she’s weak she’s dead.”

“Broken record,” Ginny said.

“If we could jack her up somehow,” Saul said.

“Hoist her,” Dan said.

“This horse is grieving,” said pocketknife.

“Horses don’t grieve,” said a man with a cold.

“Of course they grieve,” Saul said.