“What are your uncles like?” she asked, trying to imagine herself as the young bride on her way to meet new relatives.

“They’re fat.”

He hadn’t been to the ranch for years and would have to feel his way. They followed a blacktop road for miles, then turned left onto a dirt lane with a high turf ridge which scraped the bottom of the car. A light rain was falling. They both leaned forward squinting through the windshield.

Walter cut the motor. The car’s headlights revealed a thick patch of bramble and tall weed. She heard the soft continuous tap of rain.

He led the way to a small shed and pushed open the door without knocking.

“Georgie! Herbie! Get up!” he shouted. They stepped inside, hearing the damp sad groans of sleeping fat men. Walter lit a match. Two large mounds lay on a bed with a metal headboard; a soiled pink blanket left bare large areas of mattress ticking. One thick foot hung over the side of the bed. Walter began a noisy search. After a moment, he appeared next to her with a kerosene lamp which he lit, squatting near the open door where he could make use of the lights of the car.

Besides the bed, the room was furnished with a table upon which sat an empty bottle labeled Muscatel, and a kerosene stove. The only plumbing visible was a water tap which shot straight out of the wall and dripped into a bucket on the floor. Piles of clothes were scattered here and there.

“The sheep get the best rooms,” Walter said. The fat men slept on. Walter suddenly jumped directly onto the bed and, hopping up and down, made loud baaing noises.

A forlorn sigh issued from one of the mounds. There was a slight turbulence under the blanket as one of the sleepers rolled out from under it. He was clad in long winter underwear, the drop seat gaping. He knelt for a moment by the side of the bed, then, holding the mattress with huge pawlike hands, rose painfully to his feet and turned to see what was bothering him. Walter leaped to the floor next to him.

“Why, Walter!” he cried in a dinky voice. He yawned and shook his head like a horse bothered by flies. “Why, you’ve stopped by to see us! Wake up, Herbie. Our only nephew’s here. Who’s that? You’ve brought a friend? Just smell that creosote! We’ve been shearing all day. Wait…I’ll get a chair for the lady.”

He waddled to the door as Herbie rolled off the other side of the bed. He smiled when he saw Walter, staggered to the tap, turned it on full and smacked his face with handfuls of the water. “Must be late,” he mumbled. George returned to the shed carrying a stool which he placed just behind Annie. “Sit!” he said.

The smell of creosote was powerful but a hideous odor leaked through it, small, secretive, stinging, vaguely sweet, unmistakably sour.