I allowed I'd just get it sharpened for a quarter or somethin. You never would be satisfied with it, said the smith. I can get a new one for four dollars. I'd better to have thisn and it right than two new ones. Well. Tell me somethin. All right. The smith stuck the axe in the fire and gave the crank a few turns. Yellow flames spat out from under the blade. They watched. You want to keep your fire high, said the smith. Three or four inches above the tuyer iron. You want to lay a clean fire with good coal that's not laid out in the sun. He turned the axe head with his tongs. You want to take your first heat at a good yeller and work down. That there ain't hot enough. He had raised his voice to make these observations although the forge made no sound. He cranked the lever again and they watched the fire spit. Not too fast, said the smith. Slow. That's how ye heat. Watch ye colors. If she chance to get white she's ruint. There she comes now. He drew the axe head from the fire and swung it all quivering with heat and glowing a translucent yellow and laid it on the anvil. Now mind how ye work only the flats, he said, taking up his hammer. And start on the bit. He swung the hammer and the soft steel gave under the blow with an odd dull ring. He hammered out the bit on both sides and put the blade back in the fire. We take another heat on her only not so high this time. A high red color will do it. He laid the tongs on the anvil and passed both palms down hard over his apron, his eyes on the fire. Watch her well, he said. Never leave steel in the fire for longer than it takes to heat. Some people will poke around at somethin else and leave the tool they're heatin to perdition but the proper thing is to fetch her out the minute she shows the color of grace. Now we want a high red. Want a high red. Now she comes. He tonged the axe head to the anvil again, the bit a deep orange color with pins of bright heat breaking on it. See now do ye hammer her back from the bit on the second heat. The hammer striking with that sound not quite metallic. About a inch back. See how she flares. Let her get wide as a shovel if it takes it but never lay your hammer to the edges or you'll take out the muscle you put in on the flats. He hammered steady and effortless, the bit cooling until the light of it faded to a faintly pulsing blood color. Ballard glanced about the shop. The smith laid the bit on the hardy and with a sledge clipped off the flared edges. That's how we take the width down, he said. Now one more heat to make her tough. He placed the blade in the fire and cranked the handle. We take a low heat this time, he said. Just for a minute. Just so ye can see her shine will do. There she is. Now hammer her down both sides real good. He beat with short strokes. He turned the head and worked the other side. See how black she gets, he said. Black and shiny like a nigger's ass. That packs the steel and makes it tough. Now she's ready to harden. They waited while the axe heated. The smith took a splayed cigar stub from his apron pocket and lit it with a coal from the forge. We just want to heat the part we've worked, he said. And the lower a heat ye can harden at the better she'll be. Just a low cherry red is about right. Some people want to quench in oil but water tempers at
a lower heat. A little salt to soften the water. Soft water, hard steel. Now she comes and mind how when ye take her up and dip, dip north. Bit straight down, thisaway. He lowered the quaking blade into the quench bucket and a ball of steam rose. The metal hissed for an instant and was quiet. The smith dunked it up and down. Cool it slow and it won't crack, he said. Now. We polish it and draw the temper. He brightened the bit with a stick wrapped in emery cloth. Holding the head in the tongs he began to move it slowly back and forth over the fire. Keep her out of the fire and keep her movin. That way she'll draw down even. Now she's gettin yeller. That's fine for some tools but we goin to take a blue temper on her. Now she gets brown. Watch it now. See it there? He took the axe head from the fire and laid it on the anvil. You got to watch her close and not let the temper run out on the corners first. Shape ye fire for the job always. Is that it? said Ballard. That's it. We'll just fit ye a handle now and sharpen her and you'll be on your way. Ballard nodded. It's like a lot of things, said the smith. Do the least part of it wrong and ye'd just as well to do it all wrong. He was sorting through handles standing in a barrel. Reckon you could do it now from watchin? he said. Do what, said Ballard. HE LAUNCHED HIMSELF down the slope, slewed up in snow to his thighs, wallowing in the drifts with the rifle held overhead in one hand. He caught himself on a grapevine and swung about and came to a stop. A shower of dead leaves and twigs fell over th~ smooth mantle of snow. He fetched debris from out of his shirt collar and looked down the slope to find another stopping place. When he reached the flats at the foot of the mountain he found himself in scrub cedar and pines. He followed rabbit paths through these woods. The snow had thawed and frozen over again and there was a light crust on top now and the day was very cold. He entered a glade and a robin flew. Another. They held their wings aloft and went skittering over the snow. Ballard looked more closely. A group of them were huddled under a cedar tree. At his approach they set forth in pairs and threes and went hopping and hobbling over the crust, dragging their wings. Ballard ran after them. They ducked and fluttered. He fell and rose and ran laughing. He caught and held one warm and feathered in his palm with the heart of it beating there just so. HE CAME UP A RUTTED drive and past the roof of a car sliced off and propped on the ground with cinderblocks. A light cord ran across the mud and underneath the car roof a bulb burned and a group of depressed looking chickens huddled and clucked. Ballard rapped on the porch floor. It was a cold gray day. Thick gouts of brownish smoke swirled over the roof and the rags of snow in the yard lay gray and lacy and flecked with coal soot. He peeped down at the bird against his breast. The door opened. Get in here, said a woman in a thin cotton housedress. He went on up the porch steps and entered the house. He spoke with the woman but his eye was on the daughter. She moved ill at ease about the house, all tits and plump young haunch and naked legs. Cold enough for ye? said Ballard. What about this weather, said the woman. I brung him a playpretty, Ballard said, nodding to the thing in the floor. The woman turned her shallow dish-shaped face upon him. Done what? she said. Brung him a playpretty. Looky here.