“I'll throw him away,” he said. “It's bad enough like it is.”
He put the pup under his coat, and he crept to the barn wall and peered out between the cracks, toward the horseshoe game.
And then he crept around the end of the last manger and disappeared.
The sun streaks were high on the wall by now, and the light was growing soft in the barn.
Curley's wife lay on her back, and she was half covered with hay.
It was very quiet in the barn, and the quiet of the afternoon was on the ranch.
Even the clang of the pitched shoes, even the voices of the men in the game seemed to grow more quiet.
The air in the barn was dusky in advance of the outside day.
A pigeon flew in through the open hay door and circled and flew out again.
Around the last stall came a shepherd bitch, lean and long, with heavy, hanging dugs.
Halfway to the packing box where the puppies were she caught the dead scent of Curley's wife, and the hair arose along her spine.
She whimpered and cringed to the packing box, and jumped in among the puppies.
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