The Saints of Swallow Hill(25)

Del said, “Ain’t nothing been missed.”

Crow swung a leg around and dropped to the ground. He went to a cluster of loblolly pines.

“Them two, and all them over there.”

Del said, “They ain’t marked. They ain’t turpentine trees.”

Crow said, “Says who?”

“You can’t chip much off’n them. They ain’t big enough, and they ain’t been marked.”

“Reckon you think you’re smarter’n me. Reckon you know it all. You forget yourself.”

Del said, “I ain’t forgetting nothing.”

“You questioning me? I said them trees is part a this drift; they’s fine to work, and you missed’em. Now you wantin’ to argue.”

Crow climbed back into the saddle and brought his horse around so he was behind Del.

Crow said, “Head on back to the camp.”

“What for? It ain’t . . .”

Crow unhooked the whip from the saddle horn, let it unravel so the tip rested on the ground. Del shoved the bark hack in his pocket and did as he was told. If the man was itching to have Peewee fire him, so be it. Distant calls from the other workers stopped as he and Crow made their way back the way they’d come. They passed by Nolan, who also stopped working when he saw them.

Crow said, “Long Gone, what’re you looking at?”

Nolan shook his head. “Nothing, boss man.”

Crow tossed his tally book to Long Gone, and said, “Keep up with their counts,” and to Del, “Keep going, Butler.”

Del was surprised Crow entrusted Long Gone with the tally book. This was more like it had been in the other camps, but he couldn’t think about that now. They passed by more workers, and one by one, each paused in astonishment before they quickly turned back to their trees.

Jim Ballard rode up and said, “What’s going on here?”

Crow said, “Mind your business, Ballard. I got this.”

Ballard said, “Ain’t getting involved, just asking.”

“He’s doing nigra work, it’s only fair he gets the same thing if he screws up.”

Del said, “I ain’t screwed up.”

Ballard gave a short laugh and said, “Since when you ever been fair? Where you taking him?”

Crow said, “Where you think? Move, Butler.”

Ballard said, “Peewee only said this morning every hand is needed.”

“He ain’t gonna be missed.”

Del said, “Hang on. I ain’t getting in that box.”

Crow said, “You got two choices. This”—and he snapped the whip—“or that.”

Ballard said, “Peewee needs to hear about this.”

Crow slowly turned to Ballard.

“Is that so? While we’re at it, maybe we’ll let him hear how you’re taking a nip here and there while on the job.”

Ballard rubbed at a lump on his neck and fell silent.

Crow said, “That’s right. I know ’bout that.”

Del had to hand it to Ballard. Least he tried. Del won’t about to be whipped, nosirree, only the idea of getting in that tight space made him think maybe he ought to take the first choice.

They passed a section of shanties where colored women hung clothes, sat on porches snapping beans with bowls in their laps, watching the young’uns playing with chickens in grassless, sandy yards. Nearby, voices rang out from the open door of a tumbled-down shack evidently used as the schoolhouse where children shouted their ABCs. All was normal until he and Crow appeared, and again, everything came to a standstill. What an unusual sight to behold, a white man on a horse, his whip taunting another white man. Del didn’t see the open mouths, he could only sense their amazement in the utter stillness that fell over the camp.

He couldn’t quite believe it was happening himself. He could run into the woods off to his left, except it would only give Crow reason to shoot him. They passed through the middle of the camp, while Del tried to think of how to stop what was happening, and then, before he knew it, they’d arrived. Crow got off his horse.

He said, “My old man once told me, lie down with dogs, get up with fleas. Go on. Get in, and get comfy.”

Del wished he had more fight in him, but suddenly he felt as ancient as one of them five-hundred-year-old longleaf pines. He did as he was instructed, and as soon as he sat, he was instantly surrounded by what he was certain was the smell of death. Crow took out his knife and got to cleaning his nails, mumbling to himself about the nature of things. Finally, he snapped it shut and stood over Del like a mourner at a funeral observing a deceased individual.

He said, “Don’t many last long in here. You be thinking on the error of your ways. Who knows. Maybe you’ll come out a changed man.”

He slammed the lid, clicked the padlock, and Del was entombed.





Chapter 8


Rae Lynn


Butch turned a skeptical eye on her and said, “It’s your word against mine.”

Rae Lynn, despondent and exhausted, repeated what she’d said one too many times already. “I done what I had to. He was in terrible pain. He was dying.”

Butch said, “Uh-huh. For all I know, you shot him both times.”

“Why in God’s name would I do that?”