The Saints of Swallow Hill(44)
Cobb had other ways about him too. Like how his eyes grew big and round when one of the other men farted, belched, or cussed more than was necessary. How he put his hand over his mouth the way some gal might for that sort a behavior. Maybe he’d been raised in a real strict family with refined manners. Maybe he was a pantywaist. One way or the other, he wasn’t cut out for camp lifestyle. Hell, if he had half what Cobb had, the truck and a fistful a paper money, he’d live up to Nolan’s call name and be “long gone.”
Del stepped onto his porch. His neighbor’s was dark still, and he leaned against his rail to have a smoke, listening for the work wagon. When he heard it coming, he went back inside to grab his dinner bucket and rinse out his cup. He met it at the fence as it pulled up, and as he had every morning since coming to Swallow Hill, he hopped into the back, but instead of acknowledging Nolan, Earl, and Leroy, or any of the other coloreds like he had before, he was quiet. This was out of respect for what Nolan had said to him at the juke joint. Of course, it hadn’t taken long for Crow to notice Del no longer engaged in small talk.
Not long after, Crow had said, “See? Thought y’all was friends, didn’t you? White man mixing with nigras. Shoot. Like a dog being with a cat. You reckon God intended that, Butler? Them nigras, they know where they stand. They know ’cause a what’ll happen. Ain’t it right, Long Gone?”
“Yessuh. We sure do. Always been knowing it.”
Crow said, “How about that, Butler? How come he’s smarter’n you?”
On this warm morning, with the sun sending golden rays through the trees and across the dewy ground, Del brought Melody out. He played a soft tune as they rode to work, and his music joined in with the creaking wagon wheels, tired sighs, and pain-filled groans from the others. All of them showed the effects of camp living and work. Covered in mosquito bites, sores from abscessed wounds, rashes, cuts, bruises, and scrapes, the men roamed through the pine forests like a pack of mangy dogs. None, including himself, were any better off for all the work they did, not from what he could tell.
The wagon ride was short, and before long, they’d arrived at the day’s hang-up ground. Del spotted Cobb running for the woods, bark hack held like a weapon, like he expected to fight the trees. He wished the kid well, and while he knew Ballard watched out for him, he could only make excuses for so long. Crow constantly brought it to Ballard’s attention, yapping about Cobb’s counts and how it was sending the wrong message to his crew. Said some thought they could do less work too. He put a pall over the work hands, filling them with worry over what he might do. They’d been working like this all their lives, and with their worn-out bodies, they wouldn’t last much longer than a baby bird without its mama if they were punished in the manner Crow liked.
Everyone unloaded, eyes lifted to a steel-blue sky while the sun stared down at them, not a blink of a cloud anywhere to be seen. Del swatted about his head, neck, and arms, where armies of mosquitoes swirled, landing on any patch of exposed skin. Fires burned nearby using damp wood to increase the smoke, an attempt at keeping the biting insects away. Mostly, it contributed to the hacking cough they’d all developed. Del felt sorry for the mules, their tails twitching nonstop, skin rippled and lumpy with bites. He’d heard tell of a mule stung so bad during the night in the Florida Everglades, it died.
On this morning, as the air hung heavy, Ballard appeared to cough more than usual. He rode bent forward, as if he was having trouble staying upright on his horse. He drew a rag from his pocket, wiped his forehead, and Dell noted the man’s complexion was a gray, sickly color. Maybe he was purely worn-out, like they all were. Del entered the woods, grateful for the solace among the pines. There was a slight breeze out of the west, and it was as if the trees whispered a soft greeting. With the soothing sound filling his head, he began his work. The morning went along nice and quiet, and before he knew it, the dinner break bell rang. He didn’t see hide nor hair of Cobb among those who ate, and rested under the trees. Soon Del was back at it, chipping his catfaces at a steady pace, occasionally hearing the other men call out, his own voice chiming in quick and sure. Crow wandered by more than once, for no good reason other than to make some snide comment.
“Y’alls lower’n low. You and Cobb. Worser’n their kind. The both of you go against what’s intended. Hell. Least they stick to their own. Damn shame is what it is. Downright common, you ask me.”
Del had become adept at tuning him out, and eventually Crow moved on. At one point, the baying of hounds owned by a woods rider named Woodall rose above the men shouting their call names. It had to be some poor soul who decided to try their luck escaping. Close to quitting time, more shouts filtered through the woods. Taking a final swipe at the face of his last tree, Del stuck the tool in his waistband and headed toward the yelling, expecting to see one of the runners about to be whipped. Instead, a group of men stood around Ballard, who had collapsed and was stretched out on the ground. Cobb was nearby, his hand over the eye that still bothered him. Crow stared at the fallen man and believed he was dead, but then Ballard quivered like he was having a fit. He tried sitting up, only to collapse on his back again.
Del approached one of the workers. “What’s the matter with him?”
“Got the fever, I betcha.”
Crow said, “Dewdrop, get Gus, tell him to bring the wagon round and to hurry it up.”