The Saints of Swallow Hill(51)

Inside, the first thing he noticed was a clean shirt hanging on the nail near the bed. His gaze fell to the mattress and he gaped for a split second. He went closer and squatted down. Why, look at them fancy sheets. Cobb’s mother must have sewn them decorations. They had a woman’s touch, edged in yellow and blue, like his own mother used to stitch. Damn. Sheets like this were much too nice for the likes of this place. Cobb sure did have him some finer things in life. Del stood and glanced around the room. Maybe he had left, and only taken what mattered. What money he still had, his pistol, the truck. Didn’t need much else. Either way, Del needed to get back to his work hands. He felt somewhat annoyed by the kid leaving without a word, while also realizing he was pretty young, still wet behind the ears. He’d done good to stay long as he had, he reckoned. Maybe Ballard’s death scared him off. Del went out and shut the door tight. By the time he made it back to the men, they were stirring around, ready to begin. Everyone made their numbers that morning, some even going over a bit. This was good, considering it was going to be a blistering afternoon.

“All right, we got us a long, hot afternoon. Sooner we make the numbers, the sooner we quit.”

Preacher said, “We always work ’til dark, no matter if counts is done early.”

Del said, “It ain’t like that now. You do what you s’posed to, and we quit.”

The men glanced at one another before spreading out to begin again, and the afternoon was quickly underway. Still, they didn’t sing, and when he rode among them, they didn’t stop, they only worked harder as if avoiding conversation, other than hopeful talk of rain or catching a little breeze. It grew as hot as it had ever been, not a breath of air to be spared. He had Georgie bringing water often, and gave the boy a peppermint each time he did. The day wore on, and the air grew thicker, not only from smoke from the fires, but humidity. The sun baked them from overhead, and he felt as if they all might suffocate. He gave poor Ruby a break when he saw her coat lathered white with salt. He took his shotgun and left her to idle under the shade of the trees, grazing on small patches of grass. He had Georgie fill one of the water pails full and give it to her. She was still slurping as he walked away, following his workers. Of all the days he’d been here, this one beat all, an out-and-out scorcher.

It was midafternoon when someone went to yelling, a fearsome howling and hollering like nothing he’d heard before. It grew louder, words coming out like gibberish, before it stopped as abrupt as it had begun.

Del called out, “Who’s in trouble? What’s going on?”

Preacher was nearby, and said, “Could a been Birdie. I ain’t sure, though.”

Del said, “Let’s go see.”

They went deeper into the woods, and after going a hundred yards or so, sure enough there the worker stood, his back to them. He gave them a quick glance over his shoulder and then immediately faced forward again, to whatever had drawn his attention.

Del said, “Hey, man. What is it?”

Birdie didn’t answer, didn’t move again, except to shake his head.

Preacher said, “Boss man here, he talking to you.”

Birdie’s shoulders rose, and they heard him mumbling, “Can’t move. It gone get me. Red’n yeller, hurt a feller.”

Preacher said, “Got to be a coral snake.”

He and Del walked over to Birdie, but Birdie yelled at them, “It right there!”

Preacher shouted, “Whoa, lookout now! Damn! Damn!”

The snake, its telltale bright bands of color gleaming in the wiregrass inches from Birdie’s bare foot, felt threatened with three men surrounding it. Without warning, it struck and attached its mouth to the top of Birdie’s foot. Birdie screamed, all movement now, shaking his leg and swiping uselessly at the snake stuck to him like a burr.

Birdie cried out, “Help me, Jesus . . . !”

Del slung his shotgun off his shoulder.

Preacher said, “He still on’em! How you gonna shoot?”

Del said, “I got to do something!”

Birdie quit flinging his foot about and whimpered a prayer. Del couldn’t get over the behavior of the snake. It made a chewing movement on Birdie’s foot, like it wanted to eat it.

Del gripped the barrel of his shotgun and smacked the stock over the lower end of the snake. It released Birdie’s foot and Birdie stumbled backward, bumping into Preacher as Del flipped the gun around, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Where the head had been disappeared. The body rippled and curled as if still alive. Birdie pointed a shaky finger at his foot. Both Del and Preacher bent down, studying two tiny puncture wounds with twin spots of blood not much bigger than a pinprick.

Del said, “Don’t move.”

Birdie was too scared anyway and could only nod. Del removed his belt and used it like a tourniquet, cinching it just above Birdie’s knee.

When he was done, he said “Kin you walk?”

Birdie had calmed down some, his fear turning to wonder as he said, “I can’t tell I been bit. Ain’t no pain. Don’t feel nuthin’.”

Preacher said, “Maybe it didn’t get you too bad.”

Del said, “Damndest thing I ever seen, how it chewed on him.”

They returned to the work area and Birdie, who apparently had recovered from his initial fright, described to some of the other workers how he’d come upon it. Del listened to him tell his story, and he seemed all right, but a snake bite was a snake bite.