He pointed at a clay cup and said, “I’ve heard of this, but ain’t never seen no one using it. Some’s still using the box method.”
Crow lifted his gaze from his tally book and for the first time seemed interested in conversing. “I recommended it. I don’t like cutting boxes at the base of a tree. It tends to make’em go weak, makes’em susceptible to falling over during storms. Bad enough when a lumber company comes in to tear’em down, but ain’t no need in not giving the tree a chance, especially if there’s a better way.”
Del nodded. It made perfect sense to him. He moved to the next tree, working at waist level, where it was easy to leverage the tool so it wouldn’t go too deep. By the time he’d chipped his fifth tree, Crow left him to work alone, moving to a central vantage point so he could track Del and the others as they called out. Del saw this as a good sign. He timed how long it took him to complete chipping a catface, including walking to the next tree. Twenty seconds. That was three every minute. He’d have 720 by the end of the four hours. It might be good enough, but he could go faster, get 800 maybe.
He shouted, “Butler!” over and over, his voice blending with the others he couldn’t see, though he knew they were spread out in the other wooded areas.
After an hour, his clothes were soaked. He hadn’t seen any water carriers yet. They were often colored women or boys who went around with a bucket and a ladle. He kept working while thinking about that feller trapped in the box. It had to be like being buried alive. Hell, like being in the grain bin. An occasional puff of wind brought a few seconds of respite, and he hoped the man could at least feel it too, but most of the time, the air was perfectly still, not even a pine needle moving. Water finally came by way of a reticent, dark-skinned boy who refused to look at Del. He had thin scars running across the backs of his legs.
Del tried to engage him in a bit of talk, but Crow, as if sensing a moment’s pause, appeared from out of nowhere, and said, “Boy, do I need to take my whip after your hide again?”
Del dropped the ladle into the bucket and wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve. The kid took off down the path silent as a moth in the night.
Crow stared after the water boy and said, “Shiftless, like his damn daddy.”
Del made no remark. The only sound from him was his tool striking marks into the next tree. Toward dusk and quitting time, the regularity of call names was unexpectedly disrupted by shouting and followed by a hoarse scream. Del straightened up and squinted toward a section of the woods. It could be all manner of things to cause a body to carry on like that. Snake bite. Accident with a tool. Patches of grays, blues, and tans began to appear in between the thick tree trunks, the colors of clothing from the other men riding in a wagon pulled by an enormous mule. Surefooted, it wound its way around the trees expertly. Another shriek, more yelling, and the men in the back of the wagon grew restless. They kept their eyes downcast as Del hopped on the back. The wagon’s wheels squeaked and again, a distinct crack, and another scream reached their ears.
The men ignored what happened a couple hundred feet behind them, like it was an everyday occurrence. Del could not. Crow rode behind a colored man who stumbled along while Crow’s horse shimmied sideways, head bobbing, disturbed. Crow raised a whip and brought it across the man’s back. The workhand fell to his knees, then his belly, silent now. Crow left him there, nudged his heels against his horse’s sides and caught up to the wagon.
He spoke to no one in general. “See what happens when you chip too deep and ruin trees? Keep doing it, and it’s the box. Same goes for any one of you. Skip or miss trees? Right to the box. Sometimes, it’s the stupidity of your actions, sometimes, it’s the kind a mood I’m in what might put you there. Don’t none of you forget it.”
Crow scanned the group, and Del, like the others, averted his eyes until Crow rode on. The wagon stopped.
The one-eyed driver said, “Go help him.”
Del and another worker took hold of the beaten man under his arms. His shirt, if it could be called such, was a burlap sack, holes cut out for his arms. Burgundy streaks marked the back in a crisscross pattern. The man wobbled between them, his bare feet grimy and stained black on the bottom with pine gum. Del thought, That kind of camp. Maybe this had been a mistake, but, he was already indebted. Leaving when one owed meant the boss men could do what they wanted. They were law unto themselves—would, and could, do as they pleased.
They might find you, but they’d make sure nobody else did. Oh, he done run off, is what they’d say, we’re still looking him.