If a law man got involved, the boss would say, You catch him, haul him back here, he owes me.
They helped the man into the wagon and moved on. As they arrived to the outskirts of the camp, Del saw the lid to the sweat box was propped open and there was no sign of the earlier occupant. Crow was already on his porch, sharpening his ever-present knife. He didn’t lift his head, or acknowledge the wagonload of hands as they passed him by. It was as if they didn’t exist to him now the workday was done. Del looked at the beaten man in the bottom of the wagon, trying to determine which would be worse, that box, or a whip.
The next morning, Del arose before the cowbell, having had a troublesome sleep. He took a moment to walk among some older catfaced pines nearby, eyeing the scarified trunks, the marks obvious against the bark in the moonlight. He felt along the bone-hard wood beneath the old scrapes and took notice of the fresh, virgin timber beyond yet to be tapped. He figured he’d give it some time, see how it went, see if what he’d seen so far was typical or not. He only wanted to blend in, get his work done. Find the rhythm to his days here. Five thirty found him waiting for the wagon by the fence and when it came, he got in, sat on the tailboard, his back to the rest of the hands. Crow smirked at him. At the hang-up ground, he fell in with the group as they made their way to the large shade tree. He hung his dinner bucket over a branch, noticing how no one talked. They quickly hopped back into the wagon and as it pulled them through the woods, Crow called out their woods name, and one by one they jumped off the back and disappeared.
Crow said, “Butler!” and Del moved with purpose.
He walked into pine-laden forest and examined the chip marks. They were deep, deeper than he’d make, and he hoped the trees weren’t ruined. The area was marked well, the bases of the pines having been raked back during the cold months. He got started. Two thousand trees meant no time to ponder on much other than chipping and calling out his name, over and over. As he worked, he got to thinking about the longleaf they’d planted back home, wondering how it looked now. Maybe he’d plant more there some day, and no matter it might take fifty years for’em to grow, they’d outlive him and his sons, if he ever had any.
His pap once explained the trees could survive five hundred years. Del’s dream continued with him imagining himself teaching his own boys about how land and trees like the longleaf were richer than any money they might earn. How, if they weren’t careful, it could all disappear. He’d seen it. Like Crow alluded to, entire forests were wiped out after tapping the trees to the point of being dried up. Then, lumber companies came to clear-cut the wood. Shoot, someone once said a squirrel could start from treetops in Virginia and get to Texas without ever touching the ground. He’d bet this was no longer the case.
Though he had his doubts about Swallow Hill considering what he’d seen so far, he was here now, so he’d make the best of it. He didn’t stop all afternoon, though he’d not had much to eat since he’d taken to the woods and wasn’t as strong as he’d been at the Sutton farm. The work was hot and difficult, but he chipped fast and accurate, gaining confidence. He’d estimated doing 167 trees per hour sunrise to sunset. He’d make his numbers, and as long as he kept up, he’d do all right, at least this was what he chose to believe.
Chapter 6
Rae Lynn
Pain riddled, agitated and morose, Warren kept moving around in the bed to the point neither one of them slept much. It had been four days since the accident, and Rae Lynn’s head throbbed from lack of sleep and worry. She rose and went into the kitchen for some aspirin, and when she returned to the bedroom, she stopped to watch Warren swing his feet over the side of the bed and make an attempt to stand. He stayed bent over, his arm over his midsection. Rae Lynn was transfixed, holding her breath. Some part of her willed him on, willed him to move without pain, to put things back to normal for them. Gripping his side, he slowly straightened, but before he’d unfolded himself, he doubled over again, gasping in distress. Her shoulders sagged with disappointment. She went to the bedside and stood by him. Warren’s head hung down and he didn’t bother to lift it.
“You shouldn’t have tried. It’s too soon.”
He whispered, “Where’s my horse?”
She’d been about to put her hand on his shoulder, but what he’d said was so strange, her hand fell away.
Bewildered, she said, “We ain’t got no horse.”
“Huh?”
Rae Lynn put her hand on his forehead. It felt clammy.