She murmured, “I love you with all my heart, Warren Eugene Cobb. You was such a good husband to me,” and squeezed the trigger.
The sound was deafening, and the high ringing that followed quickly became muffled, like she’d stuffed her head with cotton. She let out one loud sob, then heard a noise behind her. She twisted around to find Butch Crandall in the bedroom doorway, looking at her in disbelief.
“Rae Lynn? What in tarnation is going on here?”
Chapter 7
Del
The shack rouser shouted and rang a cowbell at 4:30 a.m. Del groaned and swore to himself and he heard other work hands doing the same, their bone-deep fatigue echoing around the camp. He rolled off the mattress, the one he’d yet to fix, and went outside in the dark to relieve himself. Nearby pump handles squeaked, and the scrape of a log pulled from a wood stack blended with the mild odor from morning cook stoves and the fresh-scented pines above him. He was reminded of home, and of his mother in the kitchen in the early-morning hours cooking breakfast. He stretched, reaching his arms over his head. Her and Pap had been close, hardly ever apart their entire lives. Their dedication to one another was something, and he wondered why it came to him so clearly this morning. Since he’d come of the age where women interested him, that sort of commitment generally never crossed his mind.
He pumped his own water and splashed it over his face and neck. After he dried off, he brushed his hands through his hair, which still hung long, as did his beard, and realized he could smell himself. He’d not washed proper since he took to living in the woods, and his clothes reminded him of Ned Baker’s and Ollie Tuttle’s, stiff with grime. He had a tang he normally couldn’t abide, but it wouldn’t do him any good to stand out, particularly now. Inside, he fixed a pot of chicory coffee and drank every last bit of it laced heavy with molasses. He set some beans inside his syrup bucket with an opener he found hanging on a nail by the cook stove. It had to be good enough because it was all he had time to do. He stood by his fence, and to his left came the sound of creaking wheels. The sky offered a pale-auburn light from the east as the wagon broke through the early-morning haze. It came slow enough for him to hop into the back as it rolled by. The same workers he’d ridden with the day before sat hunched over, elbows on knees, heads down, whereas others sat sideways, staring into the woods. Everyone appeared intent on mustering enough strength to face a new day. Del caught a whiff like a few had been into something a little heavier than coffee. It wafted off their bodies, powerful and sharp.
The one-eyed driver looked back at him, the deep scars near his brow on the left side giving him a bit of a lopsided appearance. He turned back around but kept his head tilted in a way so he could listen to whatever might be said. Del got the sense the workers in the back weren’t used to a white man riding along.
He broke the silence and said, “Name’s Del Reese, woods name, Butler. My family, we used to work the camps. Grew up doing this sort of thing.”
The man who sat closest spoke in a low voice like he didn’t want to be heard.
He said, “Yeah? Well, what you think you doing now?”
Del hesitated. “What do you mean?
He snorted, looking around at his companions.
“I mean, what you doing, with us?”
Del kept his tone level.
“I’m doing like everybody else. Working.”
The man jerked his thumb at Del, gesturing to the others. “Like everybody else. How about that?”
The rest of the men said nothing, although a few sent a cynical look his way. Del figured he was the odd man out with whites and the coloreds, apparently.
After a while, the man said, “Nolan Brown, woods name Long Gone, ’cause one of these days, you watch, I’m long gone from here.” He assessed Del, still wary. “We ain’t never had no white man do the kind a work we do, not in this camp.”
Del said, “Ain’t no big deal, not to me. Work’s work.”
Nolan said, “Cause ain’t nobody gone do you like they do us.”
Nolan made a circular motion toward the others. Del’s experience in a labor camp had been with his parents when he was younger. He knew of what Nolan hinted about, but he’d stopped working camps after his pap and mother returned home, and had never experienced or seen what the other man suggested.
Nolan said, “What’s Butler stand for?”
Del gave a small laugh. “It was painted on the outside of a grain bin I worked in once. Swallow Hill’s an interesting name.”