Nolan said, “S’posed to be ’cause a them barn swallers nesting in some of the buildings, but I say it’s ’cause what goes on round here is hard to swaller.”
The others grunted in agreement, and then, one by one, they slowly introduced themselves to Del.
“Earl Dillon, or Big Time.”
“Leroy Ratliff, or Dewdrop.”
Nolan leaned in toward Del and said, “Dewdrop’s also the name a the juke joint in the middle of the camp. It’s the only way round here to have any kind a fun.”
Del didn’t drink, but he reckoned he could understand it might help after a long day.
The next man said, “Jonesy Jones, or Steady Now.”
Nolan cut in again and said, “Steady Now, my foot. Every time I turn around, you gone missing. Best not let boss man see it happening.”
Jonesy rubbed the back of his neck and said, “I got something wrong with my innards. Can’t keep nothing down.”
Nolan said, “You right. Pecker a yours is always aiming for the sky seems like.”
The others snorted quietly against the palms of their hands, smothering their laughter.
The last man said, “Charlie Burns, or Burning Up.”
Charlie made a bizarre braying sound, not much different than a donkey, and Del believed it was the goofiest laugh he’d ever heard. It made the others snicker again, while their eyes switched here and there as if on the lookout for danger. The only other white man aside from Del was the driver.
He tossed his name over his shoulder. “Gus Strickland. Mule’s name is Dandy Boy.”
The men obviously trusted Gus or they wouldn’t have talked about the things they had.
Del scrutinized the mule. He was huge, at least seventeen hands. He’d seen ones similar when his family worked in turpentine. He was a draft mule and those could weigh as much as fifteen hundred pounds or more, a breed bigger than mining, cotton, or farm mules. Turpentine camp mules were surefooted and knew how to get through the tightest of spots between trees. Gus didn’t guide Dandy Boy. The reins were tossed over his knee, and he didn’t bother looking where they were going until Crow emerged from some section of the woods to ride alongside them. They reached the hang-up ground, where some had already arrived and were unloading. Another woods rider sat on his horse in the middle of a large group of workers, calling out to the men as they climbed out of the wagons. Upon first glance one might peg him as dangerous. He had squinty eyes, which darted about, never landing on anyone for too long, and a headful of dirty blond hair that hung over his ears, giving him the appearance of an outlaw.
In a gravelly voice, he yelled, “Go on and get them buckets hung up. Let’s go, let’s go!”
Looks aside, when he spoke to a worker here and there, he made them grin. Meanwhile, Crow and a couple other woods riders watched the ones in their charge as they left the wagons to hang dinner buckets on lower branches, and there was no grinning or cutting up.
Crow said, “Better be no mistakes today. Understood?”
The chippers and dippers mumbled varying degrees of assent, “Yassah,” and “Sho thing, boss man.” All maintained neutral expressions, eyes to the ground.
Satisfied, Crow prodded his horse and made his way over to the woods rider with the dirty blond hair.
Nolan grumbled as he returned from the hang-up ground.
“Got to say the same crap every mornin’。”
He seemed to be the leader when it came to the others’ thoughts and beliefs, because they again grumbled in agreement. Everyone clambered into the back of the wagon once more, and Dandy Boy leaned into his harness.
Del said, “He got any family?” gesturing toward Crow, who still talked with the rough looking woods rider.
Gus spoke up.
“He ain’t married, that I know of. Some old woman comes to stay with him now and again. His mama, I reckon.”
Earl said, “Alls I know, he loves a tree more’n he loves hisself. Jim Ballard, now, he’s all right.” He pointed at the blond woods rider. “He don’t go crazy if you got a problem with a tool or need to take you a little break long as you get the work done.”
Nolan said, “They’s lots of ways to meet your Maker round here. Could get the trots drinkin’ swamp water. I seen people get so bad, they like a dried-up turnip when they pass. Might get the fever, turpentine still could blow us all into the sky, or get killed over to that juke joint over a coin or two. But get on the wrong side a Crow? You get the livin’ daylights beat outta you or land in the sweat box, or both. I been in that thing once, and I ain’t gone back, naw suh. I know this too,” and his voice went lower, “he gone hide a body if sumpin’ happens. He’s law unto himself.”