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.”
Earl said, “’Member when Henry Goodall say he couldn’t work with them dippers ’cause a his back? He was hurtin’ something fierce. I mean, it ain’t easy rolling barrels when they’s full, even if you is feeling fine.”
Nolan said, “I ’member,” and he turned to Del. “He put Henry onto chippin’, and everybody a workin’, and me, I’m keepin’ an eye on Henry, and so’s Crow, like he hopin’ he gone mess up. Henry’s tool, it ain’t doin’ right. He keep on tryin’, but he know somethin’s wrong with it. He finally go on and take it to Crow to show him, and damned if Crow don’t act like he makin’ it up. Say for him to get on back to work. Henry, he say he can’t work with it, and Crow grabs it, takes one good swipe. Slit his neck open. Henry, he lay chokin’ on his own blood, and Crow says, ‘’pears to work just fine to me.’ Couldn’t nothin’ be done. He bled out like a stuck pig, right there. Henry’s family, they come lookin’ him and got told he run off. Everybody too scared to say or do nothin’.”
Del said, “Don’t Peewee do nothing?”
Charlie shook his head. “He and Crow go at it now and again, but that Crow, he sneaky now.”
Del said, “Why’s he called that?”
Nolan leaned in and said, “He say it’s ’cause crows is smart.”
Gus said, “It’s ’cause he brags. You wait. You’ll hear him.”
The subject of their conversation rode up and the men quit talking. As Crow called out names near various drifts to be worked, each hand hopped off the back and disappeared into the woods, until only Del, Gus, and Crow were left. Dandy Boy swung a wide circle to turn around, and Crow pointed to the area where Del would begin. He slid off the back, and as the wagon went by, Gus shot him a look he couldn’t interpret before disappearing down the path where he would haul gum to the distillery for the rest of the day. Crow followed Del into the woods, his gaze on the treetops, and his voice took on a different tone. Softer. Thoughtful.
“I read not too long ago how some trees don’t touch one another at the top, and if you look up, you can see a blue sky river cutting through the green.”
Del looked up, but the waving tops of pines revealed no sky river.
Crow said, “It’s a new finding. They got a name for it. Crown shyness.”
Del started to repeat the words, but Crow cut him off, still reflecting on what he’d learned.
“Trees of the same age and type don’t touch the branches of other trees at the top. It’s the order of nature, see. They think it’s ’cause healthy trees are trying to avoid the spread of disease that might damage them. Ain’t it something?”
Del said, “I guess.”
Del didn’t know what he was after, so he kept his answer vague. Crow snorted, giving his opinion of Del’s response.
“Every living creature knows to protect its species. Even the damn trees. I ain’t into muddying the waters. The white race needs to remain strong.”
Del said nothing.
Crow said, “Where’d you do work before here?”
Del said, “Clinch County.”
Crow said, “You work with the nigras there?”
“No.”
Crow leaned back in his saddle and spit a stream of brown tobacco juice on the ground, while he contemplated Del, who only wanted to get to work.
He said, “What you reckon about them nowadays?”
Del shrugged. “Who?”
“The nigras, what’s your opinion of them?”
“Just trying to get along like everybody else, I reckon.”
Crow folded his hands across the pommel and stared off into the woods.
He said, “Some seventy years ago when Lincoln wrote that emancipation shit, boy, that done it. It ain’t been the same since. One thing’s certain. It don’t count for nothing, not in these woods. I like keeping things as nature intended. We got to remain elevated, see. Stay clean, and pure.”
Crow leaned forward all of a sudden and whispered, “You ain’t one a them lowly nigra lovers, are you?”
Del started to back away, looking over his shoulder.
He raised his hands and said, “I won’t looking for nothing but a job. I ought to get started.”
“Yeah, you do that. Wouldn’t want you to fall behind or make no mistake or nothing. Trouble likes to visit when that happens.”
He gave Del a humorless smile before moving on.