the already geared-up mules standing there swishing and slapping at mosquitoes while they waited for us. "Now, that's what I calls convenient—" he said.
"Shut up," Boon said in a fierce murmur. "Not a word. Dont make a sound." He spoke in a tense controlled fury, propping his muddy pole against the car and hauling out the block and tackle and the barbed wire and the axe and spade. He said Son of a bitch three times. Then he said to me: "You too."
"Me?" I said.
"But look at them mules," Ned said. "He even got a log chain already hooked to that doubletree—"
"Didn't you hear me say shut up?" Boon said in that fierce, quite courteous murmur. "If I didn't speak plain enough, excuse me. What I'm trying to say is, shut up."
"Only, what in the world do he want with the middle-buster?" Ned said. "And it muddy clean up to the handles too. Like he been— You mean to say he gets in here with that team and works this place like a patch just to keep it boggy?" Boon had the spade, axe and block and tackle all three in his hands. For a second I thought he would strike Ned with any one or maybe all three of them. I said quickly:
"What do you want me—"
"Yes," Boon said. "It will take all of us. I—me and Mr Wordwin had a little trouble with him here last year; we got to get through this time—"
"How much did you have to pay him last year to get drug out?" Ned said.
"Two dollars," Boon said. "—so you better take off your whole pants, take off your shirt too; it'll be all right here—"
"Two dollars?" Ned said. "This sho beats cotton. He can farm right here setting in the shade without even moving. What I wants Boss to get me is a well-travelled mud-hole."
"Fine," Boon said. "You can learn how on this one." He gave Ned the block and tackle and the piece of barbed wire. "Take it yonder to that willow, the big one, and get a good holt with it." Ned payed out the rope and carried the head block to the tree. I took off my pants and shoes and stepped down into the mud. It felt good, cool. Maybe it felt that way to Boon too. Or maybe his—Ned's too— was just release, freedom from having to waste any time now trying not to get muddy. Anyway, from now on he simply ignored the mud, squatting in it, saying Son of a bitch quietly and steadily while he fumbled the other piece of barbed wire into a loop on the front of the car to hook the block in. "Here," he told me, "you be dragging up some of that brush over yonder," reading my mind again too: "I dont know where it came from neither. Maybe he stacks it up there himself to keep handy for folks so they can find out how bad they owe him two dollars."
So I dragged up the brush—branches, tops—into the mud in front of the car, while Boon and Ned took up the slack in the tackle and got ready, Ned and I on the take-up rope of the tackle, Boon at the back of the car with his prize pole again. "You got the easy job," he told us. "All you got to do is grab and hold when I heave. All right," he said, "Let's go."
There was something dreamlike about it. Not nightmarish: just dreamlike—the peaceful, quiet, remote, sylvan, almost primeval setting of ooze and slime and jungle growth and heat in which the very mules themselves, peacefully swishing and stamping at the teeming infinitesimal invisible myriad life which was the actual air we moved and breathed in, were not only unalien but in fact curiously appropriate, being themselves biological dead ends and hence already obsolete before they were born; the automobile: the expensive useless mechanical toy rated in power and strength by the dozens of horses, yet held helpless and impotent in the almost infantile clutch of a few inches of the temporary confederation of two mild and pacific elements—earth and water—which the frailest integers and units of motion as produced by the ancient unmechanical methods, had coped with for countless generations without really having noticed it; the three of us, three forked identical and now
"Shut up," Boon said in a fierce murmur. "Not a word. Dont make a sound." He spoke in a tense controlled fury, propping his muddy pole against the car and hauling out the block and tackle and the barbed wire and the axe and spade. He said Son of a bitch three times. Then he said to me: "You too."
"Me?" I said.
"But look at them mules," Ned said. "He even got a log chain already hooked to that doubletree—"
"Didn't you hear me say shut up?" Boon said in that fierce, quite courteous murmur. "If I didn't speak plain enough, excuse me. What I'm trying to say is, shut up."
"Only, what in the world do he want with the middle-buster?" Ned said. "And it muddy clean up to the handles too. Like he been— You mean to say he gets in here with that team and works this place like a patch just to keep it boggy?" Boon had the spade, axe and block and tackle all three in his hands. For a second I thought he would strike Ned with any one or maybe all three of them. I said quickly:
"What do you want me—"
"Yes," Boon said. "It will take all of us. I—me and Mr Wordwin had a little trouble with him here last year; we got to get through this time—"
"How much did you have to pay him last year to get drug out?" Ned said.
"Two dollars," Boon said. "—so you better take off your whole pants, take off your shirt too; it'll be all right here—"
"Two dollars?" Ned said. "This sho beats cotton. He can farm right here setting in the shade without even moving. What I wants Boss to get me is a well-travelled mud-hole."
"Fine," Boon said. "You can learn how on this one." He gave Ned the block and tackle and the piece of barbed wire. "Take it yonder to that willow, the big one, and get a good holt with it." Ned payed out the rope and carried the head block to the tree. I took off my pants and shoes and stepped down into the mud. It felt good, cool. Maybe it felt that way to Boon too. Or maybe his—Ned's too— was just release, freedom from having to waste any time now trying not to get muddy. Anyway, from now on he simply ignored the mud, squatting in it, saying Son of a bitch quietly and steadily while he fumbled the other piece of barbed wire into a loop on the front of the car to hook the block in. "Here," he told me, "you be dragging up some of that brush over yonder," reading my mind again too: "I dont know where it came from neither. Maybe he stacks it up there himself to keep handy for folks so they can find out how bad they owe him two dollars."
So I dragged up the brush—branches, tops—into the mud in front of the car, while Boon and Ned took up the slack in the tackle and got ready, Ned and I on the take-up rope of the tackle, Boon at the back of the car with his prize pole again. "You got the easy job," he told us. "All you got to do is grab and hold when I heave. All right," he said, "Let's go."
There was something dreamlike about it. Not nightmarish: just dreamlike—the peaceful, quiet, remote, sylvan, almost primeval setting of ooze and slime and jungle growth and heat in which the very mules themselves, peacefully swishing and stamping at the teeming infinitesimal invisible myriad life which was the actual air we moved and breathed in, were not only unalien but in fact curiously appropriate, being themselves biological dead ends and hence already obsolete before they were born; the automobile: the expensive useless mechanical toy rated in power and strength by the dozens of horses, yet held helpless and impotent in the almost infantile clutch of a few inches of the temporary confederation of two mild and pacific elements—earth and water—which the frailest integers and units of motion as produced by the ancient unmechanical methods, had coped with for countless generations without really having noticed it; the three of us, three forked identical and now
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