A tall, spare, oldish man sat within, writing at a plain table. Charley Craig was a well-known figure in central Alabama, and is so still. All his life had been spent in contact with the long-leaf pine; he had turpentined the trees, lumbered them, run sawmills. The rosin of the gum must have preserved his youth, for he was past sixty, but still able to ride, run, or fight with almost any of the young fellows he employed.
“I understand you want a woods rider, Mr. Craig,” Lockwood explained himself.
Craig searched him up and down with piercing gray eyes.
“You understand the turpentine business? Come in and take a seat,” he said. “I may need another man for a while. One of my men got hurt. You’ve done this job before?”
“No, I never rode the woods,” Lockwood admitted, “but I think I understand what the job is. I’ve worked in camp in west Florida. I know something about the still, and how to run a charge——”
“Can you ride?”
“Yes, after I get over some saddle soreness.”
“Know how to handle the men? The turpentine nigger is a special sort, you know—tough devils, and hard to manage.”
“I’ve lived among niggers all my life, and I reckon I can handle most of ’em.”
“What wages do you want?” Craig asked, after a little thought.