He ran almost upon Burnam, and started back, but too late to avoid the encounter. The turpentine operator was gazing despondently at the ruins of the still. His face was streaked with soot yet, as if he had imperfectly washed himself, and his face looked fatigued and worried and almost old. Joe expected another harsh outburst, but Burnam looked at him casually and nodded quite in his usual manner.
“Morning, Marshall!” he said. “You’re out early. Is there any hurry about dipping down in your orchard?”
“N-no. I don’t think so,” Joe stammered, quite overcome with astonishment.
“Well, you might ride over and look around, but I reckon I won’t send the men over there to-day. We’ll need ’em here to clear up. Some one told me—maybe it was you—about some barrels of gum catching fire. Did it burn much?”
“Six or eight barrels, probably,” Joe replied, recovering himself.
“That’s too bad. But I don’t know whether we’ll be turpentining the river orchard any more. I’ve got to see about getting a new still first, and the furnace’ll have to be torn down and rebuilt, I guess. Come back and tell me how things look.”
Joe muttered something inaudibly and turned away. He had no intention of ever coming back. But he was utterly amazed at Burnam’s manner. Could it be that, as Morris said, the man had been so excited that he had not realized what he had been saying last night, and had now entirely forgotten it. Such stories had been told of Burnam before. It did not greatly matter, however; it was not so much words as facts that weighed upon Joe’s mind. He felt sure that Burnam would get no new still. The camp would go under. Indeed, Burnam had almost admitted as much in saying that they would do no more with the river orchard—the best section of his whole tract.
As Joe walked slowly down the river road he reflected that it would greatly simplify matters for him if work on that river tract were given up. In fact, he would hardly have been able to dig into his rosin mine with the woods full of negroes.
As he went on the morning came up gloriously, windless and fresh. The damp clay-banks by the roadside glowed with crimson and vermilion: the scrub-oaks and pines beside it were dripping with dew. All the earth and its vegetation were drenched, and to avoid a wetting Joe sat down on a log by the roadside to wait till the dew in the woods had somewhat dried. Besides, he needed to collect his thoughts, to organize his plans.
He had sat there almost an hour, absorbed in schemes and speculations, when he observed a figure coming down the road. It was an extremely ragged negro, whistling loudly and carrying on his head a bundle wrapped in colored cloth. Joe recognized him with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.