Cotton was sitting on the church steps, working on a chicken leg and a cup of hot cider,
and enjoying the peace of a good church supper, when the men approached. They were
all farmers, with strong arms and blocky shoulders, a forward lean to all of them, their
fingers curled tight, as though they were still working the hoe or scythe, toting buckets of
water or pulling udder teats.
"Evening, Buford," said Cotton, inclining his head at one of the men who stepped
forward from the pack, felt hat in hand. Cotton knew Buford Rose to be a toiler in dirt
and seed of long standing here, and a good, decent man. His farm was small, but he ran it
efficiently. He was not so old as Louisa, but he had said so long to middle age years ago.
He made no move to talk, his gaze fixed on his crumbling brogans. Cotton looked at the
other men, most of whom he knew from helping them with some gal problem, usually to
do with their deeds, wills, or taxes. "Something on your minds?" he prompted.
Buford said, "Coal folk come by to see us all, Cotton. Talk 'bout the land. Selling it, that
is."
"Hear they're offering good money," said Cotton.
Buford glanced nervously at his companions, his fingers digging into his hat brim. "Well,
they ain't got that fer yet. See, thing is, they ain't a'wanting to buy our land 'less Louisa
sell. Say it got to do with how the gas lie and all. I ain't unnerstand it none, but that what
they say."
"Good crops this year," said Cotton. "Land generous to all. Maybe you don't need to
sell."
"What 'bout next year?" said a man who was younger than Cotton but looked a good ten
years older. He was a third-generation farmer up here, Cotton knew, and he didn't look all
that happy about it right now. "One good year ain't make up fer three bad."
"Why ain't Louisa want'a sell, Cotton?" asked Buford. "She way older'n me even, and I
done all worked out, and my boy he ain't want to do this no more. And she got them
chillin, and the sick woman care for. Ain't make no sense to me she ain't partial to sell."
"This is her home, Buford. Just like it is yours. And it doesn't have to make sense to us.
It's her wishes. We have to respect that."
"But can't you talk to her?"
"She's made up her mind. I'm sorry."
The men stared at him in silence, clearly not a single one of them pleased with this
answer. Then they turned and walked away, leaving a very troubled Cotton Longfellow
behind.
Oz had brought his ball and gloves to the church supper, and he threw with Lou and men
with some of the other boys. The men gawked at his prowess and said O had an arm like
z
they had never seen before. Then Lou happened upon a group of children talking about
the death of Diamond Skinner.
"Stupid as a mule, getting hisself blowed up like that," said one fat-cheeked boy Lou
didn't know.
"Going in a mine with dynamite lit," said another. "Good Lord, what a fool."
"Course, he never went to school," said a girl with dark hair rolled in sausage curls who
wore an expensive wide-brimmed hat with a ribbon around it and a frilly dress of similar
cost. Lou knew her as Charlotte Ramsey, whose family didn't farm but owned one of the
smaller coal mines, and did well with it. "So poor thing probably didn't know any better."
After listening to this, Lou pushed her way into the group. She had grown taller in the
time she had been living on the mountain, and she towered over all of them, though they
were all close in age to her.
"He went in that mine to save his dog," said Lou.
The fat-cheeked boy laughed. "Risk his life to save a hound. Boy was dumb."
Lou's fist shot out, and the boy was on the ground holding one of those fat cheeks that
had just grown a little plumper. Lou stalked away and kept right on walking.
Oz saw what had happened and he collected his ball and gloves and caught up with her.
He said nothing but walked silently beside her, letting her anger cool, surely nothing new
for him. The wind was picking up and the clouds were rolling in as a storm front cleared
the mountain tops.
"Are we walking all the way home, Lou?"
"You can go back and ride with Cotton and Eugene if you want."
"You know, Lou, as smart as you are, you don't have keep hitting people. You can beat
'em with words." She glanced at him and couldn't help but smile at his comment. "Since
when did you get so mature?"
Oz thought about this for a few moments. "Since I turned eight." They walked on. Oz had
strung his gloves around his neck with a piece of twine, and he idly tossed the ball in the
air and caught it behind his back. He tossed it again but did not catch it, and the ball