fall off, break, or rot away had. There were torn, dirty signs in the front windows
of quite a few of them – Fresh Bread, Fresh Fish, Clean Room to Let, Good Food, Corn Whiskey 30¢.
“They don’t exactly stir up a desire to rush right in, do they?” She sighed.
“Not one of them looks to have anything fresh, good, or clean to offer.”
The town looked deserted. The only human being they saw was an unshaven
man sitting in a rocker on the front porch of the house that offered whiskey for
sale. He touched a finger to the brim of his hat as they drove past and Olivia nodded back.
“We might as well go back down by the river and get our business with the
saw mill done,” she said and Mourning silently turned the wagon around again.
A water-powered gristmill sat on the riverbank. The bottom half of it was
built of crumbling stone and the top half of weather-beaten wood. Not far from it
was a makeshift tannery – a lean-to and some skins hanging on poles. Neither seemed to be working that day. Mourning drove toward the saw mill, which also
sat on the water, a little farther south. Its big wheel slap-slapped the river and a
small yellow dog came racing around the side of the mill to bark at them.
“I don’t hear any saws,” she said. “Nothing’s buzzing around here but these
green monsters.” She batted away a shiny horsefly.
“Ain’t much business goin’ on today,” Mourning agreed. He pulled lightly on
the reins and eased himself to the ground. She climbed down and followed him,
leaving a wide berth around the yapping dog.
“Don’t you even think about snapping at us.” She shook her finger at the mangy animal.
Mourning pushed the door open and peered into the dim light. “Hullo.”
There was a man inside, lying flat on his back on a worktable, feet dangling
over the end. Olivia might have taken him for dead, but at the sound of
Mourning’s voice he sat straight up. He squinted for a moment, then blew his nose into his hand and wiped it on his backside as he got off the table.
“Hullo to you.” His white beard was long and stringy and he wore only a
floppy gray hat, long-sleeved long johns, and scruffy boots.
“This be a workin’ mill?” Mourning skipped introductions. He often avoided
having to decide whether or not to offer his hand to a white man, and Olivia was
sure that was one hand he had no interest in shaking.
“Sure is. Right busy one. But ever body’s gone today. Some kind of goings on
over in Anthony. Picnic or some such. Left me here to keep an eye out. You come back tomorrow, you’ll see.”
“You work here?”
“Don’t come here for fun.”
“Can I order a door from you?”
“Surely can.”
Mourning drew a piece of paper out of his pocket. He had made a drawing of
the door he wanted for the cabin, showing the measurements. A pencil stub lay
on the table and he picked it up and wrote “Dor fer Skrugs Kabin” under the picture.
“Ain’t never seen no nigger what could write.” The man sidled over to peer
closely at the paper and Olivia guessed he was probably illiterate himself. There
