Tears had begun to roll down Harold’s cheeks when Tucker first shot the horse, but he had cried so softly, so much within himself that Harry would not have known if he had not glanced down at him. Putting his arm around his small shoulder, he squeezed it, feeling the tiny bones, but otherwise let him alone, did not hurry to clean his face or clear his nose until later when he was certain the boy had stopped crying.

Mister Harper sat smoking his pipe. Loomis looked at the carcasses lying in the corral corners and shook his head. “That’s a shame. A real shame. Them were two fine animals. I might-a bought them if I’d known.”

Thomason laughed. “Oh, shut up. You got to borrow from me any time you want a drink. Where you expect to get the money to buy a cow and horse?” The other men took the opportunity to laugh, watching Mister Harper from the corners of confused eyes. He did not laugh and they turned back to the yard.

Tucker had come out of the corral and picked up the ax, which, in the late afternoon sun, glinted like a single match flare in darkness. Then he advanced on the twisted tree. It had once been the southwest boundary of the Willson Plantation, on which his great-grandfather and grandfather had been slaves and then workers. And it was told how the General had ridden out to this spot each day to watch the sun go down. Now it belonged to Tucker, as did this land. He put his hand on the trunk, running it over the ridges and smooth places, closed his eyes and moved his lips. Then stepping back one good pace, he cut it down. It was old, dry, tired inside and when it fell, it creaked like the wheels on Mister Harper’s chair. With no trace of anger or madness, only intensity, he splintered the tree, laid the ax in the dull gray chips and gathered some of the remaining salt into the satchel, and tenderly, as he might have planted seedlings, banked the salt high around the dead roots. When he was done he went toward the house.

“Say, Tucker!” Wallace Bedlow was calling to him from down the fence. “You planning on growing a salt tree?” The Negroes laughed uproariously, slapping their thighs. Tucker said nothing, and the men from the store porch were more bewildered than ever. They had climbed out of the wagons and cars and now lined the fence like birds. Stewart’s skin was greasy and he reached for his yellow handkerchief and tried to clean his face. “This is crazy. If one nigger can’t make out another nigger, no one can. Maybe we should call someone to come and take him away. He’s gone crazy.”

Harry called down from the wagon. “It’s his land. He can do anything he wants to it.” He glanced at the boy, who sat wide-eyed.