Fletch’s mouth opened at this spelling-riddle. He almost drew his right hand out of his pocket in wonder, but he thrust it back quickly.

Darb leaned an arm upon the mantelpiece. His head reached full to where Father’s empty dynamite sack hung. “Son,” he said, “I was born big and awkward. Never a chair large enough. Couldn’t git my legs stretched proper under a dinner table. Against I was sixteen my feet stuck over bed footboards. Used to hunch my back, bend my knees a speck, trying to look like a human being. But them was fool notions. I be as I am. I got to be tuck that way. Well, now, I notice you’re allus hiding that three-fingered hand in your pocket. I say, wear that hand like it was a war medal. Wear it proud.” He turned to the door.

Father lifted both his hands, showing his leathery calluses. “Fear I’m going to lose all my hard-earnt badges,” he said. He laughed. Laughter caught in his nose, in the top of his throat. It was a kind of cry.

UNCLE JOLLY drove a jolt wagon into our back yard on a windy March evening. We came out into the gathering dark with firelight falling behind us, and our shadows walked before like giants. Father spat into his carbide lamp, striking the flint on his palm. The flame spewed. We saw the wagon, and the weathered tarpaulin spread upon it. The mule sniffed the slag smoke; he blew anxiously through his nose, gritting teeth upon the bit. He rattled the harness with flank shivers. Uncle Jolly latched reins to the wheel brakes and jumped down. He squinted, lifting a hand to shed light from his eyes.

“This hain’t a bird threshing,” he said. “Don’t try to blind a feller.” His voice was dry with weariness. He glanced curiously at Mother. She was holding to Father’s arm. He looked back upon the wagon, and we looked too. “I was a span coming,” he said. “Hain’t slept in three nights.” He began to untie the tarpaulin, though he did not lift it. He untied it all around, and then turned upon us, angry because we did not understand. “Set two chairs in the house to hold the box,” he said. We waited, huddled in the yellow light, not moving. He caught the tarpaulin and threw it over the jolt seat. A coffin box rested on the wagon bed. Mother drew back. She swayed, her knees bent, and she would have fallen had Father not caught her shoulder. He led her into the house and sent Euly after Nezzie Crouch. He came back to the wagon, whispering to Uncle Jolly. “Hit’s getting near Alpha’s time,” he said. Uncle Jolly yawned. He shook himself. “You could tell from here to Jericho,” he said.