At eleven o’clock Nezzie Crouch came for Father, sending him abroad into the camp. She took the rio lamp away, leaving a squatty wall-burner. Flames leapt on the sorry wick. Shadow-moths beat wings against walls and ceiling. Old Bartow sat on the porch, and though I neither saw nor heard him, I knew he was there wrinkling his nose, sniffing. My eyes dwelt on Grandma. Now that we were alone I longed to speak a word to her, a word to endure, a word to go with her to the burying-ground. What word? I could not think. Father would be returning soon and I must hasten. My breath quickened. My throat seemed a stretched thong. I heard steps. I leaned out of my chair, my eyes straining toward the coffin box. “Grandma/’ I called. “Grandma.”

Father came into the room. His teeth chattered. “They’ll be a skim o’ ice come morning,” he said. I heard the back door open and close; I heard voices, and the chock of women’s feet upon the floor. A fire was lighted in the kitchen stove. A tub of water was set to boil.

After midnight Uncle Jolly started on the bed. He jumped to his feet, stamping the floor. “Kill that robber cat!” he shouted. Old Bartow was sitting under the coffin box, his head lifted, his nose trembling. He had stolen in unbeknownst. He whirled, springing through the door, swift as a weasel. Uncle Jolly drew on his boots and did not sleep again. He sat on the brass-bound trunk rubbing his eyes, and began to talk. The wall lamp was burning steadier. The room seemed to wake.

“I fotched me a good mule all the way from Mt. Sterling,” Uncle Jolly said, “and I’ve cleared new ground for planting. Grubbed roots middle o’ winter, hit was so warm. Come spring, I’m going to put in an early crap.”

“Spring’s here a’ready,” Father said. “Hit’s been since Ruling Day.”

“I saw green rashes yesterday,” Uncle Jolly said, “but I never figure spring’s in for shore till the basket oaks sprout buds. Never spring till a titmouse whistles lonesome.”

Father slid hands into his breeches, seeking warmth. “You hain’t told the burying plans,” he reminded. “Alpha will want to know when she’s able to be told.”

“I’m doing what Ma said do,” Uncle Jolly replied. “Taking her to Flat Creek graveyard.” He seemed irked by Father’s asking. He cocked his head, listening for the mule, and tried to peer through a window. “You know what?” he said. “When I come into Blackjack Holler I says to myself: ‘Why’s this camp so dole-some?’ Dark was setting in nigh half the houses. Nobody on the road.”

“Twenty-seven houses empty.”

“Where on God’s square earth did they go?”

“Somewheres, hunting work and bread.”

Uncle Jolly eyed Father curiously. “You hain’t been cutoff?”

“I quit free-will.”

“Be-grabs. Your woman called to straw, and it hard times.”

“I tuck a notion.”

Uncle Jolly shrugged. He lifted a hand toward me. “Never I’d be a raggedy-rump miner.”