The Saints of Swallow Hill

by Donna Everhart

asking for a job at one of the big ones, except he wanted to do something different, and turpentining was really what he knew. He’d gone only a little ways when behind him came the squeak of wagon wheels and the familiar clop, clop of an animal’s hooves. He turned and laid eyes on a man and three kids, all tow-headed boys, riding in a dilapidated wagon pulled by what had to be the ugliest mule Del had ever seen. The man said, “Need’n you a ride somewheres?” Del said, “I’m heading for that turpentine camp called Swallow Hill. You heard of it?” The man said, “Sure. Who ain’t? I can take you to the store a couple miles or so down this a way. You won’t have far to go after that. I’d take you all the way, but it’s due west and I ain’t going that direction.” Del nodded and hopped onto the back end of the wagon. He said, “Fine by me.” The boys turned around to stare at him. The man talked over his shoulder and said, “Name’s Tom. These here are my boys, Tom Jr., Samuel, and the youngest one is Tucker, named after my maw’s side of the family.” Del raised a hand in a half wave to the boys and got no reaction. They remained silent as clouds passing overhead. Probably taught to be seen, not heard, like him. He said, “Name’s Del Reese. Pleased to make y’all’s acquaintance.” He turned back around and faced the direction from which he’d come, watching as the red dirt rolled by under his booted feet, thinking about how lucky a man was to have sons.