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The sun stabs from the center of the blue. It’s a curious thing to muse on, there you are buttressed by chill, as the great, burning thing goes mad trying to pierce you with at least one of its speartips. You look back down to the cookfire in front of you. You’re seated in a ring, staring at the three men who’ve took you up on your offer. The girls who work for the camp prepare the lunch in big batches for the laborers. Sausage, tomatoes, cornbread, coffee, a ration of whiskey, and some smoked venison.
A woman brings you a plate, assuming your business with three of the lumberjacks entitles you to something like an official position for the day. You all eat in silence for a while. Quinton downs his ration and produces a flask. <span class="mu-i">”Can you hold that pardner?”</span> you say, chewing some gristle. <span class="mu-i">”I don’t take on sick men, if you can’t stuff that drink for tonight then there won’t be no happy endin’ for ye.”</span>
You’ve dealt with hard men all your life, and you’ve grown accustomed to how they might react to a laying down of things. What you do not expect is for Quinton to sleepily nod, and without comment stow his flask back under his goat hide vest. Mack eyes you somewhat warily over his plate. Edgar keeps his head down. Still, head down or no, he’s the first one to speak, tapping his heel on the ugly wood chair he’s laid up in. <span class="mu-i">”Alright now you know I gots me a very fine eye for men of quality and a fellow man of quality you is sir yes sir but I do need to be knowin’ now what exactly this nightly thing we doin’ is gonna be about now.”</span> Mack breaks off from looking at you to look at Edgar. He seems about to speak, then decides against it and looks back at you expectantly.
