Project Purple

25 - The Tallyman

"America's more of a do-it-yourself country," he half-joked to Cookie, his explanation for the low numbers.

But Cookie was no longer giving Buford the hyena-like laugh, having replaced it with a shake of the head, followed by a convulsive twitch; an indication he was disappointed.

Buford was ecstatic the three-month opportunity had come along to take a break from toilets.

That first night at the quad table, the Buckskinner sat there after his off-color remark with a twinkle in his eyes, waiting ... And Buford wrinkled that big brow of a forehead, before giving the Buckskinner exactly what the man had expected-A thunderous belly laugh that echoed off the trees that rang the colony, as the other whites at the table squirmed in silent confusion; the Buckskinner had played him masterfully, and Buford took great pleasure in what he felt was an in-your-face genuineness, as refreshingly dissimilar to the Crackers in the world as one could get.

The Tallyman and the Buckskinner became quite close, and were often together, even volunteering for the less popular work details, if they could do the work together-preferring each other's company to anyone else's. They argued with each other a great deal of the time, but their exchanges were blunt, and interesting, and usually ended with self-deprecating laughs.

One muggy afternoon the Tallyman was wiggling a fishing pole in the stream. He frowned, up to his knees in the chilly, rushing water. The new, unsteady pole he had just constructed from a sapling was a poor performer. But he had time, and he loved standing in the water-It was so calming, and he always thought well when he was out there.

Then, upstream came a sudden black, amorphous shape, drawing closer, shifting into new patterns as it advanced along the watercourse. Buford stood there in the stream, frozen, mesmerized by the approaching contortion; it reminded him of the "Transformers" movies he had seen with his boy...

Then the formless black thing moved right through him and proceeded downstream. They were bugs, and he was completely engulfed by the black mass, yet not bitten once.

"They recognize a kindred spirit," the Buckskinner said.

Buford furrowed his bushy, gray brows.

"They were black fly... And you're black."

Buford gave a nod, "'Kindred spirit', very funny."

The Buckskinner sneered, "A joke's not funny if you have to explain it."

Through the swelter of summer they labored, the Tallyman shoveling out the squats and splitting logs. Most of the woodwork being done was now for fencing, and the Woodworker and free man Iverson cut and quarterred the logs, while Buford and the Buckskinner cleaned and split them.

The men were happy in these teams, and they had, for the most part, abandoned their attempts to speak the daunting language of the sixteen hundreds when they were together in the pasture.

"It's warm water and it's aerated and gentle," the Tallyman would say before swinging his axe.

"Aerated, huh?"

"That's what I said."

"Right up the old pooper, huh?"

Buford furrowed his brows. "What do you think we've been talking about all this time?"

The Buckskinner gave Buford's comeback make believe thought.

"What about the stink factor?" he then asked with a concerned look.