Bill Cheng - Southern Cross the Dog

I brought it in personally, Mr. Burke, he said. I take it it’s an everyday occurrence for you that a vice president brings in your shipments?

The foreman arched his eyebrows.

No need for sarcasm, Mr. Catkill. I’m listening.

He eased forward in his chair.

Good, Mr. Catkill said.

Since May I’ve had over thirty-eight replacement orders put in for this capital project, Mr. Burke. Most of them coming from this crew. Orders for replacement drills, mixers, turbines, motor saws, and last week, a slurry pump. It seems like anything that can be lost, broken, or stolen has been eaten up in this godforsaken swamp — and before I release another piece of expensive machinery to your crew, I would like to know why.

The foreman Burke tapped his ash onto the floor.

Well, Mr. Catkill, these aren’t everyday conditions here in Panther. There’s a lot of moisture. A lot of heat.

Mr. Catkill screwed up his face. He hated being lied to, of having his intelligence insulted.

Oh, come on, Burke. Don’t kid me. You think this is my first go-around? I’ve been to Black Canyon and I’ve seen what they use out there. Their equipment is practically ancient compared to what we buy. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? Three model six slurry pumps in three months? You and I both know we’re not talking about everyday wear and tear.

The foreman’s eyes were two slate marbles. He crinkled them at the edges, taking a full long measure of the vice president of operations from the home office. After some time, the man stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of his desk and slid open one of his drawers. He brought out a set of metal jaws.

Found this not too far off-site.

Mr. Catkill lifted it by its chain.

It’s a leg trap. A big one too. For hunting panther is my guess. We keep confiscating them, but they keep showing up. We’ll pull one out of the bushes, and the next day there’ll be another one.

I don’t understand.

Some of my men have been saying they’ve been hearing things in the woods. Seeing things that aren’t there. Frankly, I think they’re a little spooked.

Of what? Ghosts? That’s not what you’re telling me, is it, Burke?

The man snickered. No, of course not.

Mr. Catkill touched his thumb to a steel tooth. It was still sharp.

Then what are you saying?

This is Panther Swamp and everybody from around these parts will know that you can clear a good haul on beaver skin if the season is right. Now, it may not say so on any map of yours, but this is hunter and trapper land and—

Mr. Catkill cut him off. This is government land.

Burke shook his head.

You don’t know these people, Mr. Catkill. They’re not like most trappers. They’re worse than wild men. They got Injun blood mixed up with Scots and French and who knows what else. You see this place? Someone like you or me wouldn’t come out to a place like this unless we were paid to. Mosquitoes alone will suck you dry if you aren’t careful. Most days the heat is near unbearable. I got men on my crew who’ll pass out where they stand if they’re out in the sun too long. For us, it’s a hell. But for trappers, this is their home. They live here because no one else can or no one else will. And with all due respect to the home office, Mr. Catkill, they don’t give a damn about capital projects or budget sheets or requisition forms. They want us gone, and they’ll keep doing what they’re doing — setting traps and breaking equipment — until that happens.

Mr. Catkill’s left eye twitched. His head had begun to ache and he felt the small stinging pulse behind his temple. He rubbed small slow circles along the bridge of his nose.

Well, have you tried the police?

The foreman laughed.

No. You reckon I should?

The heat rose into his cheeks.

Of course you should! What do you mean?

We’re talking about livelihood, Mr. Catkill. Just like how I got to go out there and work my crew, that’s my livelihood. And how you got to go into your nice cool office with all your papers and your books and things — well, that’s your livelihood, and I’m not faulting you for that. But you take that away from a trapper, you’re taking away his bread, his meat, his whole way of life. You’re asking for trouble.

Mr. Catkill narrowed his eyes and looked the foreman up and down, at the trails of mud that’d dried across his belly. It wouldn’t be hard to have Burke transferred to some garbage detail or even fired. Except for the problems at Panther, his work record was exemplary. But the dam needed men of singular vision. Burke did not understand. The story of any great country is a story of creating value from nothing. From dirt and dust and patience. From one man there can spring cities. This was the problem with his type. The lack of vision. The absence of will. The unwillingness to sacrifice.

THERE WAS A CRACK AND they turned toward the door. Outside, voices were shouting over the rain. Mr. Catkill had started to speak but already Burke had rushed out to the site.

The men had massed and clustered all along the tributary edge. Get a rope! someone called.

Stay back. Everyone stay back.

Mr. Catkill ignored the warning and pushed through. There had been a blowout in the basin and the river had swept up one of Burke’s crew. Water flooded into the trenches, smashing down the weak retaining walls. Out toward the break, he could see the crewman. He was small and pale, spinning helplessly toward the river.

Don’t move, someone shouted. It was the foreman. We’ll get you out of there!

Burke lowered himself waist deep into water. He gathered the slack of rope around his hips and cinched it tight. He ordered three of his men to brace the other end, then he eased out into the basin. A ridge of silt rose up under his feet, darkening the water. Burke inched closer.

Mr. Catkill could see the crewman’s small white hands grasping for the soft mud. He was slipping. It gave way in wet sloughs. Burke was almost upon him now. He had his hands up, trying to keep his balance. Burke swooped forward and snatched the man into his arms. The rope went taut and the men anchored tight against the weight.

There was a great whoop and the men cheered their foreman. Quickly, they hauled the rope back in. Mr. Catkill watched. One grown man cradling another. They pulled them up off the banks and wrapped the fallen man in a blanket before laying him out under the heat lamps. A hail of cheers went up as the foreman unknotted the rope from his waist. Burke looked almost defiant, coiling the rope around his arm.

Mr. Catkill averted his eyes. He looked into the basin.

Burke! he cried.

Mr. Catkill pointed. His voice was high and clipped.

Look! The pump!

Somehow it had fallen in during the blowout. The crate rolled now on the current, making toward the break.

For God’s sake, Burke. Don’t let it get away.

No one would move. Catkill’s teeth were chattering. The rain was smashing around him. He could still see the box gliding slowly downstream. Mocking him. For a moment Mr. Catkill could not understand what was happening. He was aware of the wall of bright gleaming eyes that were fixed upon him. The men’s faces were dark and dirty, their hair set in wild cakey clumps. This was a mistake, he realized. He should not have come here.

There was a flash of movement. Something went up into the air, over their heads. Mr. Catkill looked up. It soared up, then plummeted back down to the earth. It lay muddy and inert at his feet. A work shirt.

Chatham! someone cried.

Mr. Catkill turned. The men surged together, tightening around a single point. One of the crewmen, a Negro, burst his way through a wall of arms. The Negro raced toward him and Mr. Catkill put up his hands, tensing for the blow. But the Negro ran past him to the tributary edge. Burke reached out. It was too late. He grabbed at the empty air, and in one swift movement the Negro launched himself into the yellow water.