Steve on the ridge
Steve walked up the clearing slow, the way a man walks onto ground he isn’t sure he’s welcome on. He had on his work clothes from the mill, with sawdust still in the cuffs of his jeans.
He didn’t say hello. He didn’t look at either of us at first. He walked straight to the end of the first stack, and he took a tape measure out of his back pocket.
He pulled the top board off and laid it across two others. He hooked the tape on the edge and measured the thickness. Then the width. Then he slid the tape down the length, all sixteen feet.
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He put it back and pulled another one, and did the same. Then another. He went down that stack and the next one, measuring a board here and a board there, maybe a dozen, maybe more. I didn’t count.
Logan stood by the mill and didn’t move. I stood by the stack with my gloves on and didn’t move either.
Finally Steve let the tape snap back. He stood there looking at the stack with his hand still on the last board.
“Two inch on the nose,” he said, to nobody in particular. “Every one. Six on the nose. Twelve on the nose.” He looked up at the barn below. “Clint said they’re all like that. I didn’t believe him.”
Logan said, “Yes, sir.”
Steve turned around, then, and looked at the mill. He looked at it for a long time, like he was seeing somebody standing next to it.
Then he walked over and put his hand flat on the head, the way you would put your hand on a horse.
“I haven’t heard this thing run in six years,” he said. “I heard it from the road in July. I almost drove in the ditch.”
Logan pointed down at the frame. He didn’t say anything. He just pointed.
Steve got down on one knee in the sawdust and looked at the scratches. W.K. 86. The little board with the arrows. The 8. The other little pictures all down the frame.
He stayed down there a long time.