Doll was picking squash next row over from her older sister Sheba, who was scrapping through the sprawl of vines for pickling cucumbers. Both went still at the same time, listening to horse hooves clopping down the road toward the
long, low house.

In the flatwoods of Southeast Georgia, Doll Baxter was raised knowing that when she heard somebody coming, they would likely be coming to see the Baxters. Otherwise, they would have taken one of the other few connecting roads leading to the houses of the Baxters' few neighbors, who were likewise walled in by pines. Land so flat and swampy it turned to crawfish dirt when it rained and sand bogs when it didn't rain, and the roads alternated between mud gullies and swollen sand. But scattered as they were, the neighbors seemed within hollering distance; when somebody had a house fire, got sick, or died, they would pop up out of the woods like squatters on your property. Sunday meetings at Bony Bluff, Doll could see them all in one bunch and count no more than seventy-five head, including children by the dozen belonging to a single household.

Doll often thought of the eastern section of Echols County and her spot in it as the wheel that makes a clock's hands move and the hands themselves pointing north at twelve o'clock to Homerville, east at three to Fargo and the Okefenokee Swamp, west at nine to Statenville, and south at six to Jasper, across the Georgia/Florida line. Commonplace were the spotty was-towns in between that thrived when the sawmills moved in and withered when they moved out, except for those living on as lumberyards. Time had a lot to do with the distance from Doll's place to any place, all within a day-ride radius of twenty miles by buggy or wagon, and all born of roving saw-mills for sawing lumber and railroads for transporting farm produce, timber, turpentine and cotton to the riverport in Savannah or to the seaport in Jacksonville, both a day away by rail, then on to the rest of the world, which hadn't yet figured into Doll's perception of time and space.

Sheba stood with her white apron bundling cucumbers. Her eyes were fixed on the left front corner of the picket fence where horse and rider would show any minute around the blind of pines. She was wearing her faded yellow dress and a hickory-stripe bonnet belonging to her mother. Her eyes were
wide set, her breasts wide set, broad face red from bending.

Doll watched too, but kept picking the smooth yellow crookneck squash. She broke one off at the throat and had to crop the neck separate, dropped both into the oak stave bucket.

The sun at eleven o'clock was beating down on the square garden, on the shingle roofs of the house to the right of the garden and the barn behind the house, and sliding back the shadows of tall loblolly pines from the white sand road. Smoke gusted from the brick chimney of the wood stove-a reminder
that it was hotter in the kitchen than outside. Smells of burning oak, baked earth and steeping greenery. A wonder-so much green-given the fact that they'd had no rain for weeks, had been watering the garden straight from the well.

The cattle grazing the woods across the road raised their heads, then registering the source of the new sound nosed into the fountains of wiregrass again.

Doll lifted her heavy hair from her neck. It was black as fur of otter, glistened as if it were wet, and rippled. down her back in loose spun curls. When it grew past her waist, she got her mother or Sheba to trim it, and she used the excuse that it was too dense to bunch on back of her head, because at seven teen she'd already learned that boys were drawn to her hair like hummingbirds to red.

The horse was now clipping at a smart eager trot. Closer but not close enough yet.

Doll stooped to pick another squash from the prickly bush. Still Sheba stood watching.

From the kitchen at the rear of the house, their mother, Mrs. Baxter, clanked a spoon on a pot rim. Across the woods, the turpentine men dumping gum from their dip buckets into the barrels rapped them as if in answer. The rumor of a timber train at the turpentine camp called Tarver was followed by a series of clear brass whistles and bells. Locusts droned, crickets sang in the grass, and bees harmonized in the pear tree at the far end of the garden rows. All backdrop to the rhythmic trotting of the horse.

A breeze hassled the corn leaves at Doll's back but she could feel no breeze. Her blue eyes teared from staring at the bright sand road, then spangled when she looked down at the green bushes.

Guineas, a dozen strong, cried out and scooted like shadows across the yard.

"Daniel Staten," said Sheba. "Oh my God, Doll, it's Daniel Staten." She let fly the apron full of cucumbers and began hopscotching through the cucumber vines toward the back yard. Her yellow skirt filling with air as she hiked it above her knees, old brown shoes picking up and putting down. The bonnet sailed from her head to the swept dirt yard. Ducking under the well sweep, she crashed through a gathering of butterflies nursing on the soured mud from the water shelf run-off, and climbed up on the back porch. She stood and beganwashing her face and arms in the water bucket, not even having bothered with dipping some into the wash pan.

"Doll," she shushed, "don't mention we got a bear in the barn, swear to God you won't." Then quick as the sun when it went down behind the tree line each day her yellow dress vanished from the shadow-capped porch.

Doll could tell when she passed the kitchen, going up the hall. "What in the world?" asked Mrs. Baxter.

"Daniel Staten." Sheba's flat voice sounded throughoutthe house. "Help me dress."

"For goodness sake, Bathsheba! " said Mrs. Baxter. "He's not God. Besides, he's too old for you. Not to mention too experienced. We may be poor but we are still ladies?"

"Go! Go talk to him on the front porch while I get dressed." Her voice raveled out. "Honest to goodness, if he finds out about the bear, my chances are ruined. " .

"I wish those beekeepers would come on and cart that thing off to the Okefenokee or kill him, one. "

"No, not kill him. Hush, Mama."

"Well, he's gone be right back in our honey if they don't. And after us going to all the trouble of trapping him. "

Big shush. " Mama, Daniel will hear you. "

"Who ever heard of a girl making a pet out of a bear?" Mrs. Baxter clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth.

They'd been at this same row for days. As for Daniel Staten, none of them really knew him, only who he was, some bigshot plantation owner from down around Statenville, west at least twenty miles, who had for reasons of the heart suddenly become important in their lives. Sheba had taken a shine to him
at Sunday meeting a while back and had laid claim solely on the grounds that she couldn't live without him.

Nothing new about that. Sheba was forever falling in love, and her mother and sister both had given up trying to prevent her falling and saved their energy for her rescue. Mrs. Baxter never said, Do like Doll and ignore the boys and they'll be swarming all around you. She never said that because it encouraged comparison-and didn't they get enough of that from neighbors and strangers? Besides, she feared what worked for her pretty younger daughter wouldn't work for her plain older daughter. So far Mrs. Baxter felt she had succeeded in teaching the girls that pretty is as pretty does, and the proof was in how close they were despite the difference in their personalities and looks. What really evened things up though was Sheba's whopping sense of humor. Except where boys were concerned and Mrs. Baxter, blessed with a funny bone or two herself, made it known that in her opinion boys will be boys and for the most part their brains are located in their unmentionables.

Doll watched the sleek black stallion and the tall bearded man, fair as the horse was dark, both proud with their heads high. He had on a white shirt, black pants, hat and boots. His hair was gold brown, his beard gold brown, green eyes set deep in a prominent brow. He rode up to the paling gate with
an iron bell hanging from the .notched and rotting hinge post. As he started to dismount, swinging his long right leg over the pommel of the saddle, the horse stepped sideways and Daniel had to leap to the ground. He landed on both feet, just short of a squat and backing, then caught on his left leg and spun round like a dancer.

"I'll break you from that if I have to break your damned neck," he said, speaking low and for the stallion's ears only. Which meant he hadn't spotted Doll yet. He switched him across his face with the reins and reset his hat. The horse neighed, reared, then stood shuddering away its mantle of mayflies.

Daniel tied the reins to the brace of the picket fence, right side of the gate, and stepped inside. The yard bell overhead rang, dull as a cowbell. He stilled it with one hand, took off his hat and smoothed his hair.

From the garden, Doll could hear the bear rattling his cage in the barn. Then his "unh unh unh " substitute growl. Sheba claimed he grunted like a gator; Doll thought he sounded more like a hog. But get downwind of his sharp wild scent. ..Doll laughed to herself and picked another squash, dropped it in the bucket. She would give that old fence about two minutes to stay standing and that horse smelling bear.

"Morning, Mr. Staten," said Mrs. Baxter, stepping from the hall to the porch.
"Mrs. Baxter," he said. "How are you this morning?"
"Fine, and you?"
"Been over to Four-mile Still with a load of gum. Thought I'd check on you ladies out here in the flatwoods before I head home. "

The horse yanked on the reins; the entire section of fence to the right of the gate rattled and shook. Daniel scolded the stallion.

"Sheba'll be out in a minute. Come on in and have a glass of tea. "

"I'll just wait out here, ma'am." He didn't say that he had to mind the stallion, but the horse was swinging his fine head, and prancing in place.

"Well, have a seat, won't you? I've got to see to my corn before it scorches. "

He sat in the swing on the south end of the porch, his back to Doll, who was gathering Sheba's cucumbers in her arms.

Inside, Sheba sounded like she was slinging a coil of haywire. A door clapped shut. Dull thumps-her old shoes slung, one here, one there. Bare feet padding room to room, then the light, quick clicking of her Sunday shoes.

"Just June and hot already," said Mrs. Baxter, done stirring her corn and out on the porch again. " And dry, my gracious! "

"They say it's the same allover. Cattlemen from Texas to the Dakotas are selling out. "

The bear in the barn growled feebly, the stallion whinnied. He jerked the reins, the fence rattled, shook and quivered like wind-blown broom sage from picket to picket, gate to corner posts.

Daniel stood, scolded him, and sat again. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't know what's got into him."

Mrs. Baxter laughed weakly. "No need to apologize, Mr. Staten. Animals will be animals, we all know that. "

Doll almost laughed out loud. Poor Mama! First she accidentally announces that Sheba is in love with him by saying she'll be out in a minute; and now Daniel Staten probably thinks they have a mare in heat in the barn out back and has to be cautious mentioning the antics of the stallion, now rearing, snorting and walling his eyes. "Two minutes up," Doll whispered. "Look out fence!"

"You will stay for dinner, won't you?" Mrs. Baxter asked. "The girls would just love hearing all about President Cleveland's wedding at the White House."

"I'd like that, ma'am, but I've still got a good long ride ahead of me. " He said something about turpentine that Doll couldn't make out clear. Only that slow, thoughtful, commanding monotone. She heard mention of the Savannah Cotton Exchange, which was responsible for setting market prices all, over the world. He said he was sorry to hear about Mr. Baxter dying and to let him know if he could do anything.

On the front porch too now, Sheba spoke out in a breathy put-on voice.

The horse stepped side to side and back, gave one last mighty snatch on the reins, and the right fence panel collapsed intact to the ground. The stallion reared, bringing with him a two-by-four and about a dozen snapped pickets and the hinge post with the bell dangling chest-high and wobbling side to side. He made a forward lunge toward the porch where Daniel stood waving both arms and shouting as if to head him the other way, which happened to be south and around the house. Bib of pickets harvesting pink frilly blooms of crepe myrtle and boughs of sweet shrub, and all to the tumbled donging of the tarnished iron bell, like the climax of a one-act circus.

Meaning to keep him out of the garden, Doll dropped the cucumbers for the second time and flapped the tail of her white homespun dress at the horse, now passing in a whorl of dust between the back porch and the well, headed mistakenly for the barn just over the picket fence in the back yard. She lit in behind him with her dress tail caught up at the waist.

"Doll!" Mrs. Baxter yelled out the kitchen window, keeping safe inside while following the progress of the horse's destruction of her yard.

Doll slowed as the horse slowed, then skidded to a halt, heaving and snorting with nostrils flared. The dust cloud overtook him at the northwest corner of the back yard and settled on the honeysuckle vines over the fence. The wall-eyed stallion appeared anchored by the flower-laced palings, the two by four and the post with the dead bell that had somehow wound up apeak. In his wake were splinters, green leaves and deep gouges in the swept dirt like after a storm.

The bear in the barn was pawing wood, trying to tear out.

Daniel crept around the red brick chimney, north side of the house, arms out to keep the spooked horse from bolting past. "Hoo now," he crooned to the horse, but his eyes were on Doll easing closer to the stallion'. She placed her left hand on his slick right rear flank and began stroking, switching hands as she reached the saddle, stroking all the way up to his neck, then down his muscular sculpted jaw and caught the reins in both hands.

"Mind he doesn't step on you," Daniel said low, moving closer. " Stand back."

"Doll Baxter!" Her mother was shouting from the back porch now. "Get away from that animal, hear me?"

Doll unwrapped the reins from the brace and began stroking the stallion's forehead. He smelled salty, of leather, but young-horse sweet. "Here," she said to Daniel and handed him the reins. She had never stood so close to him, except when she had brushed past him in the doorway of the tax collector's office at the Statenville courthouse a few weeks before, and several times after that when she spoke to him like any Christian would at Bony Bluff Church. She had thought it odd, his being at Bony Bluff, since he lived so far away. He scared her more than the horse did.

"Thank you. " He snatched the horse from the corner. "Hoo now."

Her mother yelled from the back porch, "Doll, you get away from that horse this minute! "

"Good thing you didn't hitch him to a porch post," Doll said to Daniel.

"Doll!" her mother scolded again.

"Mrs. Baxter, I sure hate it. Here I've got. your hogs all riled up too." He nodded toward the brittle old barn, alive with the bear's snuffling and snorting. "I'll send one of my men over to put up anew fence soon as I get home. Meantime I'll just patch up the old one."

Doll figured he was either dumb or his nose was stopped up if he couldn't smell bear.

Sheba, wearing her two-piece black dress with pink floral stripes, her church dress, stood next to her mother on the back porch. One young and anxious, the other old and anxious, but feature-wise almost identical. Trying for curls, Sheba had twisted damp wisps of her fine brown hair each side of her
face.

"That old fence was barely standing anyway," she said.

Daniel laughed, lifting chin, eyes and voice. "Wouldn't be much to me if I was to leave you ladies where the cows and hogs could get in your garden, now would it?"

Sheba winked at Doll. "Doll, go help Mr. Staten prop up the fence so he can come eat. "

Doll would have as soon not helped, but for her sister she headed out to the cellar-dim tool shed to the left of the barn and took down from a shelf on the back wall a claw hammer and the fruit jar of rusty nails they had salvaged from rotted- down outbuildings or just found here and there on the homeplace.

She would have liked nothing more than to stay there, soaking up the dank coolness of the earthen floor. Her face felt hot and had to be red, just like when she'd faced Daniel Staten, a nosy, bothersome stranger then, at the courthouse in Statenville. Her mission that morning had been to gently persuade-cajole, charm or whatever the circumstances called for-the Yankee tax collector to give her and her family more time to catch up their back taxes before the county took over the Baxter place, five hundred acres more-or-less of row crop and timber land; they would auction the dirt she loved-and had slaved to keep in the family like a mule-before the court- house door. She promised the tax collector, a soft, pale, loose-limbed man with his hair wiped across his bare crown, that she would have the money by the end of the summer. She had a white family coming to chip boxes and dip gum and following the peak of the gum-running season she should have enough money from turpentine sales. Pretty please with sugar on it.