sat there on the horse, leaning a little forward, with that same look on his face when him and Darl passed the house yesterday, coming back to get her.
“If it was just up, we could drive across,” Anse says. “We could drive right on across it.”
Sometimes a log would get shoved over the jam and float on, rolling and turning, and we could watch it go on to where the ford used to be. It would slow up and whirl crossways and hang out of water for a minute, and you could tell by that that the ford used to be there.
“But that don’t show nothing,” I say. “It could be a bar of quicksand built up there.” We watch the log. Then the gal is looking at me again.
“ Mr. Whitfield crossed it,” she says.
“He was a horseback,” I say. “And three days ago. It’s riz five foot since.”
“If the bridge was just up,” Anse says.
The log bobs up and goes on again. There is a lot of trash and foam, and you can hear the water.
“But it’s down,” Anse says.
Cash says, “A careful fellow could walk across yonder on the planks and logs.”
“But you couldn’t tote nothing,” I say. “Likely time you set foot on that mess, it’ll all go, too. What you think, Darl?”
He is looking at me. He don’t say nothing; just looks at me with them queer eyes of hisn that makes folks talk. I always say it ain’t never been what he done so much or said or anything so much as how he looks at