34 – Splitter

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Draft 1 – Updated 22 FEB 2026 (C034/D001)

Splitter’s busted kneecap was aching and his sore hip was flaring so bad he couldn’t hardly walk. But they had orders to fill and weren’t no damn way he was gonna put an axe in the hand of a slave he ain’t met yet. 

Sawyer was out with Smitty looking for that coffle. Took off with the hounds before daylight leaving Splitter in charge. The sawmill didn’t have much going on at the moment. So most of the men had gone home for a few days fixing to do some chores of their own. Only thing that really needed doing was firewood and Splitter and Joiner could handle that themselves. They had a new slave needed training anyway and Splitter, being the overseer, oughta be the one to do it.

So daylight found Joiner setting short logs up on end for Splitter’s axe to cleave while two slaves picked up the spilt pieces and stacked them into neatly organized cords displayed for sale in the fenced yard that lay between the road and the mill on the bank of the river.

“He was blubbering like a widow at a funeral,” Spitter told Joiner as he wiped sweat from his brow with a threadbare rag made from a shirt his mama gave him.

It was an old story. Joiner had heard Splitter tell it—had helped him rehearse it—many times. Not a word of it was true, Splitter’d never killed noone, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to make a lasting impression on the new slave. 

“They drug him over to me,” Splitter continued, tucking the sweat rag into the belt of his britches and picking up his axe. “Hands behind his back. Shoved him to his knees. Forced his cheek down onto the block . . . ”

Joiner put a carefully selected half round up on the block as Splitter hauled his axe back to take a full swing. It was important that this piece cleave without difficulty. It would emphasize the overseer’s point. But if it didn’t, if the axe got stuck partway through, Splitter had a bloody tweak to his story backed up and ready to go.

“I come down with all my might,” he said, slamming the axehead into the wood, cleaving it into two perfect pieces with a solid chunk. “His head come off and just lay there”—Splitter let go the axe and used a free hand to demonstrate the motion—”kinda rocking a little”—his eyes twinkled with enthusiasm while his hand, fingers down, rocked side-to-side—”like a baby in a cradle.” Splitter’s face broke into a wide smile and his head tipped back. “But his body”—he extended his arms comically to the sides—”started a flippin and a floppin—”

Joiner grinned back while the slaves, eyes grimly down, focused on picking up the pieces. “Like a chicken?”

“No,” Splitter corrected him, suddenly thoughtful. “Chickens got them wings. Beat like a wood chime in a wind storm when you take they heads. Slaves ain’t got no wings and . . . once they head is off . . . they arms ain’t do nothing.” Then his smile returned. “But they bodies,” his arms dropped to his side to imitate a fish, “flop around like trout on a river bank.”

Both men laughed, discreetly gauging the impact their macabre tale was having on the young slaves.

“So what he do, anyway?” Joiner recited his next line as he put another log up on the block.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Splitter replied. “He prolly didn’t do nothing hisself . . . nothing that I knew about anyway. But that wasn’t the point.”

“No?”

“Point was to”—he hammed up searching for the right word—”rectify the attitude of the whole damn coffle.” Spitter’s axe came down, cleaving the wood efficiently. “Sometimes you just gotta pick one and make an example for the rest.”

“Like an investment,” Joiner nodded, setting up a new piece.

“Like an investment,” Spitter confirmed, pulling his axe back as a wagon led by a team of two stopped at the fence a few yards away.

“Boys,” the large man holding the reins nodded as he reigned his slow rig to a full stop.

Splitter finished his stroke before looking up. Copper was a large man, the largest in Three Mills. He was also handsome with kind blue eyes and long blonde hair that matched his handlebar moustache. Both were left loose unless the requirements of work or the formality of church required otherwise. Today, they were loose. 

Joiner had been so focused on his own task, putting short logs up on the chopping block, that the wagon came up behind him unnoticed. The deep baritone of Cooper’s greeting seemed to startle him, causing him to jump to his feet like a soldier surprised by the unexpected arrival of an officer.

“Sergeant Cooper,” Splitter acknowledged the wagon driver’s greeting, setting his axe down next to his bum leg and leaning into it.

“Coop is fine, Splitter,” the large man replied in his gentle, almost lazy, manner of speaking. “I ain’t wore a uniform since Joiner here was courting Suzy Maycroft.”

Joiner, who had removed his hat upon leaping to his feet, relaxed, smirking at the cooper’s ancient reference.

“Like I said before, Sergeant,” Splitter objected in a tone approaching servility, “I respect the uniform and I honor your service.”

“What about Joiner here?” Copper’s gravelly voice was more amused than annoyed. “You call him by his rank?”

“No, sir.” Splitter had clearly thunk this through. “While I do respect his service”—he looked appreciatively toward his co-oworker—”while he may have fought valiantly and may have carried hisself heroically on many an occasion during the war”—he nodded once—”as far as I know, Joiner didn’t win no medals.”

Joiner rolled his eyes, shook his head softly, and replaced his hat. “You here for your firewood, Coop?”

“May as well,” Cooper said, looking up at the sun. “Too early for whiskey.”

Both woodcutters smirked, fully aware of the big man’s stubborn reputation for abstinence.

“Alright,” Joiner directed him. “Pull into the yard over there. These’ns’ll load you up,” he motioned to the slaves, who accepted the motion as direction.

The wagon lurched forward and Joiner led the slaves toward a cord of wood set aside for loading. Splitter followed, using the axe to assist him on his weak side. He’d learned to swing an axe well enough. In fact, slitting wood was the only time he really felt like a whole man. But walking, especially uphill, and any kind of lifting were terrible painful. So he would supervise the loading of Copper’s wagon, but would not participate.

That’s when the dogs started up. Sets of three. Every dog in town. Barking like they’d treed a bear.

“It’s like a goddamn dog choir,” said Joiner, pointing to the spot in the woodpile where he wanted the slaves to start. “Didja hear ‘em last night? What a ruckus.”

“Something’s got them on edge,” Cooper replied, lifting the everwood gate out of his wagon. “Our Sadie barked all through my supper pipe last night.”

“Probably got a whiff of them gnolls.”

“Yeah. That’s damn strange. I’n it?” Copper frowned, leaning the gate against the wagon wheel nearest the woodpile. “Where you think them gnolls come from?”

Joiner climbed into the wagon and began stacking the wood that the slaves were tossing into the box. “My guess is somebody brung ‘em.”

Cooper’s brow furrowed. “Seems like a lot of trouble for . . . nothing, as far as I can see.”

“Can’t say. But, gnolls don’t make no boats and ain’t no damn way they walked here from White Mountain.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if the bitcher weren’t in on it,” Splitter volunteered as he ambled awkwardly up to the wagon.

Cooper glanced dubiously at Joiner before acknowledging Spitter’s slur. “Meaning Mrs Butcher.”

“Butcher? Bitcher?” Splitter shrugged, grinning like a mischievous child.

“John and Amanda are good people, Splitter,” Joiner said, turning aside his buddy’s unkind remarks.

“Useta be,” Splitter challenged his friend. “John Butcher useta be a good man. Useta be . . . a man. Now he’s pussy whipped dandy-a-commerce unable to do anything more than serve his bitch queen.”

The men said nothing, but Splitter could see Joiner wasn’t having it. Once again, he was taking the butcher woman’s side. “Ain’t right for a woman to lead a town this size,” he huffed, turning to the cooper for support. “Makes us look weak. Don’t you think, Sergeant?”

“Oh, Amanda’s alright.” Cooper brushed Splitter’s insolence aside with the patience of a kindly papaw.

“You’re a goddamn war hero, Sergeant Cooper,” Splitter challenged him. “You tell me how it looks. Us . . . having a woman for a general?”

Joiner chuckled and Cooper’s eyes sparkled as he suppressed an amused grin.

“General,” Joiner scoffed. “Listen to this’n. Going on about generals.”

Splitter’s ego felt the sting of Joiner’s jibe. “I’da fought. Y’all know I would have. It was only on account of my bum leg they said I couldn’t.”

“Leading soldiers into battle and leading a town into prosperity ain’t the same thing,” the slow gravel in Cooper’s patient voice added weight to the war hero’s statement. It made Splitter feel small. Made him sorry for bringing it up.

“Being a soldier,” Joiner elucidated, stepping up on his soapbox, “is about forcing people who’d rather kill you into doing things they don’t want to do—and being prepared to kill ‘em back if they don’t do what you say.” 

Splitter hated his leg. Hated the horse who kicked it. And hated how it gave other men a reason to speak to him like it was his brain got kicked instead of his leg.

“Leading a town in peacetime is about getting people who disagree to work together,” Joiner continued. “Voluntary like.”

Joiner was taking liberties. Like they all did. Picking on him. Making him look stupid. All on account of his inability to fight back.

“Ain’t no general built for that,” Cooper added before being distracted by some movement up the hill leading into town. “What’s going on up there?” he asked.

Everyone except the slaves turned to look. Then turned to look in the direction some of the fingers were pointing. Joiner scampered up onto the wood piled in the wagon to get a better look.

“Company’s coming,” he announced. “Big column. Headed this way.”

Splitter grinned and snapped his eyes to Cooper, who looked like he’d just swallowed a toad.

“I’ll bet they know who done it,” he beamed. The excitement of that possibility brought a smile to his face, allowing him to forget the pain in his leg. “They’re coming to arrest someone,” he predicted. Enthusiasm shot through his nervous system.

“Ain’t nobody here done nothing to be arrested for,” Cooper drawled with calm confidence. 

“Somebody took the coffle,” Splitter objected. 

“Seems more like gnolls got the coffle, don’t it?”

“Well . . . ” Splittered was heavily invested in a different theory.  “Sawyer and Smitty don’t think so. They’re out looking for it right now.”

“Looking is one thing,” Joiner said, talking smart again. “Finding is another.”

The war hero seemed uneasy. “Ain’t never a good thing when they come down that mountain after the Beard closes,” he said, eyes squinting in the direction of the approaching deputies. 

“Ain’t nothing to worry about,” Splitter assured him.  “We ain’t done nothing wrong.”

The big man was lost in thought for a few moments. “Hadn’t done nothin before they chased us out of Milton neither,” he said, at length. 

“Same with Southport,” Joiner mumbled. “Most folks hadn’t done nothing there.” 

Splitter scoffed. “Well they musta done something.”

“Nobody done nothing in Milton, Splitter.” Cooper’s tone was emphatic, but not defensive. “Company came in making demands they had no right to make. Started a fight. Folks were just defending themselves.”

Splitter was sure Cooper was wrong about that. Had to be. But he didn’t want to argue with a man the other men admired. “What about Southport?” He tacked away from the sore spot and turned instead to Joiner. 

“Southport was different,” his coworker admitted. “Company had a fair claim in Southport. Just overstepped is all.”

“See?” Splitter’s confidence soared. “Company had a fair claim.”

Cooper wasn’t convinced though. “Way I heard it,” he retorted, “wasn’t but three or four people doing wrong in Southport.”

Splitter, who had never been more than three leagues from his shack on the corner of Sawyer’s lot, looked back to Joiner, who shrugged.

“Dock was gone when we come through,” Joiner testified. “Had to come ashore with a launch. It was three days after, but the church was still smoking.”

“Well,” said Cooper, moving around the wagon to assist the slaves. “Imagine they’ll tell us what they want when they get here. Let’s get this loaded so we can hear ‘em out.”

With all four able-bodied men pitching in, the task was finished in no time. All of the river men—the men at the flour mill, the men who hung out at Smitty’s place, and now the men from Sawyer’s Mill—were making their way up the steep road toward the town square. Joiner and the slaves hopped up into the wagon to go help him unload at the cooperage. Cooper picked up the wagon gate and stood waiting for Spitter to climb aboard.

“Naw,” Splitter declined. “You go on. Tell me about it later.”

A look passed between Joiner and Cooper. Splitter didn’t know what was said, but he felt it.

“You boys come with me,” Joiner said to the slaves, hopping over the wagon’s side. “We’ll meet you up there,” he said to Coop and Splitter as the three of them walked away and started their ascent into town.

“You can ride on the tail gate, Splitter,” Cooper said, laying the wooden gate down inside the wagon.

“Naw—”

“Come on, now,” he said in that papaw patient drawl of his.

“Seriously, Sergeant,” Splitter confessed in a low voice. “I can’t climb up in no wagon. My leg—”

“Don’t you worry about it,” the large man said, sliding his big hands under Splitter’s arms and picking him up like a tad before setting him on the wagon’s edge, his legs dangling out the back. “You need a hand getting down, too?”

“Getting down’s the easy part,” Splitter replied, looking around to make sure nobody seen what just happened. “I appreciate the lift though, Sergeant.”

He was ashamed to admit it, but that little hill might just as well of been a mountain. Splitter couldn’t climb it. Not with his leg. He’d been stuck at the bottom of that hill looking up at the butcher’s shop for more years than he could count. But today . . . Splitter was going uptown.

The Company’s uniformed column crossed the river just as Cooper’s wagon started up the hill. They weren’t riding hard, but they were moving faster than the wagon and soon overtook them. The two men riding out front could have been father and son. The older man was Croft. A good old boy who always stopped in at the mills and shot the shit with the river men when he passed through. The young man wearing the marshal’s badge? No idea who he was, but he had a look in his eye made Splitter think he meant someone harm. He grinned at that, hoping it was the Bitcher. 

The wagon rolled in behind the cooperage and Splitter hopped down on his good leg. Townsfolk were moving through the gaps between the shops and the houses. Men were moving toward the square; women and children were moving away. Splitter hobbled around the cooperage and passed through the gap that separated it from the fletchery. As he reached the square, Joiner spotted him and came over to join him. 

“Mr. Butcher,” the young marshal called out after removing his cavalry gloves one tantalizing finger at a time. Splitter liked the young officer instantly. The Butchers were uppity. Thought they were big deals, living in their castle at the top of the hill. If the Marshal’d come to give them what for, Splitter was ready to cheer him on.

Then he remembered something about Butcher and the smile vanished from his face. “He ain’t here,” Splitter called out. The marshal turned a little in his saddle and made eye contact with him. “He lit out mor’na week ago,” Splitter explained, trying to be helpful. “Heading east.”

Instead of expressing his gratitude for the information that nobody else had volunteered, the Marshal seemed annoyed. That was rude, thought Splitter, reconsidering how much he liked the fella.

“Oh oh,” said Joiner, standing at his side as a deputy busted out a window and reached in to open the butcher shop’s locked door.

“What?” Splitter was puzzled by Joiner’s reaction. 

“They’re gonna burn the butcher’s shop.” Joiner replied, lowering his voice so only Splitter could hear.

“Well . . . ” Splitter reasoned, “if they took the coffle, they got it coming.”

“Maybe,” said Joiner. “Problem is . . . the whole town could go up,” 

A shock of terror jolted Splitter. He calculated the distance between the butcher shop and his own shack at the bottom of the hill. And for a moment, he imagined things would be OK for him. Then he looked up and remembered the trees. A fire here could spread quickly. The butcher’s shop, the town of Three Mills, Sawyer’s mill, the cords of wood out front, and his own little place tucked away in a corner of the lot might burn up before you know it. He might even get caught up in it. Him being unable to run and all.

“Where is the butcher?” the marshal demanded. His words slowed. His voice pitched higher.

“I done told ya a’ready.” Splitter shot back with more testiness than he’d intended. “He ain’t here.”

The young marshal reestablished eye contact with him. The look he’d had in his eye as he rode into town was back. This time it felt more like it was intended for him. 

“Where did he go?” the marshal demanded with a tone Splitter couldn’t take no way other than a threat. 

“We don’t know,” said Joiner, taking a half step forward, backing his buddy up, matching the marshal’s own malice. 

“I suppose he left alone?” The officer’s hostility was growing. 

“Yes,” Joiner replied. “And he didn’t tell us where he was going,” Joiner added.

The marshal bowed his head, nodding, mumbling something. Then he screamed: “Where . . . is . . . his . . . family!?”

The outburst caught both woodcutters off guard. Joiner stepped back reflexively, bumping Splitter, causing him to wobble unsteadily on his good leg. As Splitter looked down, trying to shift his axe to better support his weight, a deputy pushed past them, knocking him to the ground. Thump! It felt like someone pulled a red hot poker out of Smitty’s forge and jammed it into his hip.

The humiliation was worse than the pain, though. Splitter was on the Company’s side. He was tryna be helpful. Lord knows he was no friend of the Butchers. It wouldn’t bother him none if they got their comeuppance. So weren’t no call to push him to the ground. 

After struggling back to his feet with Joiner’s help, things got a little blurry. A moment later, it all went to shit. 

At the marshal’s orders, torches were pulled from saddle bags and the butcher’s shop was set ablaze. Folks in the square got rightly upset about that and formed a bucket brigade to put the fire out. Suddenly, the marshal was coming straight at him with a lit torch in his left hand.

“Fuck no,” Joiner blurted out lifting his axe, warning the marshal off. The men nearest him backed him up. The young officer stopped then and cast around with a kind of confused look on his face. He was so close Splitter might have reached out and touched him, but the look in the marshal’s eyes was distant, as if he was scanning the crowd, searching for something.

“No,” he suddenly commanded, turning away. “Stop that.” His anger was directed at a line of men passing water buckets, extinguishing flames on the wall of the butchery. Then his knife was out and Cooper’s apprentice was standing wide-eyed, trying to hold his guts in his belly. Then an arrow sprouted in the marshal’s chest and blurry turned to blizzard.

The deputy who’d knocked Splitter down pulled his frontier knife, shouting, cutting people. Joiner got it first. Clutching his throat, desperate to staunch a fountain of blood streaming through his fingers, Joiner fell to his knees. Under pressure from all sides, the panicked deputy turned to confront the tiny tailor. Splitter’s mouth gaped at the unexpected carnage, gaped at the idea he might lose Joiner and Tailor on the very same day. Then he took a painful step forward, hefted his work tool, and planted it deep in the deputy’s spine.

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