Carved in Bone

From my side of the crevice, not Art’s. “Hello, Doc,” rumbled a familiar voice. “Looks like I got here just in the nick of time.”
    I shielded my eyes and stared up at the big man looming over me. It couldn’t be coincidence that brought him here. I had been far too trusting of Waylon and his homespun routine, I realized; he’d just been stringing me along, biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I didn’t know if he was acting on his own, or on Jim O’Conner’s orders, but I knew our luck had run out.
    “Hello, Waylon,” I said flatly, too defeated even to plead. “Guess you’re here to take care of us, huh?”
    “Well, you might could call it that. Just doing my job, really.”
    “Right,” I said. “Nothing personal, just business, is that it?”
    “Let’s quit jawin’ about it, Doc, and just get you and Art to a better place as quick as we can.”
    “A better place? You talking about heaven? Give me a break, Waylon. If you’re fixing to kill us, at least spare us the Sunday School euphemisms.”
    “The whats? Fixin’ to kill you? What the hell are you talkin’ about, Doc? You done hit your head in this cave?”
    “You’re not here to kill us? Then what are you doing here? What about the explosions, the cave-ins?”
    He set the light down on a shelf, pointing at himself. As usual, he was dressed head to toe in camouflage. He held his arms out, palms up, I guess to show he was unarmed, though I knew there were probably several weapons tucked into each of his many pockets. “Big Jim ast me to keep a eye out for you, make sure you didn’t get into any trouble you couldn’t handle. I heard y’all was up at Cave Springs Church, so I come up to check on you’uns. Time I got there, the entrance was all blocked up. I didn’t know if you know’d about this other entrance—hell, I didn’t know if y’all was even alive still—but all I knowed to do was get in here as far as this squeeze and start hollerin’, see if anybody hollered back. Figured if I could get you this close, I could get you out somehow.”
    I felt ashamed. Far from being too trusting, I’d been way too suspicious. “Well, I’m out, but I don’t think Art can squeeze through the way I did. You got an idea how we can get him out?”
    “I got me some blasting caps in the back of the truck, but that seems a little chancy right here—roof looks kindly unstable.”
    Blasting caps? Maybe I hadn’t been too suspicious after all. “Waylon,” I said, “we’ve had enough blasting to last us awhile.”
    “Yeah, I reckon so. I b’lieve we’ll have to get him out the old-fashioned way.”
    Art’s voice echoed hollowly from the other side of the crevice. “What, you gonna starve me out? That might take about six months.”
    Waylon laughed. “Naw, ain’t got time for that. Got to get you’uns back on the job quicker’n ’at.” He fished around in the rear quadrant of his capacious pants and hauled out a hand sledge and a stout chisel. The man was like a human Swiss Army knife. “Few good whacks with this ought to do the trick. Y’all might want to step back aways, in case I underestimate my own strength.” Art and I both gave him plenty of room.
    Slipping an elastic strap around his scalp, Waylon switched on a heavy-duty headlamp and leaned in toward one side of the crevice. I heard a low, humming sound, and then, astonishingly, Waylon began to sing. He had a rich bass baritone that filled the cave with a haunting song: “In the deep dark hills of eastern Kentucky/That’s the place where I trace my bloodline./And it’s there I read on a hillside gravestone/‘You’ll never leave Harlan alive.’”
    Sparks flew as the hammer blows rang out in time to the mournful ballad. Every half-dozen or so blows, a chunk of rock would crack off and clatter to the floor. “Where the sun comes up”—CLANG—“About ten in the morning”—CLANG—“The sun goes down”—CLANG—“About three in the day”—CLANG—“You fill your cup”—CLANG—“With whatever bitter brew you’re drinking”—CLANG—“And spend your life diggin’ coal”—CLANG—“from the bottom of your grave.”
    Waylon paused, shifting his stance to attack the other wall. His hair and beard dripped with sweat. “Lucky thing this is such a small piece we got to widen,” he huffed. “Much bigger, and I might pull a John Henry, die with my hammer in my hand.”
    I seriously doubted that.
    After ten minutes