Wade Timber's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

Wade left the wolf its woods and rode to town at first light. One log lay on his claim. He needed dozens, and the wedge could not open a living tree. He carried the only thing he could trade—his father's iron wedge, thick as a fist. His dog trotted beside the horse the whole way. The town was a short row of storefronts along a dirt street. Brick and stucco fronts leaned close together. A feed and grain shop sold sacks off its porch. At the end stood a broad building with goods stacked behind its windows, a plank sign nailed above the door. Barrels and crates crowded the steps. Wade tied his horse and told his dog to wait. Inside, a woman worked the counter. Black hair fell loose past her shoulders. She sorted nails into a tray without looking up. "You're the one who bought the old man's plot," she said. "He cheated three men before you. Trees and no tools." She set the tray down. "What do you need?" "A felling axe," Wade said. "And a saw, if you have one." She pointed to the wall. A long crosscut saw hung there, two handles, teeth clean and sharp. Below it leaned a felling axe, its head heavy and true. Wade ran his thumb along the axe edge. It bit at once. This was the right half of the job. "Both come dear," she said. "Coin, or trade." Wade set his father's wedge on the counter. "My father split rails with this for thirty years. It's good iron." She lifted it and turned it in the light. Her mouth tightened. "Good iron won't cover both." She named a price for the axe alone. It would take the wedge and most of his coin. The saw stayed on the wall. Wade looked at the saw a long moment. A saw dropped a tree faster than any axe. But an axe he could swing today, and he had no coin left after. He pushed the wedge toward her. "The axe." She wrapped his coin in a cloth and hung the wedge behind the counter. Wade lifted the axe from the wall. It felt like the tool his hands had wanted since the first morning. He walked out into the sun, and his dog rose to meet him. He rode home with the axe across his lap. His father's wedge was gone. He had traded the one tool he trusted for the one tool that could fell his trees. By dusk he stood at the treeline and swung. The blade sank deep. Chips flew. The first healthy pine groaned and fell across the clearing. Wade wiped the axe clean and looked at his standing timber. He could cut now. But every log he dropped rang through the woods. Somewhere among the trunks, the black wolf would hear each blow.