The Woods-Rider

In the heat of an unusually warm March, the long‑leaf pines of southern Alabama stretch like silent sentinels, their bark scarred by the steady drip of turpentine collected in tin cups. Joe Marshall, one of the three woods‑riders, rides his black horse Snowball through the fragrant, pine‑needle carpet, checking the amber‑colored pools and the work of the laborers who chip away at the trees. The landscape alternates between shaded groves and bright, open ground where buzzards circle and a distant creek swirls through tangled bamboo‑vine.

Joe’s duty is part supervisor, part companion. He greets the chipper Sam—a lifelong friend whose family once served the Marshall estate—and nudges idle workers back to their furrows with a blend of authority and good‑natured teasing. As the day wanes, dark clouds gather on the horizon, hinting at a storm that could turn the routine of gum‑gathering into something far more urgent.