Death in the Black Patch

by Wilson, Bruce;

  “Then I heard somethin’ like thunder way off to the west. I thought we were gonna get some rain and how good that’d be, things bein’ so dry. So I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. A few minutes later, that dog started up again, so I got up to take a look outside. That’s when I saw ’em.” Jackson turned and looked at Wes. Beneath the anger, Wes saw a deep sadness in the man’s eyes and knew that as much as he’d wanted to fight back against his situation, Jackson also knew he didn’t stand a chance.

  “There was ten or twelve of ’em all on horses and they was carryin’ torches. A couple of ’em had shotguns. The rest, though, were just millin’ around out there in the yard.” Jackson pointed to the space between his house and the road and then looked at Wes again. “All of ’em had masks on. I thought they were Klan, but then one of ’em, I guess he’s the boss, asked me if I’d decided to join up. I asked him what he meant, and he said ‘Are you stupid? I want to know if you’re goin’ to join the Association.’ I told him that I didn’t think they’d let me join up, me bein’ a nigger and all.” Jackson looked over at his house and then turned back to Wes. “Then the man said he didn’t expect me to go to no meetin’s but if I wanted to have a crop at all this year I’d better plan on puttin’ my tobacco in with ’em. He said I’d better not have any ideas about sellin’ to any Trust buyer.”

  Wes waited while Jackson stared off into the field.

  “When I told him that I had a family and I owed money and I had to sell to the tobacco company or I’d lose everythin’, he got real mad. The boss started yellin’ and tellin’ the others to show me what happens to hillbillies who want to sell out to the bastards tryin’ to drive the prices down.” Jackson stopped for a moment and took a deep breath. “I couldn’t stop what happened next, and I couldn’t do nothin’ to save my crop.”

  When he started again, his voice had changed, and Wes felt, rather than heard, the fear. “Then the two boys with the guns rode up to me and pointed them at me. They made me stand there and watch as the rest of ’em rode out into this field and started runnin’ the horses into my tobacco as they tromped down everythin’. They hooped and yelled and carried on like it was fun. But they didn’t miss hardly a plant. It only took ’em half an hour to destroy my life. When I thought it was over, a couple of ’em grabbed some bags of salt off the back of their horses. Then they took the bags out here into the field and split ’em open with knives and started throwin’ the salt around like they were feedin’ chickens. I begged ’em not to do it. And all the while I wanted to do somethin’, to fight back, but I was afraid. They had guns and I was afraid for my family. All that work plowin’ and plantin’ the seed beds, all of it for nothin’.”

  When Jackson finished, he dropped to his knees, out of words and, it seemed to Wes, out of hope.

  Wes didn’t know what to say. In some dark part of his mind he’d hoped that the damage to Jackson’s farm had been done by the Klan. That way, even if he felt bad for Jackson, he could rest a little easier knowing that the problem wasn’t related to tobacco prices. But that clearly wasn’t the case, and now Wes knew a man in the county who had been visited by the Association’s Night Riders. The threat of a raid was suddenly real. If they could tear up a field this close to Lynnville, nothing could stop them from doing the same to his farm. He had some hard thinking to do, but he also needed to get home.

  “Jackson, I’m sorry about what happened here. These are sad times, hard times, and I don’t think they’re goin’ to get better for quite a while. But I’ve got to get on home to my family. Thanks for talkin’ to me.” Wes waited for some response from Jackson, but there was none, so he turned away and headed back out to the road. As he turned toward home, Wes looked back toward the house, but Jackson had already gone inside. Wes walked home, thinking about the Night Riders and Jackson and wondering what all of this meant for his own family.

  * * *

  The long ride home from church had given Zora plenty of time to think about Wes. At first, he’d seemed angry or even afraid. But the more she thought about it, she believed that neither of these was true. Zora couldn’t figure out what was going on, but Wes’s older brother George lived in the farm next to theirs, so she decided to talk to him. Maybe he knows what’s wrong with Wes, she thought, and maybe he can tell me why Wes seems so troubled.

  “Anthie, I want you to let me off at your Uncle George’s. Then you take the rest of the family on home.”

  “All right, Ma,” he said, “but why?”

  “That’s none of your business, son. Just do as I tell you.”

  Anthie drove the wagon onto the lane of his uncle’s farm and pulled up in front of the house. He waited while Connie helped his mother down from the wagon, and when his brother climbed up onto the seat, Anthie turned the mule toward home. During the ride, he had been thinking about Sudie and decided to ask his ma about going down to the Morrises’ farm when they got home. But, if Pa ain’t home yet and Ma’s at Uncle George’s, no one will miss the mule. Whether or not his reasoning was sound, it worked for him. “Go mule,” he said with a smile on his face.

  * * *

  Zora stepped up onto the porch and then turned back, watching the wagon pull out. She heard the door swing open behind her and looked back to see her sister-in-law. Malinda paused and then came out to stand beside her. She put her arm around Zora’s shoulder, and they waited until the wagon turned onto the road.

  “What a nice surprise, Zora,” she said. “As close as we live, it seems we don’t see one another nearly often enough. Come on inside. It’s too warm out here. Can I get you a glass of water?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said and stepped into the house. It wasn’t much cooler inside, but at least it was out of the sun and away from the dust. After Zora brushed off her dress and removed her bonnet, she sat down at the table while Malinda headed to the kitchen for the water. Zora always enjoyed visiting with Malinda, but today she needed to talk to George. She hoped that he would know what was going on and maybe give her some information that would help.

  “Here’s your water,” Malinda said as she handed the cup to Zora and sat in a chair across the table from her. “It surely is warm out there. It’d be real nice if we got a shower to cool things off.” While Malinda chattered on, talking about the children, Zora nodded and smiled occasionally. She didn’t want to be rude to Malinda, but she had to figure out a way to find out if George was around and if he’d be willing to talk to her.

  “Are you all right?” Malinda said as she rose from her chair and came around the table. “You seem bothered about somethin’.” She sat down next to Zora and took her hand. “What is it?”

  “Oh, Malinda, I don’t know what’s wrong. That’s the problem.” Zora’s words came in a rush. “I’m worried about Wes, and I thought if I came over here I could talk to George and maybe he’d know what’s goin’ on with him.” She clutched Malinda’s hand while tears slid down her cheeks. “There’s somethin’ the matter with Wes, and I don’t know what to do for him. Is George here? Will he talk to me?”

  Malinda put her free arm around Zora’s waist and pulled her close. She held her tenderly for a moment, and then said, “Don’t you be concerned, dear. I think George is out in the barn. I’ll go fetch him, and we’ll figure out what to do.”

  When Malinda scurried out the door to find her husband, Zora dabbed at the moistness in her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. She hadn’t wanted to cry or lose control of her emotions, but her worries were clearly deeper than she’d thought. While Malinda went looking for George, Zora’s fear that she’d said too much or maybe even the wrong things began to fill her mind. Wes isn’t going to like me talking to anyone about his problems. He’s not going to like this one bit. I should just go on home, and we’ll work this out ourselves. She rose from the chair and looked around for her bonnet and spotted it lying on the table. She picked it up and quickly turned toward the door as George a
nd Malinda came in from the barn.

  “What’s wrong with Wes? Is he sick?” bellowed George, a skinnier, taller version of his younger brother. He was breathing heavily and gripped his hat in one closed fist. Malinda stood behind her husband, her hands clasped in front of her chest.

  “No, he’s not sick. At least I don’t think he is.” Zora started to put her bonnet on, searching for words. “He must be worried about somethin’. I just thought you might know if there’s anythin’ botherin’ him.”

  “I ain’t talked to Wes for quite a while,” said George.

  Zora moved around them to the door. “I’m sorry I took you away from your work, George. I should just go on home. Don’t go worryin’ about us, we’ll be fine. I’ll have Wes come see you.” Zora knew, though, that Wes wouldn’t be coming over to see George, because she wasn’t going to say anything to Wes about her visit. As she stepped off the porch and walked quickly into the yard, she ignored their mumbled replies. Her head down and her heart beating, Zora rushed up the lane to the road. Oh, Lord. What have I done?

  * * *

  Anthie had been on the mule for nearly an hour when he caught the glint of the sun off of running water. He led the animal down the shallow bank and let it drink while he pulled off his shoes and socks. The cool water felt good on his feet as he sat in the soft grass on the bank of the little creek. Although he was anxious to get to Sudie’s, he was still a bit afraid. He convinced himself that a short rest for the mule was a good idea for both of them.

  Anthie wasn’t afraid of seeing Sudie; he was just a little scared about facing her father. He’d only seen the man once before, and he’d never spoken to him. But today, he would have to meet the man face to face. The other thing he was worried about was that he was making an unannounced call on Sudie. He hadn’t spoken to her since the picnic, and despite his luck today with the mule, there was really no way to tell her he was coming.

  The mule snorted and interrupted Anthie’s musings. It also convinced him that he’d stalled long enough and needed to get moving again. The Morris farm was only a few miles ahead, but Anthie had to watch his time if he was going to get back home before dark. Grabbing the mule’s halter, he led it back up to the road and climbed onto the animal’s back. He kicked the mule gently and got moving.

  * * *

  While walking down the road toward home, Wes thought about Jackson and the man’s troubles. He kept trying to convince himself that his own situation was different, that he didn’t need to worry about a visit from the Night Riders. He knew that except for the color of their skin, he and Jackson were the same—farmers with families and with the need to sell their tobacco at the best price and to sell it in time to pay what they owed. Wes knew he had few choices, and each of them held considerable risk. He believed he couldn’t win no matter which option he picked. Regardless, he knew that he had to keep a watch over his crop and do everything he could to protect it. I will not let this happen to my family, he thought. No Night Rider is gonna destroy my crop.

  From her kitchen window, Zora watched Wes as he walked slowly toward the house. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets and his face was shaded by the brim of his hat. If he was angry, she thought, what she had to tell him would upset him even more. But she had to tell him before he found out on his own. When Wes stomped up onto the porch and came into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him, Zora saw the same face on him he’d had in church. Whatever he’d been doing, wherever he’d been had done nothing to relieve him of the burden she sensed he carried. She was afraid now, not of him, but for him. She saw the angry, mean side of her husband in his dark eyes and clenched jaws. When he finally spoke, her fears were confirmed.

  “Go get my shotgun.”

  “Wes!”

  “You heard me. Go get my damn shotgun and bring it out to the porch.”

  He turned away from her, reached up onto the shelf and brought down the whiskey jug. She watched him pull the cork and take a quick swallow. But she didn’t move, couldn’t move. The iciness of his voice had frozen her feet to the floor. Holding the whiskey jug by its neck ring, Wes carried it out the door and onto the porch. He slammed the door, and the noise was enough to get Zora moving. She walked quickly into the hallway toward the back of the house and pulled the heavy shotgun off of a high shelf near the back door. She checked to see if it was loaded and was relieved to discover that both barrels were empty. She took a box of shells off of the shelf and put it in the pocket of her apron. Be strong, she prayed to herself and walked back up the hall to the kitchen door. When she stepped outside, she found Wes sitting on the porch bench. He held the jug in his lap and stared off to the west, watching the sun drift toward the horizon. Zora walked over to him and leaned the shotgun against the wall. As her shadow fell over his face, he turned to her.

  “Did you bring the shells?” he snarled.

  Zora pulled the box from her apron pocket and set it in his lap next to the jug. She didn’t speak, afraid of what he had to say, desperately wanting to ask him what was wrong. But she feared she’d stir up the anger she saw in his eyes. Since not knowing was even worse, she finally asked, “What’s wrong?” and his answer came quickly, like a rushing summer rainstorm.

  “The Night Riders are in the county and they’re tearin’ up tobacco. They wiped out a farm over near Cuba just because the man was gonna sell his crop to the Trust. They ran horses through his field and salted it when they were done.” He stopped and took a drink. “Zora, he’s just like me. He’s a farmer with a family and crops and debts just like me. If they’d do it to him, what’s to stop ’em from doin’ it to us?”

  Afraid of what he might say next, Zora waited.

  “But I’ll tell you this. Nobody is gonna force me to decide what I can or can’t do with my own crop. Maybe some fellas can hold out. I can’t, Zora, I won’t.” When he ran out of words, he lifted the jug and drank some more. He set it down on the bench and picked up the box of shells, opened it and took two of them out. He loaded both barrels and then stood up.

  “I promise you this, Zora. I’ll stay out here forever if I have to, but I’ll be damned if anybody is gonna destroy my crop. I’ll kill ’em first. I swear I will. I’m gonna protect what’s mine. Nobody is gonna hurt me or my family or my farm or my...”

  The whiskey had slowed the flow of words, but it hadn’t made him any less angry. He gripped the shotgun tightly and began pacing back and forth on the porch. Zora stayed quiet and kept out of his way, watching him closely, waiting for a chance to speak. She didn’t yet know what she’d say, but she knew she had to wait for the right time to speak. A moment later she said, “Anthie took the mule and went down to see Sudie.”

  * * *

  Anthie’s first thought as he slid off the mule was that no one was home. Except for the light breeze blowing past his ears and the chirping of a few warblers, it was quiet. Tying the reins to the rail, he walked onto the porch and tapped lightly on the door. Anthie waited for a moment, hoping for some response, and when there was none, he stepped over to a window and peeked in through the muslin curtain. After knocking on the door for the third time and waiting even longer for someone to answer, he turned around and sat on the steps.

  “There’s no one home,” he said to the mule. “Everybody stays home on Sunday afternoon, don’t they? Where are they?” The mule didn’t answer; it didn’t even look up. It just kept nibbling on the grass. “You’re a big help, you dumb mule.”

  He reached down and picked up some pebbles out of the dirt and tossed one of them at the mule’s flank. The animal lifted its head and snorted at him. When he tossed a second one, the mule ignored him. Anthie must have sat there for an hour or more, pondering what to do. The sun was starting to go down, and he knew he should be heading home.

  His head down and his mind churning, Anthie didn’t see the Morrises’ wagon turn off the road. When he heard the clopping hooves of their hor
se, he stood up and froze. Sudie’s father was staring right at him, and he didn’t look a bit happy.

  “Hey, boy, who are you? What are you doin’ here?” His voice was strong, and his stern look gave Anthie an icy chill. He was saved from having to come up with an answer when Sudie, a petite fourteen-year-old, popped up from the wagon box behind her father.

  “It’s Anthie, Pa, Anthie Wilson.” Anxiously she pushed her way through her siblings in the back of the wagon and hopped off the back. She ran around to the front, but stopped short when her father spoke again.

  “Sudie Mae, you stop right there.” He looked from his daughter to the lanky, speechless boy standing in front of the horse. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doin’ here?”

  Searching for words, Anthie could only mutter a few mule-like sounds, and then the chill he’d felt a moment before turned to sweat. But when he looked at Sudie, her smile, tentative yet hopeful, gave him the words he’d been seeking.

  “Sir, uh, Mr. Morris, I came all the way from Lynnville to pay a visit on your daughter, Sudie.”

  Morris started to say something else, when his wife jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. He turned to her and she whispered something only he could hear. The muted conversation between husband and wife evidently ended in Mrs. Morris’s favor, because he frowned at her and then turned to Anthie.

  “Well, boy, it’s mighty late for makin’ a call,” he said. “The sun’ll be down in a bit, so you better make it quick, and the two of you stay up on the porch. You hear me?”

  “Yes sir. We’ll make it quick, I promise. And thank you, sir, uh, ma’am, thank you.”

  Sudie ran over to Anthie and stood stiffly in front of him. He looked down at her and then back up at her parents. When he dropped his gaze back to Sudie, she was smiling again. He still hadn’t moved, so she took his hand and gently pulled him toward the house.

  While Sudie and Anthie sat side by side on the porch, the children walked slowly up the steps, never taking their eyes off of their sister. Anthie didn’t look at them or Sudie’s parents; he just stared at his feet. As the two adults made their way up the steps, they, too, looked at Sudie and her caller. Just before he entered the house, Mr. Morris grumbled another warning about the lateness of the call and the need to stay on the porch.