Crucible: McCoy

by David R. George III

  “I concur,” Spock said. “Whatever happened to you and me and the captain to cause the increase in our M’Benga numbers, also caused those readings—” Spock pointed at the slate in McCoy’s hand. “—in the inductor manifold.”

  McCoy walked back over to his desk. “Did that cause it to fail?” he asked, concerned that the seemingly innocuous change in readings through the years might actually be a harbinger of deleterious effects to come.

  “I don’t believe so,” Spock said, “though it does bear further investigation.”

  McCoy nodded. “I agree,” he said, thinking that this finding might actually spur their research. During his time away from Starfleet after the five-year mission, McCoy had done some such work, but not much, instead spending a good deal of time on the Fabrini medical database. At the same time, Spock had been on Vulcan, undergoing the Kolinahr ritual. In the three years since they’d rejoined the Enterprise crew, they had occasionally returned to their research, but the ship’s mission of exploration had largely kept them busy with other things. “Spock, have you tested any other old equipment aboard the Enterprise?” McCoy asked. “Or any of the new equipment?”

  “No,” Spock said. “But I agree that we should.”

  McCoy reached across his desk and picked up a tricorder sitting there. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Thirty-Two

  1937

  Lynn raced Belle Reve along Church Street, knowing that she would be late, but hoping that she wouldn’t be too late. She and Phil had invited Leonard for a six o’clock supper tonight, and it had to be close to that time right now. She’d taken too long at Jeff Donner’s, but she hadn’t expected that Pastor Gallagher would be having a wheel repaired on his buggy today, or that, like her, Randy Denton would be having a horse shod. She hadn’t wanted to wait, but Belle Reve had needed new shoes for a long time now, and they’d need her when they started preparing the fields for planting in the next couple of days.

  Up ahead, near the turnoff to Tindal’s Lane, Lynn saw the back of an old red truck. As she galloped closer, she recognized it as belonging to the Bartells, and saw that it had stopped, its right wheels pulled off onto the grass bordering the dirt road, its driver’s-side door standing open. Thinking that somebody must’ve broken down, she slowed Belle Reve to a trot, and then to a walk. Despite running late already, she knew that the Bartells’ farm was a few miles farther down Church Street, and if the truck had broken down, then maybe Jimmy or Judy or Bo would need a ride. The sun hung low in the sky and would soon set, bringing darkness within the hour.

  As Lynn drew abreast of the truck, she saw Bo standing in front of it, though with his back to the vehicle and its hood down. The son of the Hayden’s deputy sheriff and its town clerk, Bo had grown into a lean, tow-headed figure of a young man, who had to be about twenty-three or twenty-four. He looked back over his left shoulder at her, a smile on his face. “Hey, Missus Dickinson,” he said. “Look what we got here.”

  Lynn didn’t understand what Bo meant until she passed the front of the truck. There, on the ground in front of him, a colored man lay on his back, a canvas sack by his head. About thirty or thirty-five, he wore tan pants and a red and blue plaid shirt, dust from the road sticking to his clothes in patches. He had a blue bandana wrapped around his head, covering it, and as she watched, he patted the ground around him as though looking for something. Bo turned back toward him just as the colored man stopped searching around, perched on his knees, and pulled a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles onto his face. He peered up at Bo.

  “What’re you looking at, boy?” the young Bartell spat. The colored man started to get to his feet, and Bo stepped toward him.

  “Bo!” Lynn called, fearful that a fight would break out. “What’re you doing?”

  “I suppose I’m just keeping our town clean,” Bo said. He thrust his hands into the colored man’s chest, sending him staggering backward. The colored man spun his arms wildly, trying to keep his balance, and he managed to stay on his feet. Bo moved toward him again.

  “Bo!” Lynn called again, imagining the worst. In her head, she saw the colored man punching Bo in the face, beating him, maybe pulling out a knife. “Bo!” she cried again, pulling her foot from its stirrup and swinging her leg over Belle Reve. She jumped to the ground, quickly wrapped her horse’s reins around the window frame of the open truck door, and raced over to Bo. The young man had stopped maybe a yard from the colored man, and she grabbed at his arm. “Stop it, Bo,” she said, looking up at him. “There ain’t no need to fight.”

  “I weren’t fighting, ma’am,” Bo said. “Just keeping this here nigger from dirtying our town.”

  Lynn looked from the Bartell boy to the colored man. Bo stood a head taller than she did and had a strong build, but she could say the same things for the stranger. “What’re you doing here?” she asked him.

  For long seconds, the colored man continued looking at Bo—glaring at him—but then he turned his attention to Lynn. “I’m just passing through, ma’am,” he said, pointing down Church Street toward town. He spoke very precisely, his words clipped like the individual hoofbeats of a horse. “Heading north,” he added.

  “Not through our town, you ain’t,” Bo said.

  “This is supposed to be a free country,” the colored man said.

  “Not for you, boy,” Bo said. He pulled his arm from Lynn’s grasp and started forward again. Lynn followed and took hold of his arm once more, stopping him.

  “Maybe you should just go around the town,” Lynn suggested to the colored man. “If you go back down that way, you can go right on Merrysville Road, then out to Upper Piedmont Highway. It goes north.” She motioned down Church Street past him, and as she did, she saw a cloud of dust farther down, behind a vehicle headed in their direction. She hoped it might be Turner Robinson, who also lived out that way, but he was probably still back in town at his store.

  “With all due respect, ma’am,” the colored man said, his tone resentful, “I walked up that way. Merrysville Road has got to be seven or eight miles back.”

  “That too far for you to walk, boy?” Bo taunted him.

  “It’s farther than I should have to walk,” the colored man said. “It’s farther than I want to walk.”

  “Like I care what you want,” Bo said, and once more, he stepped forward. Lynn jumped in front of him and turned to face him, putting her hands on his chest.

  “Stop it, Bo,” she said. “There ain’t no need to fight here. He’s just walking, that’s all.”

  Bo gazed down at her, and she could see the hatred in his eyes—not for her, but for the stranger. “You want that walking through Hayden, Missus Dickinson?” he asked. “Through our town?”

  “I…I don’t really care, Bo,” she said, realizing that it didn’t really make any difference to her. The colored man didn’t say he wanted to stay in Hayden, just to pass through. She knew what she did want, though: to avoid a fight. “Listen,” she said over her shoulder, “maybe you should just go. Maybe that would be for the best.” She now heard the engine of the vehicle heading up Church Street as it drew closer.

  Lynn peered up at Bo and waited, hoping that the colored man would heed her advice. But then he said, “Thank you, ma’am, but I don’t think I want to ‘just go.’ ” She heard the crush of his footsteps on the dirt road as he strode past her, carrying his sack over his shoulder. She watched him go, and so did Bo.

  “Well, I’ll be a—” Bo said, sounding as surprised at the colored man’s actions as Lynn felt. He pulled away from Lynn and started to follow, but then halted as the vehicle coming down the road reached them. It stopped beside Bo’s truck, pulling a cloud of dry dust along with it. Lynn squinted her eyes against it and covered her nose and mouth with her hand.

  “Hey,” somebody called, and she recognized the nasal voice of Billy Fuster. “What’re you doing, Bo?” Lynn waved her hand in front of her face, clearing away the dust. Through it, she saw the Fusters’ old jalopy, held together
with spit and baling wire. Inside, she saw Jordy King in the passenger seat, and the two Palmer boys, Justin and Henry, in the back. At twenty-three, Billy was the oldest of the lot, and at sixteen, Henry was the youngest.

  “You won’t believe this,” Bo said. “We got us a nigger trying to come into our town.”

  “What?” Billy said. “Where?” Lynn looked past them and, through the settling dust, could just make out the figure of the colored man marching along.

  “Right down there,” Bo said.

  “Come on,” Billy said excitedly. Bo climbed onto the car’s running board, sticking his hand in through the open window to hang on to the top of the driver’s seat. Billy drove off immediately, kicking up another cloud from the dirt road.

  Lynn squinted and covered her nose and mouth again and waited a few seconds for the dust to calm down. When it had, she ran to Belle Reve, unwrapped her reins from Bo’s truck door, and mounted into her saddle. She sped after Billy Fuster and the others, no longer concerned about Bo getting into a fight, but worried that the peaceful town of Hayden might suddenly have a lynching on its hands.

  By the time she caught up to them, all of the boys had gotten out of the Fusters’ car. They stood in front of it, spread across the road, facing the colored man. As she watched, Billy and Jordy circled around him, cutting off his means of escape. “What’re you boys doing?” she called, but not one of them paid her any attention. Instead, Bo stepped directly up to the colored man, who Lynn noticed no longer wore his spectacles.

  He tucked them away so they wouldn’t get broken in a fight, she guessed.

  “I told you that you can’t go through our town, nigger,” he said. He rammed the heels of his hands into the colored man’s chest again, and the man hurtled backward, his canvas sack falling to the ground. He began to fall himself, but then Billy grabbed him from behind, keeping him on his feet; Lynn saw at once that it was no act of charity.

  “Get off me,” Billy said, pushing the colored man forward, back toward Bo. Bo reached out and pushed him again, this time in a different direction. The colored man tripped, and tumbled to the road in front of Justin and Henry. As he clambered back to his feet, the two Palmer boys reached for him, but he shook them off and pushed them away.

  “I don’t want a fight,” the colored man said.

  “’Course you don’t,” Bo said. “Not when there’s five of us and one of you.”

  “Is that how it’s got to be?” the colored man asked. “Or are you man enough to face me on your own?”

  Bo snorted, an ugly sort of a laugh. “Man?” he said. “I’m more of a man now than you’ll ever be, boy.”

  “I don’t think you can prove that,” the colored man said evenly. “Not by yourself.”

  “Stop it!” Lynn tried again, but nobody even looked at her. Instead, Bo peered over at Billy, then back at the colored man.

  “You want to fight me, nigger?” Bo said. “’Cause I’m about ready to lay you out.” For a tense moment, the situation seemed to stop cold. Nobody said anything, nobody moved, and Lynn hoped that the colored man would choose discretion. But he spoke up.

  “I’m right here,” he said. “Either stop me or let me be on my way.”

  Bo ran at him. The colored man tensed and then moved aside at the last instant, pushing Bo as he went past and turning to face him. Justin and Henry stepped away, but Billy started toward the colored man from behind. Bo righted himself and turned back.

  “No,” he yelled at Billy, and the Fuster boy stopped. “I’ll take him.” He ran again at the colored man and this time connected. The two went down hard onto the dirt, and Billy had to jump back out of the way to stop from getting hit.

  “Stop it, stop it!” Lynn yelled from atop Belle Reve. She didn’t know what to do. She thought about rushing to the house to get Phil and bring him back here, but feared that it would be too late by then.

  Bo rolled atop the colored man and pushed himself up, throwing a hand around his throat. He pulled back his other hand, cocking his fist, but almost faster than Lynn could see it happen, the colored man slapped the hand around his neck away, and Bo toppled forward. As he fell, the colored man sent a fist into his face. Lynn thought she heard something crunch, and she couldn’t tell if it had been Bo’s nose or the colored man’s hand. Bo cried out and raised his hands to his face. The colored man pushed him to the side and scrambled back to his feet. Lynn saw blood on his shirt, and then looked to Bo. As the young man pulled his hands away from his bloodied nose, he appeared stunned.

  “You son of a bitch,” he fumed as he looked at the smears of red on his hands. He staggered to his feet.

  “You want some help, Bo?” Billy asked. Bo didn’t answer, but yelled angrily and raced toward the colored man again. Just as Bo reached him, though, the colored man hurled another punch at his face, connecting solidly. Bo collapsed to the dirt in a heap.

  The boys looked on for a moment in silence—as did Lynn—but then Billy yelled, “Get him.” Justin and Henry closed in on the stranger from either side, and the colored man raised a fist and punched Justin in the face. As he reeled backward, his younger brother backed away. Jordy sped forward, though, putting his head down and ramming the colored man in the gut. The pair crashed onto the dirt, and Jordy began flailing away, looking frantic to fend off the colored man’s punches as much as land his own.

  Billy ran toward Lynn then, and for an odd moment, she thought that he meant to attack her. But he strode past her and over to his car, where he lifted the trunk, reached in, and pulled out a tire iron. “Oh no, Billy,” Lynn cried, flinging herself down from Belle Reve. She stood between the horse and the car directly, in Billy’s path as he headed back to the fight. “Billy, you don’t want to do this. Somebody’s gonna get hurt bad.”

  “Somebody sure is,” Billy snarled, pushing past her and walking around the front of the car. Determined to intercede, Lynn followed. There, she saw Justin still on his knees on the ground, his brother kneeling beside him, obviously trying to help. The colored man now straddled Jordy’s waist, holding the boy’s hands down on either side of his head. Bo was gone.

  Billy walked right up to the colored man and lifted the tire iron up over his head. “No!” Lynn screamed, and the stranger looked up just in time to see Billy bringing the iron bar forward. The colored man raised his arms to try to block the blow, and the hard metal struck his right forearm. He bellowed in pain, but grabbed at the tire iron, trying to wrest it from Billy’s grasp. But Billy jerked it back and prepared to swing it again. The colored man jumped from atop Jordy and crawled in the opposite direction. Billy leaped over Jordy and went after him.

  Suddenly, another car skidded to a halt on the dirt road, coming from town. As intent as she’d been on what had been happening, Lynn hadn’t even heard it approaching. As another cloud of dust rolled through the air, she saw Leonard open his car door and get out. “What…what’s going on here?” he asked, obviously confused by the scene. Lynn looked over at Billy, and saw him stop and glance up at Leonard.

  “This nigger,” he yelled, his eyes wide with fury, pointing at the colored man still on the ground, “punched Bo and Justin and Jordy.”

  Leonard peered at the colored man, and then over at the others. Finally, he looked back at Billy. “And so you’re going to hit him with that?” he asked.

  “Didn’t you hear me, Doc?” Billy said. “Look what he done. Justin’s bleeding and—” He looked around, his brow furrowing. “—wherever Bo’s got to, he’s bleeding too.”

  Leonard gazed around again. “All right,” he told Billy, and he began walking toward him. “Let me just ask you one thing: Why would this one man want to fight all of you?”

  “He didn’t,” Lynn said from beside Belle Reve. “They all tried to stop him from walking through town, and when he wouldn’t go around, they went after him.”

  Leonard looked over at her, and then back at Billy again. “That right?” he asked, now just a few feet from him.

  �
��Don’t matter none,” Billy said. “We don’t take kindly to his kind in these parts.” He gestured in the colored man’s direction, as though accusing him of a crime.

  “I see,” Leonard said. He reached forward then and took hold of the tire iron.

  “What’re you doing?” Billy asked.

  “I’m taking this,” Leonard said, pulling the tool free of Billy’s grip. “There’s no need for it. Now all of you go on home and clean yourselves up, and I’ll take care of this man.”

  Lynn heard the footsteps behind her just before somebody pushed her to the side. When she righted herself, she saw that Bo had returned from wherever he’d gone. He marched toward the colored man, moving to his right. As he did so, Lynn saw the shotgun in his hands, the stock raised to his shoulder, the barrel aiming forward. “I’ll take care of him,” Bo said.

  “No—!” Lynn screamed, even as Leonard pushed past Billy and put himself between Bo and the colored man. Bo lowered his gun a few inches and peered over the hammer at Leonard.

  “What’re you doing?” Bo said. “Get out of my way, Doc.”

  Leonard said nothing, instead pacing forward toward Bo. As he got close, he raised the tire iron and swung it. The shotgun flew from Bo’s grasp, landing several feet away. Bo cried out in pain and grabbed his hand, and Leonard went over and picked up the weapon.

  “You broke my hand,” Bo yelled.

  “You come by my office tomorrow and I’ll mend it for you,” Leonard said. “And you can get this from me then too.” He held up the shotgun, then went over to the colored man. He bent down and spoke to him quietly, though Lynn couldn’t make out his words. Then he helped the colored man to his feet and escorted him over to Doc Lyles’s old car, picking up the man’s now dusty canvas sack along the way. Leonard opened the trunk and threw the tire iron, shotgun, and sack inside. After slamming it closed, he walked the colored man to the other side of the car and settled him into the passenger seat. As Leonard made his way to the driver’s side, he looked over at Lynn. “Are you all right?” he asked her.