Chapter IV: Part 4

She hurried on. The corn, high as her head, rustled in the breeze, but there were other sounds. Killdee was shouting, running through the corn, swearing, cursing, raving. Dogs were everywhere in the field. They were digging up the fish.--Fighting over them.--And the smell of those catfish! Poor Killdee!

There was nothing she could do. She turned and went slowly back over the path to her cabin.

She made up a blaze in the fireplace and sat down to smoke and think. She hated to see Killdee after this. He’d be so disappointed. Without fertilizer, his corn would not make much. The land was too old and worn out. Poor Killdee. All his hard work for nothing. The dogs would not stop until every fish was eaten.

Well, life is like that. She had learned it. Women learn it early. Yes.

Men take trouble harder.--Harder.

The sun was high in the sky next morning when she heard Killdee coming down the path. His step was heavy. Different from the step of last night. Heavy hearts make heavy steps.

She was not prepared for the drawn look on his face. It was thin and haggard, and his eyes were red and sullen.

“Auntie----” he stopped with a harsh laugh. “Dey ain’ gwine be a stalk o’ cawn lef’ een my fiel’.--Not a stalk. Not much ez one year. My fiel’ is ruin’!--Ruin’! De dawgs’ll dig up eby stalk o’ cawn to git dem catfish.”

His hard hands clenched as he spoke. He looked at her helplessly.

“Dey ain’ gwine stop tell dey dig up all. I wouldn’ mine ef I hadn’ a tried so hard. Ef I didn’ done ebyt’ing I could a-tryin fo’ mek a good crop. De rain mek de grass eat up all de cotton, but I did count on plenty o’ cawn fo’ eat. An’ now--now--dem Gawd-damn dawgs----”

Killdee, hurt, spent with disappointment, sat on the doorstep with his chin in his trembling hands. Maum Hannah remembered the little boy who used to come to her long ago. So good, so hard-working, so easily cheered up when things went right. So pitiful when things went wrong.

She got up and went to him and put her wrinkled hand on his hard, sinewy shoulder.

“Son--son,” but what could she say? Life was hard to understand sometimes. He must try to have faith in the rightness of things. How else could she help him now? She felt the strong muscles under her fingers. Killdee was no weakling. No.

“Son,” she said, “eby back is fitted to de bu’den. Dis one seem heaby. But you kin bear em. I know you kin. You gwine hab plenty--fo’ eat.--Sho! You ain’ no chillen. You mus’n’ git downhea’ted. No! You’s de stronges’ man een dis country. An’ de bes’, too. I know.”

It was hard to think of anything more to say to him as he sat there, bitter rebellious, hard. She spoke as much to herself as to Killdee when she added:

“We ain’ got no help anywhe’ but Up-Yonder, son. We haffer trus’ een Him. Haffer!”

Killdee raised his weary eyes to her face. A sneering smile came to his lips. His bared teeth gleamed in a savage way that made her shiver. He laughed boisterously.

“Rose all de time talk de same fool way. Trus’ who?”

He laughed again. “Who?” he repeated, mirthlessly.

_Son_

All night long Son was restless. Under the bed where Killdee slept, he twisted and stretched his lean neck and thin paws,--and clawed and scratched and bit and snapped at the hungry fleas that lived on his rough, yellow hide.

Killdee woke and listened and pitied and studied and tried to go back to sleep again.

Fleas had to be. Dogs always had them. Son ought to know that and keep quiet. He kept himself from sleeping with all this uneasy, impatient fidgeting. Son ought to learn to rule himself. To hold steady.

As long as Son lived, fleas would stay on his hide and lay and hatch and bite and sting and breed more fleas to keep doing it.

Killdee reached down a hand to find and pat the poor, tormented beast. But the hand couldn’t see and it stirred the darkness with long, sleepy fingers, until a moist nose touched it gratefully.

Then the fingers grasped the harsh, warm hair, they tenderly felt the sharp edges of narrow bones and rubbed a limp ear.

“Son,” Killdee murmured, “don’ fight dem fleas too hard. You claw’s mighty sharp. Dey gwine tear a crack een you hide. Den mange’ll git een. Mange is wusser’n fleas. Fleas is natchel. Fleas can’ do nuttin’ but mek you on-res’less. Mange’ll mek you ugly an’ mean.”

Son patted his bony string of a tail on the floor. Killdee’s interest made his breathing husky with joy. Even after Killdee’s hand was withdrawn, Son gave faint whimpers of pleasure.

But soon he was restless again. He got up and went to the door and whined and scratched to be let out.

Killdee followed him and took down the bar and Son slipped by and went down the steps into the night.

First he stood still and listened. Then he trotted away down the weedy path. He knew where he wanted to go. Knew exactly.

Killdee looked out and listened, too. The dwindling old moon cast a gray light that made the frosty night chillier. There were very few sounds at all.

An owl whooed far away in the river swamp, but Son cared nothing for owls.

Something rustled and scurried in the fence corner, but Son’s light, patting feet went steadily on--without slacking.

Cocks near by crowed and got answers faint and far away.

Little chickens hovering under a mother hen gave a few uneasy, troubled peeps and were hushed with a drawling cluck. That was all.

Son had listened at none of these. Something else had called him. He sniffed the air and then went straight to where he wanted to go. Son had keen ears. His nose was hard to fool.

Killdee smiled to himself and closed the door and put up the bar to hold it. He went back to bed and eased himself down beside Rose. But he kept smiling to think how shrewd Son was. How wise.

Son’s faithful interest in love-making made him get up and break his night’s rest and go far in the cold and dark. More than likely, he’d be late getting to the lady’s house. He’d have to fight other dogs there for a chance to get the lady to even notice him. Fight dogs that were younger and bigger and stronger.

If the lady happened to choose him, he’d soon come away and leave her. He’d forget all about her. He would never even know his own children.

It was hard luck to be a dog when you had as much sense as Son. If Son were a man--a man----

Something Maum Hannah said long ago came into Killdee’s mind and mocked him: “It’s a wise man kin tell his own chillen.”

An unpleasant saying. And yet--even a man had to take somebody else’s word--about children.--Whose they really were.

Of course, Rose’s children were his. But Mary’s--since Bully left, children had come to Mary just the same.

How did any man know if they were his or not? Did Mary herself know for certain? She always laughed and said: “My chillen daddy ain’ nobody een pa-ticular.”

After all, maybe fathers don’t matter much. Son knew that. He went about his business and did what he thought was his duty, and then he bothered himself no more about it. Maybe Son’s way was good as any.

Killdee went to sleep and forgot about Son until the next day when dinner-time came. Even then he didn’t remember until his pan of peas and rice was almost empty.

It was Son’s custom to sit patiently by and watch Killdee eat and catch bits of food that his master tossed to him.

Where was Son to-day?

Killdee got up and whistled and called him. He wondered and whistled and called again before Son came creeping out from under the house where a dark corner hid his fresh wounds from meddlesome flies.

Poor Son. One limp ear was torn. His wishful eyes were bloodshot and battered. His thin legs tottered unsteadily. His coarse, yellow hair was reddened and wet. Above open cuts on his body, flies hummed and buzzed and frolicked.

Killdee knelt and took Son’s head ruefully in his big hands. He stroked the sensitive nose and patted a cheek and whispered sorrowful words.

“Po’ ol’ Son. Po’ ol’ man. Dey got you all cripple up, enty? It hu’t me clean to my heart fo’ see you all bung up like dis.--Po’ ol’ Son. Better lef ’oman lone, Son. Better lef em lone, ef you kin.”

Rose stood in the doorway watching. She didn’t love Son, and Killdee was not deceived by her show of sympathy when she suggested kindly:

“You wan’ me fo’ git you a clot’ so you kin tie em up, enty?”

No, he didn’t want a cloth. Son’s hurts were better left uncovered. Son’s tongue could lick them and keep them clean. Son could cure them himself. No other medicine would do as much good as the medicine within Son’s own mouth.

Men have to tie up their sores and grease them. Not dogs. Dogs have learned to cure themselves. Son knew how.

Killdee went to the haystack by the barn and got a bit of fine dried grass. He crawled away back under the house and fixed Son a bed in a dark warm corner.

Son followed and laid himself down with a sigh and wagged his tail weakly.

A lump came in Killdee’s throat to see him so downhearted. Son couldn’t help wanting to go courting last night. Something inside him compelled him. Drove him. Son wasn’t to blame.

Son wasn’t to blame that he wasn’t strong enough to fight other dogs away, without getting himself beat almost to death.

Who was to blame? What? Why couldn’t things be fair to dogs?--And to men--and women?

A face came before Killdee’s eyes--black--eager--young--with a bluish bloom on the cheeks--a pointed chin where a dimple came and went--dark red lips where white teeth gleamed with laughter--lips that quivered in such a pitiful way when things went wrong--little Missie--good little Missie.

She was so little--so tender--so trustful. Could he ruin her because she was what he loved best?

Love was a disease. It was wilting all the joy in her--in himself. It was a poison that would burn and shrivel--that would change her clean freshness to shame.

Son could go and love when he liked. Where he liked. If he came home bruised and torn, he could go off and hide and lick his bloody hurts and get well.--But a man--has to lie--and seem hard and mean----

If a man could only learn to cure his hurts too--that would be good. Maybe a man has to learn to do it. Maybe so.

Killdee crawled out from under the house with a gloomy, frowning face. Rose turned away when she saw him and he walked slowly down the path.

Gray clouds hung low and drops of cold rain were falling on the damp ground. Dull, reddish puddles of water shivered in the wind, as if they were hurt.

Killdee gave a bitter laugh.

“Me and Son ain’ de onlies’ one hab trouble. Mud-puddle hab ’em too! ’E can’ be still. ’E haffer stan’ pain. De wind trouble em. De sun-hot’ll dry em up. Po’ mud puddle! Do Jedus!”

What was the use to try? To want to do anything? Something got everything. Even mud-puddles!

* * * * *

Heavy clouds bunched over the wide river swamp. In the distance their rough, dark edges touched the tree-tops, and the hills on the other side were hidden. Down under the trees the rivers were swollen and muddy. They swirled and lapped and rushed along disregarding their rightful channels.

Killdee stood at the edge of the steep hill and looked down. The water was rising. Everything in the swamp would be flooded. Cattle and hogs left down there would be caught soon. Traps would be washed away unless they were fastened strong to trees.

Where was Son? He’d been gone since first daylight, and his hurts were hardly well.

Thinking about him made Killdee automatically give a long, shrill whistle. He missed Son when he went away like this. Son was getting along in years. Since rations were short, Son was weak.

He wouldn’t stop scratching at the fleas. Mange had him. His eyes were dimmer than when he was young. Fighting ruined them. He wouldn’t stay home at night and rest. He’d rather go running around and getting into trouble with other dogs. Son was foolish. He’d be better off asleep.

Killdee whistled again before he turned towards home. He had no hogs in the swamp to bother him to-day. Cholera got them all last year. He didn’t have to go hunt in the swamp for them now. That was something. Those rivers down below were men to-day. Good all his traps were chained to trees.

The solitude was disturbing. Killdee drew his rough shirt together at the neck and buttoned it across his throat. He peered into the colorless, blurred distance. There was something troubling about it. Bare tree-tops hid wicked streams that tore at things to destroy them.

Where was Son? Son knew that swamp too well to risk it now. Killdee wanted to shout and shake those dull clouds. To make those quiet tree-tops rustle. He drew in a full breath and forced it out with all the power of his lungs.

The clouds hung still. The tree-tops did not move. Only the heavy silence was stirred. A deep echo came back to meet his cry and two voices seemed to meet. Something within his breast moved with hope and courage. If Son was down there in trouble, he’d hear that call and take heart and fight his way back home.

Something more than an echo answered. What? A faint yelping. A weak whining. Could Son make a puny yapping like that? It was almost like a fox bark.

Killdee strained his ears to hear. Yes, it was a dog calling for help. Somebody’s dog. Maybe it was Son!

Killdee whistled and called and encouraged, then listened again. The sound was nearer, but still uncertain--then a sharp outcry came. And silence.

Killdee plunged down the hill in the direction of the cry. Through tangled vines and low-growing bushes he went following the bank of the foamy, trashy river, but there was nothing to be seen of Son.

He climbed slowly back up the hill and went home to Rose and the children.

It was night when a scratching at the door made him get up and take down the bar. Biting, cold rain rushed in and hurried Son with it. Wet, shivering, dirty with mud and blood, Son limped toward the fire on three legs. Red drops spattered on the floor, for the fourth leg, a front one, was gone, nipped off close to his body.

“My Gawd, Son,” Killdee whispered, “who dat done you so!”

Then he knew. A trap. Nothing but cold, hard steel could cut Son’s bones and meat like that. Son had gone looking for food. For meat. The trap treated all alike. Possums. Coons. Dogs. Son’s leg was too thin to stand the pinch of it. It came off. Poor Son! Down in the swamp hunting something to eat. To eat!

Son might be wrong to scratch fleas and get mange, and to go fighting dogs for a mate, but Son couldn’t help being hungry. He wasn’t to blame because he wanted a taste of meat.

Son’s hide was no good to anybody, but the trap didn’t care. It caught anything that came in reach of it. Anything.

“You gwine tie em up wid clot’, or le’ em stay so ’e kin lick em?” Rose asked.

Killdee did not answer. He took Son in his arms and held him close to the fire. The poor stub trembled and bled.

Light, flickering flames gave out little warmth. Their yellow fluttering mocked. With an impatient kick, Killdee shoved the logs further back into the chimney. A shower of sparks crackled and flared.

“Son--Son----” It was all Killdee could say. The pain in his breast hurt him through.

What was the use of anything? Something always gets you. Son never harmed anybody. Never! He did his duty the best he knew how.

Fleas wouldn’t let him rest. They made him scratch. His own claws tore holes in his hide and let mange get in.

Son would have stayed around home at night too, but some bitch was always calling him to come breed his kind. Son had to go. Something inside him drove him. Son had sense. He knew he would meet other dogs there. But he couldn’t help taking the risk of being beat.

Son needed meat. His appetite stung him. He was too old to catch rabbits. The bait in the traps was his best chance. Son thought so. Son didn’t know traps were jealous of dogs the same as of possums or coons. Son was too suspectless.

Now his front leg was gone. Cut off. Some possum had gnawed it by now.

It wasn’t good to trust anything. No. Not anything. There was no escape. Some day, Son, he too, would lie still with a mouth full of dirt. Yes, dirt.

_A Sunday_

Sunday morning was the one day in the week when everybody on the plantation could sleep as late as they liked.

The front room of Killdee’s cabin was dim and gray in the early dawn. Gray, like the oak ashes banked over last night’s fire in the wide, open fireplace. Gray, like the wisp of smoke that struggled feebly through them to rise out of the wide open chimney.

The corners of the room were still dark. The night seemed to linger, too deep-dyed to be overcome by the weak light of the fog-veiled morning. The wavy mirror in the new bureau made the one bright spot in the room.

Fresh newspapers, cut into fringes and hung on wires, stretched across the ceiling, fluttered uneasily in the damp breeze that slipped in through the two small, square, open windows.

The window blinds were made of rough boards. One was propped back and held against the side of the cabin by poles. It didn’t fit the window, for it was warped and crooked from the weather. On blustery nights it creaked on its rusty hinges. Teased them. Pestered them. Threatened to break them. It couldn’t. Those hinges were strong. Hand-wrought. The big nails that held them to the solid window facing were deep in the wood. Hard to break or pull out.

That window blind’s creaking often woke Killdee and made him restless, but it was easier to leave it on than to take it off. The head of the bed was opposite the windows. The gray light fell on its bright, turkey-red and white cover, and on the two black heads resting there on the white pillow.

One head lay still. Heavy, open-mouthed, snoring. The other moved tetchily whenever the window blind creaked.

Habit was too strong for Killdee. He could never sleep late on Sunday mornings. He woke at daylight, the same as on week days. He always tried hard to lie still, to go back to sleep, to stay in bed until Rose woke and got up to fix breakfast. But every Sunday it was the same old thing. He’d move his body and turn over and try to wait. He’d think over everything he ever knew in his life. Then finally, utterly worn out with trying, he’d get up, stir the coals in the fireplace, start the fire going, and dress. It was the same thing every Sunday.

This morning he tried hard to wait for Rose to wake. He settled his head on the pillow again and again and tried to lie still.

Then his long black arms just would stretch out from under the quilt. He gave a wide-mouthed yawn, a shiver, and a sudden snuggle back down under the covers. The early morning air was damp. Chilly.

He wished it was Monday morning. Then he’d be up getting to work. He liked his work better than anything else. Planning it. Watching things grow and bear and ripen under his hand. That was what he liked. Work.

Already the land was plowed and ready for planting. Everything was waiting for the weather to turn warmer, when he’d plant the cotton.

Sundays were a nuisance. He was always glad when they were over.

The other Negroes looked forward to them. Rose did. She liked to dress up and go to church. To sit high up in front and sing in the choir.

He looked at the back of her head, there close to his face. What a funny smell it had lately! Rose was using some sort of stuff to take the kink out of her hair. A funny thing to start doing at her age. Why did she want straight hair? She was married. He was satisfied with her hair as it was.

He really liked the natural hair better. Straightened hair had a stiff, queer look. He liked the older women with their heads tied in pretty, bright head-kerchiefs. Rose didn’t. She wanted to be stylish. Stylish. He smiled at the word, then frowned as he thought. Reverend Felder was stylish.

Women are funny things. All of them. Like children. Men have to humor them. He hadn’t always humored Rose, but since he had begun doing so, these last few years, things had gone better with them.

He rose up and sat on the side of the bed, making it creak. He rubbed his lean, black face all over with his hard hands. He scratched his woolly head and yawned again. Then got to his feet and walked slowly to the front door, and took down the wooden bar that held it shut.

He looked out at the big trees in the woods near by. Cedars, oaks, sycamores, were all strangely magnified by the mist. They seemed to be brought near to him. Even the crape-myrtle and china-berry trees in the yard seemed bigger and closer.

“It’ll clear off befo’ twelve to-day,” Killdee muttered to himself. He turned to the hearth and stooped and stirred in the ashes, uncovering the coals that still lived there.

A quick pattering of light feet sounded. A sniffling. A glad whine. Son. The little three-legged cur ran in through the open door. With a great wagging of his tail and wriggling of his lean body, and a licking at Killdee’s bare feet and hands and face and neck, the dog expressed the greetings of the morning.

Killdee patted the yellow body gently a few times, then said a gruff “Git on off wid you, now. Lemme mek up dis fire.”

The dog ran under the bed and lay down. He scratched and licked and snapped at fleas, while Killdee added kindling and pieces of wood to the coals.

Bright blazes flamed up. Killdee watched them leap through the wood. The draught moving steadily up the chimney drew the chill damp air in through the door. Killdee got up and closed it. He put the wooden bar in its place, and with a slight shudder, crawled back into bed beside Rose.

How warm she was! He got closer, but she moved away when he touched her.

Under the bed the little dog was snoring, snoring, and Rose breathed heavily too. Killdee, alone, was awake. Awake and restless. Hungry, too. Rose would be cross if he woke her.

Sometimes she did get cross, but most of the time she did pretty well.

Wouldn’t she be in a rush when she woke this morning! She was going to bring Reverend Felder home to dinner with her to-day. Rose had a hen ready to bake. A cake was already made.

The thought of Reverend Felder was unpleasant. Why did women like preachers? Funny. Preachers were like women. Weak nothings. But women always liked them.--Always. Except women who were like Mary. Mary’s kind didn’t bother with preachers often.

The smell of the hair-straightener became unpleasant. Killdee turned away. He’d get up. He wanted his breakfast. Rose had slept long enough anyway. He sighed heavily. What would he do while she went to church?

She was a good wife. Cross sometimes, but a good wife. She was a good cook, and she kept the house clean. She didn’t nag often. Hardly ever now, for he knew how to stop her when she began it.

One good thing about her, she never had cared about any other man’s attention. Now some women---- But he never would put up with a thing like that. Never! Rose, on the whole, was a good wife. A good wife. Maybe a better wife than he was a husband. He stirred under the covers.

Men are different from women. God made men different. The stronger a man is, the more different from women he is. Women are made to love one man. One. Men--he wondered if any man ever loved one woman all his life. All the way through. He loved Rose----

Here Killdee turned over. Somehow he felt uncomfortable--for his thoughts ran to little Missie. He couldn’t deny it to himself. No. His heart beat with a quiver when he thought about her. But that was because he couldn’t help worrying about her.

There was something about Missie--Killdee didn’t know just what it was. He lay quiet, rapt. Picturing the supple, slender figure, the way her eyes shone when she laughed, the dark purplish red lips, the dimple that came and went in the pointed chin.

Lately Rose was often cross with Missie. Cross. It was wrong. But women are so. They don’t like anybody else to look good, or to be pleasant. No. Women are all jealous. All.

Sometimes he wished he was fool enough to get religion. To get interested in church. It would give him something to do on Sundays. Somewhere to go.

And yet, it was nice to sit here at home, or to walk out into the fields. To plan the week’s work ahead. He liked to be different from the other men on the plantation. To show them he was different.

He thought for himself. He wasn’t a man who could be scared by the preachers. No. He smiled to himself when he thought how he teased Rose by telling her the members paid the preachers just to keep them scared. He said it in fun, but he meant it, down in his heart.

Yes, he did try to think for himself. He wasn’t a sheep. No. He was a goat. A strong he-goat.

A rooster hopped up on the doorstep and crowed shrilly. It was time to get up. Somebody was coming! Killdee laid his hand on Rose’s shoulder. Her firm flesh was good to touch.

“Ain’t you ready fo’ wake up yet?” he asked her gently.

* * * * *

Before twelve o’clock, the clouds lifted and the sun shone warm on the wet earth. Spring was in the air.

When Killdee finished breakfast, he drew a chair out on the little front porch. With his feet up on the narrow banister railing, he leaned back and smoked his cob pipe with short puffs. Jay-birds chanted harsh love words to each other in the trees. Crows caw-cawed. Thrushes thrilled over new-made covenants. Cardinals whistled gay assurances. Mocking-birds, perched in budding trees near the cabin, poured out joyful songs. It was spring.

Inside, Rose bustled around. Missie fed the children. Fat pots, full of food, sat on the hearth close to the hot fire. Rose leaned to stir one, then another. The preacher was coming home with her. Reverend Felder was coming. Rose was cooking before she went to church. She couldn’t trust Missie to season the things. No, not for Reverend Felder. Missie could put a cloth on the little table and set the dishes on it. She could put a clean, white apron on over her Sunday dress and wait on Rose and Killdee and Reverend Felder while they sat and ate, but Rose herself must do the seasoning. Rose had everything planned in her mind.

Reverend Felder was handsome. So slim and tall. So educated. So stylish.

Rose came to the door and glanced up at the sun. It was getting high in the sky. Soon it would be time to go. She must hurry. She had to dress yet.

“Better come an’ go wid me to chu’ch to-day, Killdee,” she said. “You’ll heah a mighty fine sermon.”

Killdee puffed at his pipe a few times before he answered:

“No. I reckon not. I don’ feel lak settin’ still to-day. Not for so long. You an’ Missie go. I’ll stay an’ tek keer o’ de chillen to-day.”

But Missie had to stay to watch the precious pots. She couldn’t go to church to-day.

“I’m gwine put a few green walnuts een a sack an’ drag ’em ’roun’ een de pond. Enough to git a few fish. Fish’ud tase mighty good to-night fo’ supper,” Killdee said with sudden inspiration.

Rose was shocked.

“Why, Killdee! On Sunday? You’d stun fish on Sunday! You’s a case, Killdee. What ’ud Reverend Felder t’ink ef he’d find you doin’ sich a t’ing? Do wait tell nex’ Sunday. Don’ mek me shame o’ you to-day.”

Killdee gave a short laugh.

“Lawd! I bet dat nigger preacher ’ud eat dem fish same as me. Shucks!”

“I bet he wouldn’t do no sich a t’ing,” Rose defended indignantly. “You ought to be ’shame’ to talk ’bout a preacher so, an’ ’bout gittin’ fish on Sunday. You don’ know yet, Sunday is Gawd’s Day?”

Killdee smoked on in silence and Rose hurried her preparation. When she was ready to go, Killdee had the mule hitched to the wagon ready for her to drive.

How fine she sounded with her rustling, stiff-starched petticoats and new shoes that squeaked with each step! A corset, too! And Hoyt’s German Cologne from the cross-roads store!

“Lemme git a quilt to put ober you lap,” Killdee suggested, “Dese lines gwine git you’ dress dirty.”

“No. You go git a clean sheet out de trunk, Missie.”

Missie did, and away Rose went down the road and out of sight. Killdee watched until he could see her no longer.

How beautiful the day had turned out to be, and the morning had been dark and threatening.

Who was that coming down the road? A woman.--Mary West.--Killdee knew that walk. That slender, lithe body. It was a good thing Rose had gone. Rose hated Mary. Killdee smiled. You couldn’t blame Rose.

What was Mary coming here for? Something about her farm-work, maybe. He rose to meet her. How neat and nice her homespun dress was! Plain, cheap, but on Mary it looked as nice as silk.

Mary’s face was cheerful, pleasant.

“How you do dis fine day?” she inquired, and Killdee answered cordially, as he held out his hand:

“Fine, fine! An’ you look lak a flowers yard dis mawnin’.”

“I ain’ feel lak one,” Mary answered soberly. “I’m totin’ lightnin’ fo’ strike somebody right now.”

“Who? Me? Le’ ’em come. I kin stan’ a stroke out you’ han’.”

Killdee laughed at his own wit, but Mary stayed serious.

“Better don’ laugh yet, Killdee. Wait tell you heah wha’ I come fo’ say. I don’ know ef I right fo’ come tell you or no.”

She did seem to hesitate about something. Her steady, bright eyes seemed to be searching his face. Killdee laughed at her discomfort.

“You look lak you een chu’ch, Ma’y. But come een an’ set down.”

Mary followed him up the steps, but she would not sit in the chair he offered. She preferred to stand. How droll!

“Better not tell me de bad news. Ef it is so turrible, I might not could stan’ to heah ’em,” he rallied, but his words fell flat. Mary’s face kept its woeful look. She shook her head.

“But you gwine heah it sometime. Boun’ to! All de mens in de quarter is laughin’, makin’ spote o’ you, right now. An’ you settin’ heah an’ don’ know nuttin’ ’bout ’em.”

Killdee’s face changed. This was a different thing. Who had dared make sport of him? Laugh at him? What did Mary mean?

“Wha’ you talkin’ ’bout, gal!”

Killdee felt the very hair on his body bristling. His blood swelled and hottened.

“It ain’ easy fo’ tell you, Killdee! I don’ know ef you gwine b’lieb me or no----” Mary looked full in his eyes.

“Go on an’ tell me! Don’ act fool! Tell me wha’ you mean!”

He must hold still and make her tell all she knew. Mary couldn’t lie to him without flinching. No. She was in earnest. She was uneasy, too, and Mary was no coward of a woman.

“I might be wrong to dip een it. It ain’ none o’ my business. I des’ hates fo’ people speak light ’bout you, Killdee. I ain’ fo’git how good you been to me sence Bully gone off an’ lef’ me----”

“Aw----” Killdee was impatient. “Ef you got anyt’ing fo’ tell, go on an’ tell! I don’ wan’ none o’ you’ sweet-mout’ talk.”

Mary looked at his eyes.

“You call ’em sweet-mout’ talk, enty?” she laughed scornfully.

“Killdee,” she sneered, “you is a plain fool. A fool! You duh set home an’ smoke an’ all de people een de quarter right now is laughin’ ’bout Rose. Rose is fool ’bout da preacher Felder!”

“Wha’ you mean, nigger?” Killdee asked furiously.

He’d like to kill her. Devil!

“Killdee,” Mary answered coolly, “when Rose gone to da convention down de country, e stay een de same house wid Felder. An’ you heah home. So sati’fy. Mens ain’ got no sense. You is bad as any. You wife cuttin’ de buck an’ you blind ez a bat.”

“Who dat talk sich a talk?” Killdee demanded. He grasped Mary’s arm.

“You mus’ be mean who dat _ain’_ talk em!” Mary answered with a wry laugh.

Killdee was confused by this unexpected news. Rose? Reverend Felder? It was impossible. Ridiculous. He tried to laugh carelessly--easily---- But when he looked at Mary’s face, the laugh dried and stuck in his throat.

“Who sta’t dis talk, Mary? Is it you? I know you ain’ nebber lak Rose. But dis is a low-down talk. Ef you had feelin’ fo’ me, you wouldn’ do em, needer. You couldn’.”

Mary’s lips curled.

“I didn’ t’ink you was sich a ass, Killdee! I is one, myse’f, to come heah an’ tell you. I wish now I ain’ come.”

Mary turned to go. With arms akimbo she stopped in the path.

“Wha’ I keer ef de people laugh een you’ face?” she jeered. “How much you keer ’bout me? Wha’ I keer ef de deacons tu’n Rose out de chu’ch? I ain’ no member. No. I’d scorn to be one. You hanker fo’ ’oman lak Rose, enty? A ’oman who kin set up een de choir. An’ sing. An’ pop chewin-gum een e mout’. An’ wear fine clo’es. An’ shout ’bout Gawd an’ Jedus. Dem is de kinder ’oman you crave, enty? Good day! I gwine!”

Mary flung down the path.

Killdee was perplexed. What was Mary trying to do? Could what she said be true? Rose--Rev. Felder----

“Come back heah, Mary!” Killdee called with sudden decision. “Come heah an’ tell me all you know ’bout dis t’ing.”

Mary stopped. She looked at him.

“Wha’s de nuse?” she asked. “You don’ b’lieb me. You t’ink I’m workin’ some trick on Rose fo’ git you. I--I---- I wouldn’t hab you, Killdee! Not ef you was de las’ man ’pun top dis yearth. I kin stan’ a fool but not a damn one.” She laughed.

Killdee seized her wrist and thundered, “Shut you’ mout’! Don’ you call me no name. I’ll kill you right heah ef you do.”

Mary smiled, but Killdee talked on. He had to talk. Words rushed to his lips. First abuse. He couldn’t help it. He knew he was wrong. But he had to strike out at somebody. And all the time he knew Mary told the truth. Rose had no sense. Felder could easily turn her head. After the flood of bitter words passed, he blurted out: “Felder might be got her haid tu’n fo-true. Might be. I gwine fine out. But ef you lie to me--I--I’ll----”

He could not say “kill” to Mary again. Instead, he said:

“I’ll fine out de trut’. An’ ef you’s a-lyin’----”

As Mary met his gaze, she felt pity for him. He saw it. He released her arm and she walked away down the path that wound around down the hill, then up to the quarter, where she lived.

Killdee went back to his chair and sat down. He filled his pipe. Soon he filled it again. His quick, short puffs burned the tobacco fast.

What was the best thing for him to do? What? Mary might be lying. He couldn’t sit here and think. This was one time he couldn’t hold still. No! He’d get out and walk.

He went out into the yard, then around the house, and followed the path down the hill and on toward the river.

He wandered along the path at first, then he suddenly turned in another direction. He remembered old Daddy Cudjoe. He’d go see him.

Daddy Cudjoe lived away back on the river. He was a cunger doctor. A hoodoo man. He really did work wonders with people. He was feared as no other man in the country was feared. Killdee remembered when he was a little boy how he used to tremble at the sight of that old, bent figure.

Since then, he had learned much from the old man. Not of cungering, but of plain sense. As he grew older and needed advice, there was nobody who could understand his problems, his perplexities, as well as that little, old, shriveled man who lived all alone, away back there in a log-cabin on a hillside above the river. And, to-day, Killdee felt that old Cudjoe could advise him better than anybody else.

It was past noon when he reached the little clearing where the one-roomed cabin stood. Smoke puffed out of the clay chimney, saying that the old man was at home and not in the river-swamp digging roots.

Killdee walked right in without knocking.

“Hey, Daddy?” he said.

“Hey, son!” the keen-eared old man greeted him, looking up from the roots he was assorting. “Come on een. I glad fo’ see you. How you do?”

He held out his bony hand. It was more like a claw than a human hand. Killdee clasped it gently.

“I well, Uncle. How you do?”

“Fine. Fine. Busy. Busy,” he answered in his queer, cracked voice. Then he chuckled. The wrinkles deepened in his small, wizened face, and his bright eyes twinkled kindly.

“Wha’ de matter ail you to-day, son? You’ foot movin’ mighty heaby, enty?”

“Dey ain’ nuttin’, Daddy,” Killdee answered, drawing up a small home-made chair to one side and sitting down. “I des ain’ had nuttin’ much fo’ do to-day, bein’s it wuz Sunday. I t’ought I’d come see how you wuz a-gittin’ along.”

“Shut you’ mout’, boy. Go on an’ tell me wha’ dat got you fretted. You t’ink I too blind fo’ see how you’ face is all squinched up een a knot? Who dat got you bex’, now? A ’oman. I kin tell.”

Daddy’s toothless, red gums shone as he cackled with laughter.

“Daddy Cudjoe, you sho is got a second sight!” Killdee laughed, too. “I don’ b’lieb nobody could fool you. No. How you kin know so much?”

“I dunno,” the old man answered simply. “De buckra read book. I read face. You kin read cloud, enty? An’ sky? You kin tell when it gwine rain? Sho! I practise a diff’unt readin’. Da’s all. Face an’ book an’ sky. All is de same at you know how fo’ read ’em. Sho.”

Killdee listened thoughtfully.

“I reckon dey is ef you know de sign good. Yes. I reckon dey is.”

“Who dis you wan’ me fo’ cunger, now?” Daddy Cudjoe asked, chuckling again.

“Nobody, Daddy. Nobody. But I’s worriet. Worriet. I got to do somet’ing or nudder. An’ I don’ wanter mek mistake.”

Killdee pushed his worn, stained hat back from his forehead, then he took it off and laid it on the little bare, pine table beside him.

“Mistake is a bad t’ing,” Daddy Cudjoe admitted seriously. “Bad,” he added.

Killdee looked at the fire and blurted out:

“Women is de Debbil, Daddy Cudjoe.”

Daddy Cudjoe nodded his old, white head. Then he turned to Killdee with a merry light in his eyes.

“Who dis duh talk? Dis ain’ Killdee! Dis can’ be Killdee! My Gawd, son! You don’ mean fo’ say you l’a’n sich a t’ing. Can’ be!” and he laughed softly.

A wistful smile played over Killdee’s face as he sensed the old man’s amusement.

“I’ve know it a long time, Daddy,” he said, toying with his hat.

“Well, da’s good. Good,” said the old man, wiping the tears out of his eyes. “At you know a t’ing is de Debbil, den you know how fo’ deal wid ’em. Sho.”

“But I don’ always know how fo’ deal wid ’em. Da’s de trouble right now. I don’ know.”

“Who’s de ’oman, son?” Daddy Cudjoe asked. “Diff’unt kinder ’oman need diff’unt kinder treatment.”

“It Rose,” Killdee said simply.

“Rose?” The old man looked astonished.

“Rose? You don’ mean _you’_ Rose?” he asked, incredulous.

Killdee nodded his head. It shamed him to say it, even to Daddy Cudjoe.

“Wha’ dat Rose done, now?”

“It’s dat damn preacher,” Killdee asserted fiercely.

“Preacher? Wha’ preacher? You mean Andrew, enty?”

Daddy Cudjoe remembered things he had heard years ago.

“No. I mean Felder! ’E’s de one. Gawd-damn his black soul!”

Daddy Cudjoe could not restrain a relieved laugh, as he said:

“Oh, Felder. Don’ be a fool, son. No. You mus’n’ t’ink hard ef Rose pleasure ’e’se’f a lil wid de new preacher. Ki! You’s wrong. De preacher mought be a nicer man’n you, Killdee. Preachers is mighty sweet-smellin’ creeters mos’ ob de time. You ought not to be bex wid Rose.”

Daddy Cudjoe laughed at his joke. He felt easier. But Killdee’s face was gloomy. He couldn’t treat it lightly.

“Don’ plague me, Daddy Cudjoe. I can’ stan’ it. I ready right now fo’ kill da low-down son of a bitch. But I ain’ sho it bes’ for’ do em. De t’ing gits me is dis: Mary West say all de people on de plantation know ’bout dis t’ing befo’ me. Dey all is a-laughin’ at me fo’ a fool. Dat’s de t’ing riles me. I des’ like to sho ’em--sho ’em I ain’ on de lebbel wid common niggers lak dem. Sho ’em I don’ give a rip ’bout all dey say----”

Daddy Cudjoe listened, but said nothing.

“I could kill Rose. Killin’ a ’oman’s easy fo’ do----” Killdee stopped.

“Talk on, son. Talk on. You’ own mine’ll tell you wha’ fo’ do, toreckly.--Talk on. Talk. You’ mine’ll listen. It de one fo’ tell you wha’ fo’ do. You ain’ chillen fo’ me fo’ say wha’ you mus’ do. No. You own mine kin tell you better’n me.”

Killdee looked at him. Daddy Cudjoe was right. He himself must decide.

Daddy Cudjoe looked at the fire. His old face was sad. His voice cracked.

“I nuse to be a nyoung man, too, Killdee. I wuz strong one time ez you. I had trouble, too. Plenty. When I fus’ hab trouble, I’d talk it to people. Dey’s plenty o’ people fo’ listen when you talk ’bout you’ trouble.

“But, I soon fine out dat wa’n’ good. No. Den I begin gwine een de woods fo’ talk to myse’f. I talk t’ing out wid myse’f. You kin talk close-talk out een de woods. Dey ain’ nobody fo’ heah you. It’s de bes’ place, son. De bes’ place. Go talk dis t’ing out wid you’se’f. I can’ do you no good. You go off een dem woods an’ talk ’em. Da’s de bes’ way. Nobody can’ do you no good. You de onlies’ one kin do you’se’f good. Go talk ’em out wid you’se’f, son.”

Presently he added:

“You ain’ ’f’aid nobody, enty?”

’F’aid? ’F’aid, nuttin’!” Killdee answered fiercely.

“Den you ain’ hab no trouble. No. Trouble ain’ nuttin’ but bein’ ’f’aid. Bein’ ’f’aid! No! Ebbybody’s ’f’aid o’ somet’ing. You lucky ef you ain’ ’f’aid o’ nuttin’. Talk it ober wid you own se’f, son. Fine out wha’ mek you ’f’aid. You ’f’aid o’ somet’ing, or you wouldn’ o’ come fo’ see ol’ Daddy dis mawnin’.”

Killdee looked at the fire. Presently he said:

“Mebbe you’s right, Daddy. Mebbe I’s ’f’aid. Mebbe I’s ’f’aid o’ dem niggers laughin’. I ain’ gwine be ’f’aid no mo’. Not me! Not Killdee! Ef I is, Daddy, an’ you heahs ’bout it, you come gi’ me a dose o’ pizen. Yessuh. You gi’ me a good dose, an’ lemme die!”

Killdee rose to go. Daddy Cudjoe nodded approval.

“Da’s right, son! Da’s de way fo’ talk! Sho! Lemme tell you dis one t’ing befo’ you go. Dese preacher, dese member, all dese Christian, dey is ’f’aid, too! You ’member dat! You mus’n’ be ’f’aid dem! Not no mo’.”

Killdee took the skinny, old, outstretched hand and held it affectionately, then he dropped it and followed the path to the woods.

It was almost dark when Killdee reached home. Missie and the other children were out in the yard. Missie said Rose was sick with a headache. She was lying down on the bed.

Killdee went inside. He couldn’t tell whether Rose was asleep or not, for she did not move or speak to him. “How you’ feelin’, now, Rose?” he asked somewhat gruffly.

Rose sniffled.

“I t’ink I feelin’ a lil better right now. I mek Missie git a collard leaf an’ tie on my haid. Dat he’p ’em some.”

Killdee turned from the bed.

“I t’ink so much chu’ch ain’ good fo’ you.”

Rose moved and sniffled again, but said nothing.

“Whe’ Revern’ Felder? ’E ain’ come home wid you? At you fix so much fine eatin’ fo’ eb e ain’ come?” Killdee demanded.

“’E ain’ come to Mount Pleasant to-day. ’E sen’ a answer ’e mighty sick,” Rose answered humbly.

“How-come you hab de haid-ache? You mus’ be eat too much.”

Killdee sat down in the doorway and took out his pipe and lit it again. His tongue was sore from so much smoking to-day, but he puffed fiercely on. It was hard to keep from saying what was in his mind. Hard. How he would like to wring the necks of a lot of people. Rose among them. Headache! He knew well enough she was only scared. That was what ailed her. She ought to be scared. Worse than scared.

He had stopped and talked to Mary again on his way home. Things were even worse than he suspected. Rose had made a fool of herself. Of him. The deacons were going to meet at the church next Sunday and consider what they would do with Rose and Felder. They’d mouth and rant and then turn them out. He knew.

Whether Rose had done wrong or not, she had gotten herself talked about. That was almost as bad as being guilty. She had gotten Felder talked about too. Andrew was spreading the news as fast as he could. Scoundrel!

The only thing to do was to meet the whole crowd of them face to face and say what he had to say to them all together. How could he do it? Where? Killdee smoked and thought.

* * * * *

Rose stayed sick all the week. Even Killdee began to be worried about her, although at first he thought she was pretending. Night after night he could hear her crying, and she scarcely ate enough to keep her alive.

When the next Sunday morning came, Killdee got up early and bathed and put on the best clothes he had.

“Whe’ you duh gwine, Killdee?” Missie asked him with a mischievous grin. “To church?”

“I gwine off a piece,” he replied with dignity.

Over and over he anxiously cast his eyes up at the sun to tell the time. When the hour before noon arrived, Killdee went into the barnyard and put a bridle and saddle on the mule, mounted him, and rode away. When he was gone, Rose sat up in bed and called Missie.

“Whe’ Killdee duh gwine?” she asked.

But Missie knew no more than Rose.

* * * * *

When Killdee rode up he could see through the windows that a large congregation was gathered at Mount Pleasant Church. There was no preacher, and the deacons were gathered all together in the pulpit.

Daddy Cato announced the hymn and lined it out two lines at a time. The congregation sang it slowly, solemnly. Daddy Cato called on Andrew to pray, but before Andrew’s prayer was ended, Killdee could see that the congregation was becoming restless. Instead of bowing their heads with closed eyes while Andrew told God the purpose of their gathering together, they craned their necks to look at him, as he stood waiting in the door for Andrew’s prayer to be finished.

Killdee could tell by the way Andrew yelled out his words that he must feel terribly annoyed. He prayed well. He must have studied up this prayer last night. It was like one old Reverend Duncan used to pray. But it was being wasted because the congregation did not listen.

Andrew’s eyes were open. He could see that the people did not hear his fine prayer. When he said “Amen” every eye was turned to the door. Killdee was there. He stood in the door waiting. As soon as “Amen” was said, Killdee walked right up the aisle to the little steps at the side of the pulpit. He did not stop there. He went right up where the deacons sat in the pulpit.

What in the world was Killdee thinking about? Was he crazy? The congregation sat with open mouths. No such behavior had ever been seen in Mount Pleasant Church before. Killdee, of all people in the world! Here to-day, when Rose’s misconduct was to be discussed. And up in the pulpit with the deacons themselves. He must be going crazy. Rose had run him crazy. Killdee could see it all in their faces. It made him smile. His heart had been beating uncomfortably, but now that the time had come it troubled him no more.

There was silence. The deacons could not speak for astonishment. What did Killdee mean?

Killdee stood there before them with a cool smile on his face. His words were cool. Quiet. He did not lift his voice one bit.

“I reckon you-all is surprise’ to see me heah to-day,” he said pleasantly, looking at each deacon, then at the congregation. Sheep. Scary sheep all running together. Flustered now. Addled. Andrew cleared his throat. The other deacons moved uncomfortably in their chairs. None of them seemed ready to answer, although Killdee gave them opportunity.

“I ain’ gwine tek up much o’ you’ time. I got to hurry on back home, bein’s my wife don’ feel so well to-day.”

He stepped forward a little and put his hand on the Bible. Some of the congregation took in sharp breaths. What did he mean? Putting his hand on the Word of God like that! Killdee was a good enough man, but everybody knew he was a sinner. He didn’t pretend to be anything else. Then why did he come here? It was too much. Too brazen. The deacons ought to make him get down. A wonder God didn’t strike him dead for blasphemy!

The deacons themselves seemed confounded. They sat staring. Dumb. Open-mouthed.

Killdee’s voice was a little tense when he began, but his words soon flowed distinctly. They were emphatic. Explicit, too. But quiet.

“I know why yinner come to chu’ch to-day,” he said. “I know all yinner been talkin’. You been talkin’ ’bout Rose. My wife. I ain’ fool ez I look,” he added.

A smile broke over his face as he looked at the congregation. His eyes twinkled at the deacons. They seemed, somehow, bewildered. Killdee continued:

“I come heah fo’ say des’ one t’ing. One! Yinner listen good. I ain’ gwine say em but one time. You listen. It’s dis----”

Killdee laid his hand right on the Bible. It was as if he swore to something. He leaned forward. His words snipped off short. His lips flared and bared his strong teeth.

“De fus’ nigger eber call my wife name een dis chu’ch is got to deal wid me! Me! Killdee Pinesett! Da’s all.”

Killdee took his hand off the Bible. He smiled pleasantly at them. Surprise numbed the tense faces. Taut muscles held still.

“I’ll say good day to yinner now. I see you-all done heah me good.”

He went down the pulpit steps. Down the aisle. On out of the church. He unhitched his mule and rode away down the red dusty road.

* * * * *

Afterward Killdee heard many stories of what was said and done when he left. But Rose’s name was not mentioned. That was certain.