Trouble in July Read online

  “God damn it, this ain’t no way for you folks to be doing!” somebody said. “You folks save up and do your scrapping tomorrow or some other time. I came out here to help track down a nigger.

  Somebody picked Clint up and pushed him towards one of the cars. Fifteen or twenty men followed behind.

  “What we going to do now, Shep?” several of them asked.

  Shep brushed himself off and started for his car. The men on the bridge began arguing among themselves, some of them undecided whether to follow Clint or Shep.

  Jeff and Bert backed away and circled around through the brush until they were back where the car had been left. Jeff was hurrying across the ditch when a flashlight was turned on him. Several men crowded around him.

  “What the hell are you doing out here, McCurtain?” one of them demanded. “I think it’s pretty funny to be stumbling over you out here where you don’t have no business of being. You ain’t fixing to double-cross nobody, is you?”

  Two of the men began roughing Bert, pushing him towards the road.

  “Why ain’t you laying low like Judge Ben Allen told you to do?” one of the others asked. “I talked to Judge Ben Allen on the phone, and he told me—”

  “Now, hold on a minute,” Jeff said uneasily. “There ain’t no use in anybody in the whole wide world misunderstanding me. I’ve worked myself frazzled-assed trying to keep this lynching politically clean. That’s why I wouldn’t be out here on false pretense. All I wanted to do was find what became of Sam—”

  “Sam who?”

  “Sam Brinson, the colored man,” Jeff said. “Everybody knows Sam. He’s the darky who’s always trading old machines and getting into hot water every now and then about the mortgages. Some folks carried Sam off, and I started out to hear some word of him.”

  “That ain’t no reason to find you snooping around out here when we’re looking for that Clark nigger, McCurtain.”

  “Now, boys,” Jeff pleaded, “don’t jump so hard-almighty at conclusions. I thought somebody around here might know about him. He was carried away from the jailhouse early this morning, but he ain’t got a thing in the world to do with this trouble. He gets into a fix now and then when he sells one of them old cars of his when it ain’t clear of mortgage, but he don’t mean no harm.”

  “This is a bad season of the year for any nigger to be getting into trouble,” a man said. “It ain’t healthy for that Brinson nigger, or any of them, to be crossing white people right now.”

  “Sam never sets out to do harm,” Jeff protested. “It just looks like it’s pure second-nature with him to be wanting to swap them old machines of his around.”

  “Well, he ain’t out here, McCurtain,” a gruff voice broke in. “And the best place for you at a time like this is right back at the jailhouse in Andrewjones.”

  Jeff moved towards his car by the side of the road. The men walked on each side of him in silence. Jeff did not like the careless manner of some of them with their shotguns and rifles, and he watched them nervously.

  Several other men came up suddenly out of the darkness, but no one said anything. The faces in the light looked grim and determined.

  Bert was standing in the ditch with half a dozen men around him holding guns in the crooks of their arms. He looked worried.

  “All right, McCurtain,” somebody prompted him. “Remember the talk we had back there a minute ago.”

  He and Bert got into the car. The men, fifteen or twenty of them by that time, waited in a semicircle while Bert started the engine and drove down the road in the direction of Andrewjones.

  Bert ventured to speak after they had gone two or three miles. He had waited as long as he could before saying anything.

  “Maybe we ought to be going back to the jailhouse toreckly,” he suggested. “There’s no telling where Jim Couch is, and somebody ought to be there in case something comes up.”

  Jeff motioned to him to slow down the car. Bert stopped it at once on the side of the road.

  “Hot blast it,” Jeff said with sudden determination, “I ain’t going to let a crowd of lawbreaking citizens stop me from locating Sam. No! We ain’t going back to town now, or toreckly, either. I’d never get over it if something far-fetched happened to Sam Brinson. Let’s just sit here in the cool of the night for a little while till I can think it over properly. I’ve already made up my mind I ain’t going to budge myself back to town till I find out what in the world became of that darky. I’m going to stick at it if it takes till God-come-Wednesday.”

  Chapter XI

  THE MOON CAME up full and bright from the dark depths of the piney woods. Powdery yellow dust, blown into the air by many automobiles speeding over the un-paved roads, was settling in layers over the flat land. The dark green leaves on the bushes beside the road were stained with the yellow dust, but in the bright moonlight they sparkled lazily with dew as the hot summer air drifted without direction from one field to the next. The country was quiet and hushed with only the occasional barking of a dog afar off in the distance to be heard.

  Bert had waited silently on the seat beside Jeff, waiting for him to speak again, for almost half an hour. He took out his watch and glanced at it.

  “I don’t like to speak about it again, Sheriff Jeff,” he said, watching Jeff’s face in the car’s reflected lights, “but somebody ought to be on duty at the jailhouse.”

  “Why?” Jeff asked casually.

  “Judge Ben Allen might be trying to reach you. If he changes his mind and wants us to do something, he couldn’t reach us out here.”

  Jeff motioned to him to start the car.

  They drove slowly away, keeping on the highway for the next mile and a half. They were still nine or ten miles from Andrewjones when Jeff indicated with a motion of his hand that he wanted to turn off the main road and drive up a narrow, rain-washed lane between two fields of knee-high cotton. Bert did not know what Jeff had in mind, but he followed the instructions without comment. He did not recognize the rough winding side-road, but he took it for granted that Jeff knew what he was doing.

  They had to ford a creek, but before attempting to cross it, Bert stopped the car.

  “Where does this road go, Sheriff Jeff?” he asked anxiously.

  “Never mind where it goes to,” he said quickly. “Drive on. I know every pig-track in Julie County like I know the inside of my hand. I was over this road only about a week ago, anyway. Drive on.”

  They forded the shallow stream and bumped over the narrow road for about three-quarters of a mile. From the bottom of a deep gully the car shot up the side of a knoll and jerked to a stop. The road had come to an abrupt end against the side of a dilapidated cowbarn. Beyond the tumbled-down building could be seen the outline of a two-room cabin.

  Jeff opened the door and got out before Bert could say anything.

  Bert followed Jeff over a single strand of barbed wire that had been strung from the barn to an apple tree at the corner of the yard. The barbed wire was rusty and squeaky to touch. Within the enclosure were scattered the remains of what looked like dozens of old cars in every conceivable stage of wreck. In the light of the bright moon they looked like the bony carcasses of chickens after the flesh had been devoured.

  Some of the cars lay on their sides, some were turned completely over like turtles on their backs. Torn remnants of upholstery and rusty pistons and camshafts were strewn on the sandy yard as though they had been hurled from the automobiles and put out of mind. The headlights from the sheriff’s car bathed a pile of rusty fly-wheels in a warm red glow.

  Jeff was picking his way through the yard.

  “What’s this, Sheriff Jeff?” Bert asked, running and catching up with him just before he reached the cabin door.

  “This is where Sam Brinson lives when he’s at home,” Jeff said, turning and gazing at Bert in surprise. “I thought everybody knew that.”

  “I want to find out if them men turned him loose without me knowing about it.”

  He knocked
on the door.

  “Hello!” he called. “Hello!”

  There was no sound inside. The windows were closed tightly with wooden shutters, and not even a crack of light showed through the door.

  Jeff kicked at the bottom of the flimsy door with his foot. It shook the whole building.

  “Hello!” he called louder.

  He bent his head forward and listened through a crack. Both of them could hear distinctly the rustling of a corn-shuck mattress somewhere inside. A moment later a chair crashed to the floor when it was knocked over.

  Jeff stepped back, beaming at Bert.

  Presently the door opened an inch, but no more. They could not see anyone.

  “That you, Sam?” Jeff asked hopefully, leaning forward and trying to see the dark face through the crack.

  “Who there?” a woman’s voice asked faintly.

  “I want to find out if Sam’s home,” he said, trying to make his voice sound friendly. “I’m Sheriff McCurtain from Andrewjones.”

  The door slammed shut, rattling the frame of the whole cabin.

  They looked at the door for a moment, and then Jeff rapped heavily on the boards. He stood back and waited, but there was no response.

  “Is that Sam’s wife?” he asked. “Is that you, Aunt Ginny?”

  “How come you want to know that?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I’m trying to locate Sam, Aunt Ginny,” he answered quickly. “Sam ain’t in the jailhouse now.”

  The door flew open. Aunt Ginny’s shining black face was thrust out. She looked at Bert and Jeff suspiciously, grasping the red cotton nightgown tightly over her chest.

  “Sam sent me word he locked up in the jailhouse,” she stated firmly. She looked at the two white men earnestly. “Ain’t he there in it, like he said?”

  Jeff shook his head slowly.

  “I been studying how to raise me five dollars to bail Sam out of the jailhouse,” she said, “but if that man’s fooling me, I’m going to lay him low when I catch him.” She stopped abruptly, out of breath. Taking a firmer grip on the neck of her nightgown, she leaned forward and looked into the yard. “Ain’t no yellow-hided wench going to take my man away from me. When I get my hands on that Sam, I’m going to flail some sense in his head.”

  “It ain’t that exactly, Aunt Ginny,” Jeff said, speaking carefully. “It ain’t woman-trouble this time. Sam got carried off by some white men. That’s why I’m out here looking around for him—”

  Aunt Ginny clutched at the door with her free hand. Her eyes looked as if they were turning over in her head.

  “Lordy me!” she cried. “Has that man gone and got himself in trouble like that Sonny Clark went and done?”

  “It ain’t nothing like that,” Jeff assured her. “Sam just got carried off by pure mistake, or something.”

  No one said anything for several moments. Aunt Ginny clutched the red cotton garment tight around her neck and moved backward into the cabin.

  Her head suddenly appeared again.

  “And it won’t about no automobile, either, this time?” she asked unbelievingly.

  “No,” Jeff told her. “Sam got carried off somewhere in a mix-up. I don’t want nothing far-fetched to happen to Sam, and so I came out here looking for him.” He backed away from the door. “If he shows up, you tell him I said to let me know right away. I’ll be worried about him if he don’t show up soon.”

  “I’ll tell him what you said, sheriff,” she promised. “I’ll tell him them very same words.”

  They turned and started walking away from the cabin. Aunt Ginny called.

  “When is the white folks going to leave the colored be?” she said, turning away before Jeff could answer her.

  The door closed, banging shut.

  “Hot blast it, I wish folks wouldn’t cause me so much trouble,” Jeff said. “It looks like people has always got to be stirring up trouble for me. A man my age ought to be at home in bed at this time of night, instead of having to tramp around the country trying to set things right. There ain’t a bit of sense in all this to-do.”

  He walked stiffly through the yard, winding his way between the cars and stepping carefully over piles of rusty fenders and worn-out tires. When he passed the upended body of one of the old cars, he stopped and laid his hand on it for a moment. Scales of rust crumbled in his fingers as he stroked it gently.

  “Sam sure does like to have machines around him, don’t he?” he said admiringly. “If I was a wealthy man, the first thing I’d do would be to make Sam a present of a machine that would run. He’d be a mighty pleased darky if he had one he could ride around in, wouldn’t he?”

  Bert nodded, wondering if Jeff was going back to town. It worried him to think that the sheriffs office was un-tended at a time like this.

  He moved up to Jeff’s side.

  “Judge Ben Allen might be—”

  Jeff waved him away brusquely.

  “I’m acting on my own, son,” he said easily. “I just can’t sit by and not try to do nothing for Sam Brinson.”

  “But—”

  “There ain’t no ‘but’ about it, son,” he said strangely. “Sam Brinson is a sort of special friend of mine, even if he is a colored man. I just couldn’t stand having something bad happen to him.”

  “What you going to do, Sheriff Jeff?”

  “Look for him right up to the last, son,” he said, averting his eyes and moving blindly through the yard towards the car.

  Chapter XII

  SHEP BARLOW, HIS pocket sagging with the weight of his pistol, raced down the narrow lane towards Bob Watson’s Negro quarters. There were six or seven men at his heels, and the remainder of the crowd was following behind at a slower pace. Shep was in such a hurry to get there he could not wait. He had broken into a run when they climbed the fence a hundred yards away.

  The whole straggling crowd of them had cut across the field after leaving the highway three miles from the quarters. They had carefully avoided the road that ran past Bob Watson’s house and barns. Bob Watson had lost no time in making it known that he would shoot down the first man who came on his plantation looking for Sonny Clark. Nobody knew where Bob Watson was then, but Shep and his crowd had decided to make a quick raid on the Negro quarters before he could do anything about it. Shep was a brave man when he was with his own crowd, but he had an ingrained fear of his landlord. Bob Watson more than once had threatened to put him off the plantation if he did not take better care of the cotton for which he was responsible.

  Shep and the other men slowed down to a walk when they reached the first cabin in the quarters. They tiptoed past several of the dwellings, not knowing which one Sonny lived in. There was not a glimmer of light to be seen in any of the houses; all of them looked deserted. The solid wooden blinds were closed tightly over the windows of every building in the quarters, and, as stealthily investigating fingers discovered, all the doors were locked.

  Shep whispered to one of the men beside him, debating which of the dozen or more cabins they should enter first. After only a short delay they decided to choose one at random. All of them moved silently around the building.

  When the building was surrounded, one of the men tried the front door. It was locked fast Drawing his pistol and placing it against the keyhole, he fired. The door swung open without a hitch.

  Several men rushed inside, flashlighting the room. The others pushed and shoved until most of them got inside. Others tore open the wooden blinds and climbed through the windows.

  A Negro and his wife crouched wild-eyed together on the one bed in the room. They huddled in fright behind the cover of a quilt.

  Shep crossed to the bed and jerked the quilt to the floor.

  “What’s your name, nigger?”

  “Luke—”

  “Luke what?”

  “Luke Bottomly, please, sir,” the Negro answered, trembling.

  “Where does that nigger, Sonny Clark live?”

  “Who, please, sir?”

&
nbsp; “You heard me, you black bastard!” Shep shouted at him, grabbing a gun from one of the men and slamming the stock against his head.

  The man crawled to the far corner of the bed, pulling his wife with him.

  “Answer me this time,” Shep said.

  “Sonny Clark lives with his grandmother, Mammy Taliaferro, just a step up the road, white boss, please, sir,” he panted.

  “Which house?”

  “Two houses up that way on the other side of the road,” he said quickly.

  All of the men rushed towards the door. Before reaching it, Shep stopped, turned around, and looked at the two Negroes. Half of the crowd had already left the cabin and had reached the road.

  “I’m waiting here, I reckon,” Shep said loudly. “I’ll wait right here to find out if that nigger’s telling the truth. I ain’t had many niggers to lie to me in my lifetime. It sort of gives me a funny feeling when a nigger lies to me.”

  Luke and his wife lay shaking with fright in the corner of the bed against the wall. The rickety bedstead squeaked and trembled.

  “I’m waiting right here to find out if you lied to me, nigger,” Shep said, advancing on the bed. He walked to the foot of it, throwing a beam of light over the dark uncovered body of the woman. “It won’t take long to find out,” he said, grinning.

  Some of the other men were crashing around in the other room, a lean-to that held a cookstove and table.

  “Is that your wife there in the bed with you?” Shep asked the Negro.

  Luke jerked his head. His lips opened and closed several times, but no sound came from them. He stared in terror at the faces around him.

  “How’d you like somebody to come along and rape her?” Shep asked, grinning at the men around him.

  “I’d sure hate that, white boss,” he said hoarsely.

  “Sure you would,” Shep taunted. “It’d make you so mad you’d get yourself a gun and shoot the first sight you got at him, wouldn’t you? You’d shoot him down even if he was a white man, wouldn’t you, nigger?”

  Luke looked appealingly at the white faces around the bed. He shook his head confusedly.