Finding Peace
THE big farm bell rang loud. Clear. The noon hour was over. A little figure lying prone on the ditch bank in the warm spring sunshine rose slowly and looked around. It was a little black girl. Missie.
Her big, soft eyes had a rapt expression as they wandered over the wide cotton fields stretched far out in front of her. Heat waves shimmered over them, making the dark earth bright and blue as the sky, the blue sky that held heaven and God and the angels.
The child’s faded, checked homespun dress was stained purple with blackberries. So were her fingers and lips.
As if still in a dream, she took up the tin pail that was near her on the ground. It was filled to the brim with ripe, black fruit. With careful-stepping, slim, bare feet, she picked her way through the thorny, briery vines to the path that led to the cabin barely in sight yonder at the far edge of the woods. Maum Hannah’s house. She’d go by there and talk to her a little while before she took the berries to the store to sell.
She walked slowly until she could plainly see an old woman sitting there in the doorway bent over her sewing. Then she hurried forward and, when she got near, called out eagerly:
“Auntie! Auntie! I b’lieb I done fine peace! Kin you heah me? I b’lieb I is! I seen a house all wash-white. Yes’m.”
The words came distinct to the old woman’s ears. She looked up from the clean, ragged garment she was patching. Tenderness shone in her bright old eyes as she watched Missie coming toward her. They were keen old eyes, although their black lids were withered and hung in tiny, wrinkled folds about them.
“Auntie! Auntie!” the little girl called again, but the old woman answered with a caution:
“Mine, gal, mine! You gwine spill dem blackbe’y fus’ t’ing you know. Walk slow, an’ wait tell you git nigher to me fo’ talk!”
Missie came carefully up the path and up the steps and put the pail on the floor by the pile of clothes to be mended. She came close and leaned on Maum Hannah’s shoulder affectionately.
Maum Hannah searched her face curiously and sympathy showed in her warm, gentle voice as she said:
“Tell Auntie now, Honey. Whe’ you been? Wha’ all you been see? Tell me ’bout em. Whe’ you been when you fine peace?”
The little girl felt Maum Hannah’s arm around her. It gave her a feeling of security, of safety, of courage. Maum Hannah’s voice was saying again:
“Tell Auntie, gal.” Her tone was full of kindliness.
“Auntie——” Missie began, then hesitated. How could she tell it in words?”
From the cabin’s narrow doorway the blue hills far over the river yonder showed plain. They had never seemed so bright to her before. They were almost the color of the shiny clouds that they touched in the sky to-day. Something about them held her eyes until Auntie’s arm pressed her closer and Auntie’s patient voice roused her.
“Wha’ you duh dream ’bout, chile? Wha’ you duh see?”
Missie took a deep breath and the little berry-stained dress tightened across her chest. Maum Hannah’s wise old eyes noticed that coming maturity had already begun to develop slight, curving breasts there. Yes, they showed plain with each quick breath that Missie took. Missie’s little heart seemed very full of something.
Tears came into the wise old eyes, for it came to Maum Hannah for the first time that Missie was becoming a woman. A woman. Maum Hannah’s mind could hardly accept it, yet it was so. Little Missie would soon be a woman, with all the troubles, the sorrows, of womanhood.
Lately, Missie had been seeking peace. Peace. And Maum Hannah knew that womanhood would bring her no peace. None. Missie was already turning to religion. To God. Asking for peace. Tears wet the old eyes, but she could tell Missie nothing. Missie couldn’t understand. Nobody could tell her. Nobody.
Old age might bring her peace. It might. But that was far off for Missie. And old age—— But Missie had started talking. She must listen.
“Auntie,” the low voice was husky, “dis mawnin’ at I git my bucket full up wid blackbe’y, I leddown fo’ rest’—I sta’t den fo’ pray.”
“How much day dis is you been prayin’ and seekin’?” Maum Hannah interrupted.
Missie reflected and answered thoughtfully:
“Dis mus’ be de gwine on een de two week, Auntie.”
“I reckon e is,” Maum Hannah agreed.
Missie went on:
“I leddown right on de ditch bank een de blackbe’y patch. Dut been pile up high underneat’ my haid same lake pillow. I shet my eye—I pray—an’ Auntie—it seem like I was gwine todes sunrise-side—’cross de fiel’. It seem like I was walkin’ deep down een de furrow. Den de furrow, e gone tu’n to hill! De hill been steep. It labor me fo’ climb up em——”
The round, black eyes took on a dreamy look, and the little body leaned heavier on Maum Hannah’s shoulder. But the old woman sat silent. Serious.
“It seem lak a house, same like we-own, been by de side o’ de pat’. A black ’oman come out an’ stan’ een de do’. ’E call me. ’E say: ’Stop heah an’ res’ awhile,’ but I tell em: ’No.’ It seem like I gone on a-climbin’ up de hill. I gone an’ gone——”
The low voice faltered. The soft eyelids drooped drowsily.
“Den I see—a white house—an’ a man. ’E was a-stanin’ een de do’. ’E hab face lak—I dunno who ’e hab face lak——”
Maum Hannah stirred a little. Her shoulder was tired. But she said nothing, and Missie went on, each word dropping slowly:
“De man, ’e say: ’Stop an’ res’.’ I stop. I res’. De noon bell—it wake me.”
That was all. A silence. Maum Hannah stirred again. She must ask Missie some questions. But first—she must think. A man?
“Honey,” she began, “Honey, de man been ol’, enty? Wid long whisker an’ t’ing? ’E hab somep’n nudder lak sheet wrop roun’ em too, enty?”
That was the vision that many claimed to see. Had Missie seen it too? Missie’s lips curved in a smile and she shook her head:
“No, Auntie. No. De man I talk wid, ’e ain’ been stan’ so—no.”
Maum Hannah’s eyes narrowed. She turned and scanned the child’s face. Missie met the look and decided she couldn’t tell more. No, Maum Hannah would think strange if she knew the man was Killdee himself. Killdee!
“Wha’ de man been say, den, Gal? Who ’e been look lak?”
“I fo-git wha’ ’e say, Auntie——”
Missie drew away from Maum Hannah’s shoulder. After all, she must have been mistaken. The house was white, but that may not have been a sign after all. Not a sign her sins were forgiven.
“Mine, gal, mine,” Maum Hannah warned threateningly, “don’ you tell me no lie. You ain’ fo’git a’ready wha’ da man say. No!”
Missie looked straight at her. The spell of the vision she had seen seemed broken. Maum Hannah thought she had not seen the right vision. She had not found peace. Maum Hannah’s face showed it. They had all told her to pray until she saw something white. That would be a sign. She had seen something white—and now Maum Hannah seemed cross about it.
Missie sighed and turned to the pail of berries, saying:
“See how I got de bucket full-up wid blackbe’y, Auntie? Ain’ dese nice one?”
She was sorry she had spoken at all about her dream. The house was white and yet the man looked a lot like Killdee. That was wrong. Killdee was a sinner. Killdee was no sign of peace. No.
“Mebbe you is fine peace, Missie. Mebbe you is. I dunno,” was Maum Hannah’s answer. “You go talk wid Brer Cato. Tell em all you see. Ef de man had-a been ol’, an’ kinder strange fo’ look at, it would ’a’ been mo’ better. But den—maybe Gawd is gi’ you a diff’unt sign. Anyway, de house was white.”
Other words that were in her mind would not come to her lips. She could not say them. Instead she said brightly:
“Take you’ blackbe’y on to de sto’, chile. Hurry. Dey is makin’ wine to-day. Dey needs all de blackbe’y dey kin git. Eby lil bit he’ps em out.
“Tell Killdee you find peace to-day. You ought to be baptize nex’ fo’th Sunday. Tell em des so. ’E might gi’ you a new dress. ’E might. ’E hab a good heart. Killdee’s a mighty good man, eben ef ’e is a sinner. Sho.”
Missie’s eyes were shining happily again. Killdee was good indeed. Better than anybody in the world. She took up her hat from the floor where she had dropped it. It was an old, worn, dusty man’s felt hat. Regular slits had been cut in the brim and through these a strip of turkey-red calico was run with the ends tied in a bow at one side.
Maum Hannah smiled when Missie put the hat on.
“How-come you trim up you’ hat so fine fo’ seek een? You put red on you’ hat when you go fo’ pray! Do, Jedus! A gal is somet’ing else een dis worl’. When de spring o’ de yeah come, dey sho is gwine dress deyse’f up. None o dat ain’ b’longst to seekin’, dough, Missie, or needer to findin’ peace. No. Red bow don’ bring no peace. No, gal. Red bow bring somet’ing else!”
The child’s face was still bright with happiness as she stepped lightly down the steps. She ran down the path that led to the Big House, but Maum Hannah suddenly called her back.
“Come heah des a minute, Missie. I got somet’ing fo’ tell you befo’ you go. Auntie’s a ol’ ’oman fo’ true. But you know ol’ people is wiser’n chillen, enty? Ef you see Brer Cato, you talk wid em. But dey ain’ no need fo’ tell em de man ain’ been a ol’ man. No. Dey ain’ no need fo’ say ef de man been ol’ or ’nyoung. Go long, now. Sell de be’y. Killdee might gi’ you a dress fo’ wear to de baptizin!”
Missie listened and then walked slowly, thoughtfully, down the path. After all, what difference did it make if she found peace or not? Killdee was a sinner. She’d just stay a sinner with him. Sinners seemed better than Christians, anyway, all except Maum Hannah. And Maum Hannah wasn’t a very strict Christian. Maybe she was too old to be one.
Missie took the berries to the cross-roads store and got money for them and took it home to Rose.
“Dis all you git to-day? How come? Seekin’ mus’ be mek you pick be’y mighty slow.”
“I reckon ’e is,” Missie agreed. “I ain’ gwine seek no mo’. I tired prayin’, Aun’ Rose. You better lemme wait. I ain’ gwine dead any time soon. Please lemme wait ’bout prayin’.”
“It ain’ me. It you. Ef you kin stan’ fo be lost, den stop seekin’. You de one gwine bu’n een hell. Not me,” Rose said indifferently.
Killdee had come in and he heard this last.
“Don’ mek de gal seek. Not now, Rose. I miss ’e laughin’ an’ playin’ too much. It don’ seem natchel fo’ Missie to be gwine roun’ wid ’e face so long. A-prayin’. Le’ em res’ off from prayin’ an’ seekin’.”
“’E kin do like ’e wan’ do,” Rose said curtly. Missie grinned gayly and cut a little dance step to show how relieved she was not to have to seek peace any more, but a sharp stinging in the bottom of her foot made her stop with a wry face.
“A splinter,” she said, sitting down on the floor and looking in the sole of her foot to see.
“You see, enty?” Rose exulted. “Gawd mek you stop you’ dancin’ quick. ’E mek splinter stick you.”
But Killdee took out his pocket knife and with its big, sharp blade cut the splinter out as gently as he could.
The Red Rooster
THE night was hot. The heavy fragrance of the blossoms in the china-berry tree near Killdee’s cabin door thickened the air and made it more difficult to breathe.
The red rooster sleeping high up on one of its limbs stirred uneasily and crowed in a dull hoarse voice.
Killdee lying beside Rose inside moved restlessly. He tried to keep still. He didn’t want to wake Rose. She went hard as she could at her work all day long. When night came, she was tired. Worn out. Glad to go to bed and rest. He must keep still and let her sleep.
She had not mended just right after Sis was born. Maum Hannah said it was the warm weather. Maybe so. But Rose stayed downhearted somehow. Dissatisfied. He felt she had lost faith in him.
To-night he went to meeting because Rose wanted him to go. She wanted him to get religion and join the Church. Rose thought if he’d be a member they might have better luck. Killdee pondered over it.
Being a member could not make old Mike, the mule, younger; or Mike’s teeth sound, so he could chew corn and get fat. Mike was too old and slow to keep up with the grass, especially when dog days came and it rained every day God sent. Being a member could not stop that.
The air in the cabin was close. Killdee got up softly and took the bar down and opened the door wide. Baby Sis moved. Her ears were keen. She had never been as sound a sleeper as Jim.
Killdee stood perfectly still until she seemed quiet, then he stepped out and stood on the doorstep. He breathed deep and looked up at the stars. How thick and bright they were! A sign of rain to-morrow. More rain. Always rain. And the grass had already wound its strong roots around the tender cotton. He would ruin the stand trying to kill the grass out. Why couldn’t the sun shine awhile?
A glittering sliver of light shining through the china-berry tree caught his eyes. He instinctively turned them away from it—then with a wry smile he turned them back again.
No use to look away now. He had seen it. He couldn’t fool himself. No. He knew well enough what it was. The new moon. He had seen it through trees. More bad luck for a month. More bad luck. Of course. He had nothing else. Never. He’d cut that tree down and be rid of it. It was always screening the moon.
He moved to the side of the door where he could see the moon clear. There it was. Thin and white.
Something in his heart felt sick. Why did he always see the new moon through trees? To-night he had been out in the open field. Why didn’t he see it then?
He didn’t mind work. Nor doing without things for Missie and Rose and Jim and Sis. The question was, why couldn’t he have a chance to work and make something? That was all he wanted.
Bad luck. Shucks! Everything bad that could happen had already happened. He turned inside and closed the door and put the bar in its place. He felt in the darkness for the foot of the bed, then laid himself down again beside Rose. He listened for her breathing. She was very still. Then a sudden jerk of her body made him know she was awake. Awake and sobbing.
“Rose,” he said softly, “why you duh cry, Honey? Don’ do dat. Wha’s de matter? I tryin’ fo’ do de bes’ I kin. I know you ain’ de one fo’ complain. I know dat. Not my Rose. Ain’ we got de putties’ lil boy an’ lil gal een de worl’? Tell me dat. How-come you cryin’, Honey? Please don’ do em. Jim’s a-growin’ so fas’, an’ Sis, too. An’ Missie—Missie kin hoe same ez a grown ’oman. We haffer be t’anksful. T’anksful. Da’s de way. You t’ink I can’ mek a good crop o’ cotton? Shucks!”
Rose did not answer and Killdee put his hand on her arm and patted it gently, then let it rest there. Soon it became heavier and heavier, then it slipped down limp on the straw mattress beside her.
Killdee had seemed so downhearted that Rose made him take Missie and go to the quarter to meeting. She thought if he’d listen to the people sing and pray and see his friends and hear a sermon he’d feel better.
She had stayed at home with the children.
When Jim was asleep she put the creaky little rocking-chair close to the door where she could see out across the field while she rocked baby Sis to sleep.
How bright the stars seemed in the sky! There right up over the china-tree was a new moon. She saw it clear. Good luck! Thank God for that! Killdee was at meeting. Maybe he’d decide to pray and seek.
But Killdee came home from meeting as low-spirited as he had gone. Nothing seemed to cheer him up. He did work hard. But things kept going wrong all the time. If Killdee would do like other men——
If Killdee would seek and get religion—that might help. But he wouldn’t. Rain came and made the grass eat up his cotton, and no telling what else would happen unless he changed.
The red rooster out in the china-berry tree crowed huskily. It was hot. The blossoms thick on the tree out there were too heavy sweet. Their fragrance filled the cabin. They made breathing an effort. Rose couldn’t sleep. Killdee lay so quiet, he must be asleep.
Rose sent out a prayer in the darkness; a prayer for her baby, that God, wherever He was, would take care of her little girl. Then she prayed for Jim. She prayed again for herself, that she’d get well—well as she was before Sis was born—— Then she prayed for Killdee, that he would have longer patience—and be happier—and get saved from sin.
But her thoughts wandered. She was praying here in the darkness. Where was God that He could hear her?
A fear of things crept into her heart—a fear of the dark, of what she didn’t know. Her fear made her get closer to Killdee and, gently lifting his heavy arm, she put it over her. She somehow felt protected by it, and soon fell into a heavy sleep.
When breakfast was ready the next morning, Killdee got up and ate hurriedly and went to the field with his mule and plow. Missie followed with a hoe. Rose stood in the door and watched them going to the field. Killdee looked tired, though the day’s work had not begun. His lean shoulders were stooped, and he was only a young man.
The plow was rickety. Missie did the best she could, but she was little and the grass was tough and wiry.
But this was Monday morning. Rose didn’t have time to be standing there thinking foolish, useless thoughts. No! She had work to do.
First, she sat down by the hearth and ate a bite of breakfast; then covered up what was left in the pot and put it closer to the coals to keep warm until Jim woke.
She hadn’t slept well last night. The china-berry blossoms were too sweet, and the red rooster kept crowing all through the night. She had never heard him crow so loud before. He woke up baby Sis two or three times. Jim never waked for anything. No. He was a good sleeper. That was why he grew so fast.
She went to the bed where he lay asleep. In the early morning light her two chubby, little black children looked almost exactly alike. One was a very little larger than the other. Rose looked with pride at Jim’s soft, round chin; his curved cheek. The full lips, slightly parted, showed teeth white as new milk. A sturdy little boy, but Rose shook her head as she looked, and her eyes filled with tears. Jim’s little clothes were all ragged.
The red rooster gave a shrill crow right at the doorway. Baby Sis, asleep in the cradle beside Rose’s own bed, woke and cried out sharply. Rose went quickly to her and took her up and held her close and murmured:
“Did de bad ol’ rooster wake up my baby? E did! E skeery ’em. Go to sleep——”
She sat in the creaky rocking-chair and crooned to the child she fed at her breast.
The sun had risen bright and hot. A light breeze fluttered through the leaves of the china-berry tree outside and came in through the door, cooler than the fire-warmed air inside the cabin.
Rose rocked back and forth till Sis’s little eyelids fell, then she kissed the fuzzy little head gently and, rising carefully, tipped over to the cradle and laid the baby down.
The red rooster crowed. Baby Sis’s bright eyes opened wide. Rose leaned over and patted the soft little body and rocked the cradle till the heavy eyelids closed tight again. Then she went to the door and waved her apron fiercely at the red rooster.
“Git on off!” she whispered angrily at him. “Git on off! Sometime I wish you was dead! You won’ let nobody sleep een de night wid you crowin’! Now you keep wakin’ my baby up! Quit you doin’s! I got work fo’ do! I ain’ got time fo’ be runnin’ you ’way f’om de do’! Shoo!”
He ran away cackling with terror. Rose began getting up the clothes to wash. This was Monday morning. She piled them all together in the middle of the floor. Then she took up each garment, piece by piece. She must find where there were missing buttons or torn, worn places.
A small paper box sat on the mantelshelf, a box that had once held shells for Killdee’s gun. Now it held her one needle and a ball of coarse thread. She drew the rocking-chair to the door where there was light, and with her big-eyed needle and coarse thread, she repaired the clothing carefully.
The big, black, iron wash-pot sat out in the yard not far from the woodpile. Killdee and Missie had filled it on Saturday. Rose built up a hot fire under it. She took the two wooden washtubs out from under the house and put them up on a bench by the cabin, in the shade of the china-berry tree. Then she brought out the clothes and separated the white ones from the colored ones. With a tin bucket she dipped hot water from the big, iron pot and poured it into the tubs. Soon she was bending her body up and down, up and down, over the wash-board, and white soap-suds foamed through her fingers.
She sang as she worked, a low, spiritual melody. She felt happier, somehow. Work was good, after all. It helps people to shed their troubles. As she washed each garment in one tub, she dropped it into the other tub to be washed again. They’d all be clean when she finished with them.
The red rooster hopped up in the doorway. Rose did not see him. He peeped around carefully to see if she heard him, but she was thinking just then she would have to be careful or the soap would not last through this washing. Jim and Killdee used so many clothes this rainy weather. So many more than she did, or Missie. They got them so dirty too. She didn’t mind that, bless their hearts, if the soap would hold out. Rubbing clothes without soap made sorry washing.
The red rooster stepped cautiously inside the cabin. He was hungry and curious, and with Rose out of sight he was bold.
He looked at the pot on the hearth. The fire coals near it blinked red and hot. He was afraid to go closer to them.
He looked all around the room. A few white threads were scattered on the floor. He pecked at one. It hung on his beak, a tasteless, annoying thing. He shook it off with a croak of disgust.
Jim was a sound sleeper. He did not wake. But Baby Sis’s ears were keen. Her eyes opened wide and caught sight of the red rooster’s glossy, bright feathers and his scarlet comb. She cooed with delight.
The red rooster listened and walked timidly up to the cradle. He stretched his neck and looked over the side to see what was there. Tiny dimpled fists and small black feet jerked uncertainly, quickly. Two black eyes danced and sparkled.
The red rooster leaned a little closer. The child seemed harmless enough.
He was hungry. He had not had a single grain that morning. Not a crumb. Rose and Missie and Killdee had all forgotten to feed him.
The hens were scratching for worms, but it was very hot. They had to hold their wings out away from their bodies while they scratched. A tiresome thing.
Maybe these two, bright shiny eyes would be good to eat. He would have to be quick to get them. They didn’t keep still like blackberries. No, but maybe they tasted better.
His yellow beak was sharp and his long neck was strong, and he gave a swift peck.
Rose outside was washing and singing, but she heard the strangled gasp of terror, the silent held breath, then the shrill, heart-breaking scream.
She flew up the cabin steps, stumbling over the frightened red rooster. He squawked and cackled with terror and tried to fly past her out through the door.
It was easy to see what had happened. A bloody hole gaped, then it poured out red tears.
Rose’s eyes dazzled. She picked up the child and held her close while she stumbled blindly, wildly over the soft furrows to where Killdee worked to kill grass in the field. Killdee would know what to do. He’d know.
“Killdee—Killdee——” she moaned as she went, “mah po’ lil baby—— Looka wha’ de rooster done to em, Killdee——”
Killdee heard her and went running to meet her. Missie ran too. Killdee looked once at Sis’s poor little blood-stained face and turned away with a breath that whistled sharp through his teeth. His mouth went hard. His lips taut.
Why couldn’t he speak? What was the matter with him?
Rose put out a hand to touch him, then drew it back.
He was laughing—no—not laughing, either, but his face was working curiously——
Missie followed his eyes as they looked wistfully across the fields where heat waves danced merrily in the hot sunshine. What was Killdee thinking? Why was he so quiet?
“Yinner mus’ be blame me—yinner won’ say nuttin’,” Rose sobbed. Killdee said slowly, hoarsely:
“No—I dunno nuttin’ fo’ say——”
Rose turned away crying. Killdee was blaming her. She had let the rooster get in. It was Monday. She had to wash. He knew that.
“Look lak you’d come kill de rooster—Killdee—— Don’ look lak you’d stan’ up dere an’ don’ say nuttin,—an’ don’ do nuttin’——”
Killdee held out his arms.
“Gi’ Sis to me, Rose. Lemme tote em home fo’ you. Missie, you go walk behime Mike. He kin keep to de row an’ plow tell I git back. You des hol’ de plow up fo em.”
With the child in his arms, he walked toward the cabin. Rose followed him, sobbing and saying as she went:
“I can’ wash no mo’ to-day. No. Not at mah baby eye done pick out—— You haffer kill da rooster, Killdee. I can’ stan’ fo’ hab em roun’ de do’ no mo’—no—not at e pick mah baby eye out. I know all de time somet’ing been gwine happen. Nobody wouldn’ lis’n at me when I talk—nobody wouldn’ pray, but me.”
Killdee did not answer, but he remembered how the new moon hid behind the china-berry tree last night. Bad luck had come. Yes.
When he killed the rooster, he’d cut the damned tree down too.
Teaching Jim
KILLDEE walked home beside the load of wood. In a kind voice he urged Mike on. The sun was going down.
Far across the cotton field it shone red. As Killdee lifted serious eyes to look at it, his lean, gaunt, black face saddened.
The sun that set in Baby Rose’s grave was red, just like this sunset. Red like the fire that burned her tender baby flesh and killed her. He never saw a red sunset without thinking of little Baby Rose.
Now as he thought, his tired eyes filled with tears, and through the tears, the red coppery glow glistened, and flashed and gleamed mockingly before him.
Killdee heaved a deep sigh—a sigh so deep as to be almost a sob. He thought of Baby Jim there at home. Chubby little Baby Jim. Bright-eyed, brown, dimpled, with fuzzy little black wool just beginning to grow on his head.
Little Jim knew his daddy—knew him as well as Rose and Missie did. Jim loved him, too. He always came toddling with funny, uncertain steps to meet him.
Jim had already learned not to fall out of the door any more. He had learned that by falling over and over. He knew how it hurt. When he stood in the doorway, ready to go down the steps now, Rose and Missie laughed at the way Jim’s tiny fingers clutched the door-facing.
Jim laughed with them too. Perhaps he didn’t know why they laughed, but he always tried to join in whatever other people did. Good little Jim!
The thought of Jim cheered Killdee. Jim was his. His son. For Jim he was willing for hard work to crack his very sinews. For Jim’s sake he tried to be careful. Never again would he stir the earth on Green Thursday. Never.
Jim was a part of himself. Jim’s little hands, his funny little words, his stumbling, uncertain little feet, were the most precious things on earth.
Jim thought his old daddy was the greatest thing. The greatest man. Jim thought he was great as God! Jim didn’t know any better.
He liked to play in the fire just as Baby Rose had liked to do. He must be taught not to do it. He must learn that fire burns.
Baby Rose lay yonder in the graveyard in the little pine box Andrew made to fit her, with the heavy red earth piled up on her, all by her little lonesome self, because the thing she loved best to play with had killed her.
He ought to have taken her and shown her how it felt to be burned. She would not forget pain. No. But he didn’t think about it. He thought she would learn by herself.
Why did God make people like the things that would hurt them? Kill them? Why didn’t He let them know danger?
Winter was here. Fire had to burn big and bright in the chimney to keep the cabin warm. All day it must burn and at night be banked deep with ashes so it wouldn’t die out.
Cold weather was here. Even on fair days, Jim would have to stay inside the cabin to keep warm. Rose would be in the field. Missie, too. Rows of brown stalks still held fluffy, white cotton.
Rose and Missie would have to help pick the cotton. Killdee couldn’t gather it by himself. Sometimes nobody would be left at home with Jim.
If Jim were a little older he would be safe, for he’d know that fire burns. But Jim, happy little Jim, did not know it yet. Already he tried to take straws and sticks and hold them in the fire to see them blaze. When Rose or Missie scolded him and made him drop his pretty plaything, Jim didn’t understand why. He’d watch it when they made him drop it on the hearth, and his little lips would quiver because he couldn’t keep it in his hand.
Killdee sighed as he trudged on homeward. The time had come. He must teach little Jim that fire burns! Telling him so did no good. He’d have to show him. To-night he’d have to show him. He and Rose and Missie had talked it over. They had decided. It must be done. Jim must learn that fire burns.
When Killdee got nearer the dusky little cabin by the side of the road, two little black children stood on the doorstep waving at him. Black smoke rushed briskly out of the broad clay chimney. Bright sparks rose with it, shone and died.
A strange thing, fire! Burning inside there, hot, strong, fierce, while Rose cooked the supper. That fire was a good, kind friend that cooked food for them and kept them warm. Yet, it could scorch and kill a baby’s body, too.—Just as it ate up strong wood and turned it to ashes.
When those bright sparks rose and went out, where did they go? Killdee watched them. They sparked, raced, and were gone. Where?
Where did Baby Rose go?
Missie and Jim were coming running to meet him. Killdee stopped Mike and waited. Jim must have a ride. Missie was picking Jim up in her arms to bring him. He walked too slow to keep up with her.
Killdee took Jim from her and set him on the pile of wood in the wagon and put the rope lines into the chubby hands. Missie shouted and laughed when Jim shook the lines and tried to make patient, old Mike go faster.
When Mike stopped with his head at the wide gate of the barnyard, Killdee took Jim down and gave him back into Missie’s arms. He struggled and kicked and screamed to stay with his daddy, but Killdee smiled, and said gently:
“Tek him on een de house, Missie. Night air ain’ good fo’ lil chillen. Jim don’ know no better. Tek him on.”
As Killdee loosened the collar from Mike’s neck, he said to himself:
“Dey’s a lot he don’ know, po’ lil Jim! But I reckon none o’ we don’ know much, atter all.”
When Killdee went into the house, Rose was cooking supper on the open fire.
The chimney’s wide, black, sooty mouth, which stretched across one side of the room, was filled with logs of wood. A great fire licked at them with smacking, hungry tongues. Yellow flames crackled and roared up the chimney, devouring the logs, while red and blue flames played over the coals.
Pot hooks fastened firmly in the stone and clay held black iron pots in the blaze. The sandy hearth held three-legged pots. Pots with handles. Iron kettles. Iron spiders. All had tight-fitting covers. They sat black and comfortable. Missie had just scoured them clean and they were waiting there, ready to be used.
Ashes piled in one corner on the fireplace lay very still, until a puff of steam from underneath raised them like dust, and a fragrant smell went out into the room. Sweet potatoes were roasting there.
In another corner, corn shucks showed through a mound of ashes. Spurts of steam sizzing out made the mound heave like a small volcano. Ash cake was cooking there.
A frying-pan sat on live coals pulled out on the hearth. Slices of fat bacon sputtered and spit and curled around the edges as Rose dropped them on it. Good smells filled the room and streamed out of the open door to where the two little black children sat in the half-light.
They sniffed and laughed and got up and came running inside. Both hurried to the cupboard for a pan. Then to the shelf for a spoon. Little Jim did whatever Missie did. The frying bacon was the supper bell. They knew supper was ready when they smelled it. Killdee, coming in, saw them and smiled wistfully.
When their pans were helped, Missie and Jim sat on the floor to eat. When all the pans were empty, Missie washed them and put them away. Jim crawled up into Killdee’s lap.
“Sonny,” said Killdee, “is you lub you ol’ daddy?”
Jim answered with a bear-like hug.
“Sonny—” Killdee’s voice sounded queer and broken, “wha’ mek you play een de fire?”
Killdee took the baby’s fat fingers and looked at them.
Rose sat by the firelight with her patching.
“Killdee——” She leaned forward. Fear warped her face. “Killdee, wha’ you gwine do?”
“Honey——” Killdee met her eyes, then turned his own to the fire. Jim sat up and looked at each of them. Reaching up, he patted Killdee’s rough cheek.
“Ol’ Pa,” he said, laughing mischievously, “Ol’ Pa.”
Killdee looked at Rose. Her face was queer and drawn.
“I can’ ha’dly stan’ fo’ do em, Rose, but looka da fire. S’pose—s’pose——”
The strong oak logs were already crumbling to ashes, turning from fiery red to gray.
“Jim will play een de fire. Nobody can’ stop em. ’E’s a lil, ign’ant, trus’ful baby. ’E is. I better show em how fire kin bu’n. I better. Don’ look at me sorrowful, Rose. It hu’t me clean to my heart.”
Rose’s hands clasped and unclasped. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Killdee kept trying to comfort her.
“People mus’ try fo show dey chillen how t’ings kin pain ’em. An’ kill ’em. Mebbe ef we had a show lil Rose ’bout fire—I dunno. Some t’ings is to be, I reckon. Maum Hannah say Baby Rose’s time was out.
“Tellin’ people don’ do no good. You haffer show em. Suffer em.”
The bright flames rippled innocently. They gave out a warm, kind light.
“You might be right, Killdee,” Rose tried to agree, but her breath caught with a sob.
Killdee turned up Jim’s small brown palm and looked at it. How could he burn it? How? Yet he must.
His strong fingers tightened sternly. He leaned forward and yook up a hot, live coal off the hearth, and laid it on Jim’s tender fingers.
The baby’s scream, the woman’s cry, the man’s groan, sounded all together. Missie came running to see what was wrong. Big tears rolled down her thin cheeks. She looked at Killdee with big, solemn eyes, then turned away without a word and went slowly back to bed in the shed room.
She understood. Little Jim had to be taught his lesson. Killdee had to do it. It was the only way.
Jim sobbed himself to sleep in Killdee’s lap. Sorrow had come to him without warning from the very one he loved best. His hand was burned and his baby heart was cut to the quick.
Killdee gave him to Rose and walked out into the night. He looked up at the stars. They shone up there like sparks that never did go out. He wondered if Baby Rose was up there—up there with them, and God.
Catfish
KILLDEE came home from the Cross-roads store one Saturday afternoon and his black face was bright with enthusiasm.
“Rose,” he said, taking a chair and putting it up close to the hearth where an iron pot simmered industriously with catfish stew, “I got a good plan. A good one. Lemme tell you ’bout em.”
Rose looked up from her sewing.
“Wha’ e is?” she asked with interest.
“I dunno wha’ you gwine t’ink ’bout em. We can’ hab much catfish fo’ eat ef I do em.”
Killdee breathed in the appetizing smell thoughtfully.
“Wha’ you duh talk ’bout, Killdee?” Rose asked, puzzled indeed.
He laughed and said teasingly:
“Guess wha’ e is.”
“Oh, go on an’ tell me,” she urged him.
“Well, dis is it. A man sellin’ futilizer wuz at de sto’ dis ebenin’. I heah him talkin’ ’bout de crops an’ t’ing. ’E say fish-scrap is de bes’ futilizer een de bunch. It’ll mek cawn an’ cotton grow off faster dan anyt’ing. De futilizer man say de factory meks de pure, naked fish into fish-scrap.”
Rose forgot all about the fish-stew in the pot there on the coals while Killdee described to her what he had heard. How big boats go on the ocean with wide, long nets, which they spread around schools of fish. How the fish are caught and carried to a place where they are ground up and sacked and sold to farmers for high prices.
“Lawd, Rose, ef I could mek my own futilizer! Ef I didn’t hab to buy none! We’d hab mo’ money dan we’d know wha’ fo’ do wid.”
Rose listened thoughtfully. It sounded wonderful indeed.
“But you ain’ got nuttin’ fo’ grind up de fish wid, Killdee.”
“No. Da’s so. But de fish don’ haffer be grind up. I could easy put dem een de groun’ an’ dey’d rot befo’ you know it. I gwine try em.”
Before many days passed, Killdee had fish traps made of split hickory strips set all along the bank of the tawny river. He used corn meal cooked into thick lumps for bait.
Every morning by daylight he was there at his traps getting out the fat catfish.
“How-come you goes to de ribber so reglar, son?” Maum Hannah asked him one morning, as he passed her cabin.
“I’m a-tryin’ fo’ git catfish,” he answered.
Maum Hannah thought he had a guilty look. She wondered what Killdee was doing back there on the river every day. Maybe he had a still.
“Better mine,” she warned, “you gwine ketch de fever. Too much o’ ribber swamp ain’ good. You better not be mekkin’ whiskey back dere. Mine! I heah you been gittin’ a lot o’ cawn mek eento meal, too. Mine!”
Killdee kept on patiently, persistently, until every stalk of corn in his field had a catfish right at its root. When those fish rotted, what a crop of corn he would have! His crop would be ahead of all the other crops, and he’d have no fertilizer bill to pay.
His fingers were often sore with poison from the catfish fins, and it did take a lot of meal for the bait, but Killdee felt he’d more than make it all back.
In the Fall he’d have more corn than he needed. He’d sell some. The barn would be full. The mule fat. The hogs would make bacon enough to last all year. Killdee was happy over the good work he was doing.
When every stalk was fed with a fish at its roots, he decided to go over and tell Maum Hannah all about it. He’d give her a load of the corn when it was made. She was so good to his folks. Now would be his chance to do something for her.
That night when supper was over, he took the path across the field and went to her cabin. His heart and step were light.
“How you dis ebenin’, Auntie?” he greeted her, as he walked right in through the open door.
“Come een, son. You had supper yet? I’m des’ now sta’tin’ fo’ eat.”
Maum Hannah was always glad to see him. She pointed to a chair.
“Yes’m, I done eat. You go on. Don’ stop. I des’ come fo’ talk wid you a lil, an’ fo’ see how you do.” His face was beaming. Maum Hannah’s eyes twinkled mischievously as she rallied: “I’d do better to-night ef I had catfish stew fo’ eat wid my bread. How-come you don’ bring me catfish no mo’?”
Killdee grinned.
“Da’s de bery t’ing I come fo’ talk wid you ’bout,” he said.
“I don’ see no fish een you han’, dough,” she answered.
“No’m, but I come fo’ tell you wha’ I duh do wid all dem catfish I catch. I feeds my cawn fiel’ on dem fish, ’stead o’ you an’ Rose an’ de chillen.” Killdee laughed heartily at his joke.
“Yes’m. Da same cawn fiel’ out yonder is got a catfish to eby stalk. You wait tell it rain. Da’s gwine be de fines’ piece o’ cawn een dis country. Da’s de reason I been gwine to de ribber so reg’lar. I been baitin’ fish wid all da meal.”
Maum Hannah grunted.
“Whe’ you heah o’ sich a t’ing, son?”
Killdee told her how he had heard the white man talk about fish-scrap and of his decision to make his own fertilizer. She listened gravely.
“It soun’ good fo’ true. But I dunno,” she added doubtfully.
“I dunno. A buckra might could do em. But a nigger—somehow, a nigger don’ hab luck when ’e try fo’ outdo hisse’f. It might be a good t’ing. I hope e is.”
Killdee was confident.
“You wait. I gwine dribe up to you do’ nex’ fall wid a wagon load up wid cawn an’ say: ’Looka wha’ I brought you, Auntie.’ You gwine be glad I fine out dis same t’ing.” He laughed and she joined in.
“Great Gawd, son! Dat do sound fine. I wish you luck wid em. When you git t’rough feedin’ de cawn, dough, do bring me a string o’ catfish.”
“Yes, ma’am. I gwine do dat, too,” he promised cordially.
When her supper was eaten, she took out her pipe and lit it. Between short puffs she said:
“I glad you ain’ been duh mek liquor back een da swamp. I been ’f’aid you wuz doin’ dat.”
“No’m,” Killdee laughed. “I ain’ been doin’ dat. But nex’ fall I gwine hab so much o’ cawn, I reckon I haffer mek a lil fo’ drink fo’ Christmus.”
Maum Hannah said gayly:
“Ef you do, don’ fo-git me. I needs some right now. All de root medicine I meks fo’ sick people don’ keep any time. I can’ get no liquor fo’ seep em een. It spiles too quick.”
“Nex’ fall, I gwine mek you plenty o’ liquor fo’ all you medicine,” Killdee promised. “An’ I’ll gi’ you a load o’ cawn too.”
He got up to go. It was getting late.
“Good night, Auntie. I got to git on home,” he said. He went away whistling down the path towards home. Maum Hannah closed the door and went to bed.
Before day she waked up. Something unusual was happening. A strange growling sound came with the breeze from the direction of Killdee’s field. What was it? She got up and went to the door and opened it and listened. Dogs. What were they doing? Not running rabbits. Nor treeing anything. No. They were fighting. Could a wildcat have come up out of the river swamp?
There was sharp yelp and a man’s voice whooping. Was it Killdee’s voice?
She went down the steps and followed the path. The moon had risen and it was light enough to see some distance ahead. When Killdee’s field was in sight, she knew that the growling, fighting, was there.
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.