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Authors: Stephen Hunter
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he remain handcuffed. He was free to move about the general area, but had, under orders and strict observation, to stay close to the station, as it was called, and not to go near to or rile any Negro people.
They let him take a nice shower indoors, where they themselves kept clean, and he got himself back into some kind of civilized order. He was fed, and the food was better than anything he had eaten since leaving Pascagoula, beans and ham, fried potatoes, heavy chicory coffee, fresh bread. These boys here, they lived pretty good, in what was a kind of barracks in the woods, a good mile out of town, which, he now saw, was protected against attack by a stout barbed-wire fence. There was a stable here, for the deputy force seemed more like some kind of light cavalry than any law enforcement unit. The men lounged about like soldiers, keeping their uniforms sharp, riding off on patrol now and then in twos. There was a duty room with assignments and rotation, a roster board; in all, it seemed far more military than police.
Finally, a rider came, and after conferring with some of the deputies, he came and got Sam, who was put back into the wagon, though this time not bound or beaten. He sat up front with the driver, who drove the team through the piney woods—Lord, they were dense, seeming to stretch out forever into the looming darkness—and then through the town, dead now as it was then.
They approached the river, the big wagon and the thundering horses driving back what Negroes remained in the street. As they passed the public house, Sam felt the eyes of the two old men he’d spoken to watching him glumly.
Down at the dock, a happy sight greeted Sam. It was Lazear, back from wherever, standing by his boat, whose old motor churned a steady tune. The sheriff stood there also.
Sam climbed down from the wagon, on unsure legs, then caught himself.
“All right, Mr. Arkansas Traveler, here is your official document. You’ll see that it’s right and proper.”
It appeared to be. Under the seal of the state of Mississippi and the state motto it was an official CERTIFICATE OF DEATH for one LINCOLN TILSON , Negro, age unknown but elderly, of Thebes, Thebes County, Mississippi, October 10th, 1950, by drowning, namely in the river Yaxahatchee. It was signed by a coroner in an illegible scrawl.
“There, sir. The end of that poor man. The river can be treacherous. It takes you down and it does things to you, and out you come three days later. Poor Negro Tilson was such a victim. It’s a miracle that after that time in the water, he was still identifiable.”
“Sheriff, who identified him?”
“Now, Mr. Arkansas Traveler, we don’t keep records on every dead Negro in the county. I don’t recollect, nor do I recollect the exact circumstances. Nor, sir, do I fancy a chat with you on the subject, while you interrogate me and try to prove your Northern cleverness over my simplicity.”
“I see.”
“You have been given fair warning. Now you get out of our town, and don’t you come back nohow. There is nothing here for you and you have done your task.”
Sam looked at the document; there was nothing to it to convince him that it couldn’t have been fabricated in the last hour or so.
But here it was: the out. The end. The finish. He had earned his retainer, and would file a complete report to his client, and what would happen next would be up to the client.
“Well, Sheriff, this is not the way I do things, but I see things down here are slow to change, and it is not my charge to do that. I fear when change comes, it will be a terror for you.”
“It ain’t never coming, not this far south. We have the guns and the will to make that prediction stick, I guarantee you. Now, sir, every second you stand there is a second you try my hospitality to an even more severe degree.”
Sam stepped down into Lazear’s boat and didn’t look back as it pulled from the shore and headed out to the center of the dark
They let him take a nice shower indoors, where they themselves kept clean, and he got himself back into some kind of civilized order. He was fed, and the food was better than anything he had eaten since leaving Pascagoula, beans and ham, fried potatoes, heavy chicory coffee, fresh bread. These boys here, they lived pretty good, in what was a kind of barracks in the woods, a good mile out of town, which, he now saw, was protected against attack by a stout barbed-wire fence. There was a stable here, for the deputy force seemed more like some kind of light cavalry than any law enforcement unit. The men lounged about like soldiers, keeping their uniforms sharp, riding off on patrol now and then in twos. There was a duty room with assignments and rotation, a roster board; in all, it seemed far more military than police.
Finally, a rider came, and after conferring with some of the deputies, he came and got Sam, who was put back into the wagon, though this time not bound or beaten. He sat up front with the driver, who drove the team through the piney woods—Lord, they were dense, seeming to stretch out forever into the looming darkness—and then through the town, dead now as it was then.
They approached the river, the big wagon and the thundering horses driving back what Negroes remained in the street. As they passed the public house, Sam felt the eyes of the two old men he’d spoken to watching him glumly.
Down at the dock, a happy sight greeted Sam. It was Lazear, back from wherever, standing by his boat, whose old motor churned a steady tune. The sheriff stood there also.
Sam climbed down from the wagon, on unsure legs, then caught himself.
“All right, Mr. Arkansas Traveler, here is your official document. You’ll see that it’s right and proper.”
It appeared to be. Under the seal of the state of Mississippi and the state motto it was an official CERTIFICATE OF DEATH for one LINCOLN TILSON , Negro, age unknown but elderly, of Thebes, Thebes County, Mississippi, October 10th, 1950, by drowning, namely in the river Yaxahatchee. It was signed by a coroner in an illegible scrawl.
“There, sir. The end of that poor man. The river can be treacherous. It takes you down and it does things to you, and out you come three days later. Poor Negro Tilson was such a victim. It’s a miracle that after that time in the water, he was still identifiable.”
“Sheriff, who identified him?”
“Now, Mr. Arkansas Traveler, we don’t keep records on every dead Negro in the county. I don’t recollect, nor do I recollect the exact circumstances. Nor, sir, do I fancy a chat with you on the subject, while you interrogate me and try to prove your Northern cleverness over my simplicity.”
“I see.”
“You have been given fair warning. Now you get out of our town, and don’t you come back nohow. There is nothing here for you and you have done your task.”
Sam looked at the document; there was nothing to it to convince him that it couldn’t have been fabricated in the last hour or so.
But here it was: the out. The end. The finish. He had earned his retainer, and would file a complete report to his client, and what would happen next would be up to the client.
“Well, Sheriff, this is not the way I do things, but I see things down here are slow to change, and it is not my charge to do that. I fear when change comes, it will be a terror for you.”
“It ain’t never coming, not this far south. We have the guns and the will to make that prediction stick, I guarantee you. Now, sir, every second you stand there is a second you try my hospitality to an even more severe degree.”
Sam stepped down into Lazear’s boat and didn’t look back as it pulled from the shore and headed out to the center of the dark
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