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gashes he could with his limited supplies, then smeared antiseptic salves over the rest when his suturing threads ran out. He helped birth a stillborn baby from a woman who tiredly said it was a shame her child was dead but she couldn’t have fed another mouth anyhow. His little soul was better off in heaven, she said.
    When all the wounded were treated, Ella and Mr. Rainwater circulated among the rickety lean-tos, patched tents, pasteboard boxes, and rusty cars serving as shelters. They passed out clothing, cast-off household items, and foodstuffs they’d brought. The eyes of the people looking back at Ella were either apathetic toward her generosity or pathetically grateful for it. She found both reactions equally disturbing.
    When she’d given away everything she was carrying with her, she picked her way through the encampment back to Dr. Kincaid, who was giving instructions to the woman whose baby had been born dead.
    He backed away from her bed, which was the lid of a box that she’d dragged into the shade of a pecan tree, and placed his hands in the small of his back as he straightened up. He’d left his suit jacket and hat in the car. His shirt was dirty and damp with perspiration. There was a smear of blood on his sleeve.
    “We’ve done a little good, I think,” he remarked.
    “Not enough.”
    “No. Never enough.” He smiled at Ella grimly. “All the same, we’d better be on our way before Mrs. Kincaid sends out a posse.”
    “Will there be any pain?” Ella asked him.
    “Not much, no. The child was small, only seven months along. As births go, it was reasonably easy.”
    But then he realized that Ella wasn’t talking about the woman who’d lost her newborn. She was looking at Mr. Rainwater, who was shaking hands with a man dressed only in grimy overalls. At each of the man’s legs was a grubby, barefoot child, clinging to the dirty denim of his daddy’s pants with hands that were even dirtier. The man was holding a third child in his arms. Ella had heard him telling Mr. Rainwater that his wife had died of tuberculosis a week ago, and that he didn’t know how he was going to look for work and take care of his children at the same time.
    She was too far away to hear what the two were saying to each other now, but she imagined that Mr. Rainwater was telling him not to lose hope. He released the man’s hand, tousled the hair of one of the children, and turned to make his way back to her and the doctor.
    She looked at Dr. Kincaid, her question hovering between them.
    “Yes,” he said.
    A shudder passed through her. She swallowed dryly. “Can you give him something for it?”
    “When he asks for it, yes.”
    “Will he? Ask.”
    The doctor watched his kinsman winding his way around campfires and huddles of people. “Yes, Mrs. Barron,” the doctor replied bleakly. “He will.”
     

SIX
    The Sunday following the incident at the Pritchetts’ farm, someone driving a pickup truck threw a bottle through a window of the AME church during the evening worship service. The bottle narrowly missed striking an elderly woman who was sitting on the end of the pew nearest the window, but beyond shattering a large pane of glass, it did no other harm. Leaving a wake of shouted racial slurs and a cloud of dust, the pickup sped away.
    Brother Calvin’s melodious voice kept his congregation under control. None of the women panicked, none of the men went after the pickup. When the frightened children had been quieted, Brother Calvin continued his sermon and, by the conclusion of the service, had added ten converts to his flock.
    The preacher’s face still looked battered, but the cuts on it and one cracked rib were the extent of his injuries. Miss Violet Dunne’s take on the minister’s participation in the incident at the Pritchetts’ farm was “He’s lucky they didn’t lynch him.”
    Although Ella’s position on racial matters differed greatly from the spinster’s, she did agree with that summation. She