Standing at the Scratch Line (68 page)

Reverend Cornelius, heading a group of people, waited patiently at the front door to be invited in. Sampson gave King a quick glance, seeking direction. King strode to the door and asked, “What I can I do for you, Reverend?”

The reverend nodded at Serena. “Hope we aren’t disturbing you folks, but we heard that Mace and Marshal Bass were here.”

“They are,” Serena said as she came over to stand by King’s shoulder. “Why don’t you folks come on into the kitchen. We have more room and chairs in there.”

“Thank you kindly, Mrs. Tremain,” Reverend Cornelius said as he entered the foyer, leading Ma Wrangel, Lightning Smith, Octavius Boothe, Buck Henry, and Dr. Stephens.

King gave Serena a wry smile, surprised that she would invite strangers into her home. She flashed him back the look of a woman who had something to show off and ushered their visitors into the kitchen. King collected Mace and Marshal Bass and they too went into the kitchen.

After everyone was seated and Serena had served coffee to those who wished it, Mace asked Reverend Cornelius, “Were you able to contact the pastors of the other churches? Are they sending out riders to tell folks on the surrounding farms?”

Isaac Cornelius answered. “All, but Reverend Johns. He is out of town. But we did talk to a few of his church elders and they promised to do whatever they can.”

“I think we ought to pack up the women and children and get out of town,” Buck Henry declared, his forehead beaded with sweat. “We can’t stand up to these ruffians. They’ll burn us out!”

Ma Wrangel grunted her displeasure. “Some colored folks is better at runnin’ than others. I ain’t got no place to run and no place I want to go. I ain’t packin’ nothin’. Me, my cast-iron stove, and my old, repeatin’ Winchester, we stayin’!”

Lightning added his sentiments to Ma Wrangel’s. “Ma done spoke for me too. We got peoples buried in this ground and years of sweat and blood spilled to build this here town. Ain’t no wheres else to go!”

“I don’t think they’ll be bloodshed, if the whole town is in the street to meet these fools!” Mace said. “These people are basically cowards! They won’t fight unless they feel they have the upper hand.”

“What you think! Who gives a damn what you think!” Buck Henry exploded. “It wasn’t ten years ago that they burned the original Johnsonville to the ground! All they saved was that damn printin’ press! You just tryin’ to give folks false hope. A smart man would cut his losses and get the hell out while the gettin’ is good!”

“So why don’t you be smart?” Ma Wrangel prodded. “Now, yo’ partner, Booker, been shot and killed, you pretty well finished here anyway.”

“Folks! Folks!” Reverend Cornelius interjected. “The only way we’ll survive is through unity! We can’t let our differences tear us apart before we have even met our common foe. We’re in this together!”

“If you want to be fools and stay, that’s up to you,” Buck said as he stood up. “I’m gettin’ my family out of here!”

King spoke for the first time. “If you leave, don’t expect to come back and pick up where you left off. And don’t take no money out’n yo’ bank. All you and yo’ family can leave with is the clothes on yo’ back! If you don’t stay and fight for the town, yo’ buildin’s is forfeit and we’ll settle the bank business up later.”

“Who are you to tell me anything? You haven’t been here six months!”

“No, we haven’t,” Serena answered. “But we’re prepared to stay and fight for what is ours!”

“That mortuary is big enough for a school,” Octavius said as he looked Buck straight in the eye.

“And we need a new schoolhouse too!” Ma Wrangel agreed.

Buck looked at the faces around the table and kicked his chair over. “I’ll burn it myself before I leave you anything!” He started for the door but King intercepted him.

“You in my house. You pick up that chair befo’ you leave.”

Buck stared at King and then back at the people around the table. He went over and picked up the chair. He straightened his jacket and walked out the door. King followed him out to the foyer.

Before Buck went out the front door, King warned him, “If you set a match to anythin’, I’m gon’ come after you and set yo’ ass on fire! See if I don’t! And don’t let there be no money missin’ from the bank.”

When King returned to the kitchen, discussions were under way as to who would meet the Klan and where other people would be stationed. King’s military experience was extremely helpful in making contingency plans in the case that violence was unavoidable. There was so much to be done that they did not have time for long discussions. After the assignments had been distributed and the people were leaving, Dr. Stephens stopped in the foyer and handed King a letter.

“Joe Wilkerson asked me to drop this off to you,” Dr. Stephens explained. “He’s busy sending telegraphs to all the surrounding colored towns.”

King thanked the doctor and stuffed the letter into an inside pocket. He didn’t have time to read it at the moment. There was too much to do. He still had to unpack the machine gun and assemble it. He followed the doctor out the door and thought no more about the letter.

When Ida Hoskins arrived at one o’clock, she assisted Serena in putting large sheets of pressed wood over the store windows as additional protection from errant bullets. “You and yo’ husband done made a big difference in this town, Mrs. Tremain,” Ida Hoskins commented as she struggled to lift a warped shutter into place. “There was a time when somebody came to rob the bank or ride on the town, folks just stayed in their businesses and their houses and didn’t do nothin’ to help. Now, look at the folk go runnin’ to help.” She gave a big shove and the sheet squeaked into place. “We is becomin’ a real town where law-abidin’ folk can live!”

The caravan of two cars and a truck followed the road as it swerved through the gullies and across the ravines that drained the foothills of the Ouachitas into the Little River. The weather had slacked from the chill of winter and the temperature had risen once again to the high thirties. There was no sun visible in the sky, only an overcast gray that stretched to the horizon. An inconstant wind swirled and eddied, creating dust devils along the side of the road.

“Don’t you worry, Big Daddy,” Skip Dalton assured his passenger. “We gon’ find out what happened to Little Frank, even if we have to hang that nigger Booker up in front his store!”

Big Daddy looked over at Skip’s profile as he steered the car along the tortuous road. “I’m not worried, Skip. And by the way, it’s my store. He only operates it for me.”

“You know what I mean. We’ll get the information out of him one way or another!”

“Did you tell that scum you have back there in the truck that I don’t want any shooting until we’ve had a chance to talk? I don’t want to be sitting in the middle of a shoot-out in a colored town.”

“I told ’em like you asked, Big Daddy. As for a shoot-out, I’ll bet the niggers are so scared that by the time we get there, it’ll be a ghost town. They remember what happened in Johnsonville. Most of ’em are probably half the way to Atoka right now.”

Big Daddy didn’t answer. He was wondering about Skip’s level of intelligence. It seemed that he had cleared all the dance halls and speakeasies to assemble his army and it took only one look to see that they were undisciplined rowdies who were just looking for a good time. Big Daddy wondered if it came to a fight how many of them would break and run. It was a question that he did not want answered in his presence.

Big Daddy pushed down his window and let the clean Oklahoma air clear his thoughts. The truth was that he wouldn’t have come if Sarah hadn’t nagged him ceaselessly. She wanted him to investigate Frank’s disappearance, which was the furthest thing from Big Daddy’s mind. It sounded cold-hearted but Frank’s disappearance was a godsend to his father.

“Bodie Wells is just four miles around this bend,” Skip announced as the car turned off the paved road and bumped along on a gravel and dirt lane.

Despite the bumps and occasional ruts, the road was well maintained. Big Daddy could see that it had been graded since the heavy rains of last October. When had they started doing that? he wondered. That wasn’t the action of people who pick up and run at the first threat of danger. It was a big effort maintaining a road as long as this one. Big Daddy almost chuckled out loud for he remembered part of an inauguration speech he had given last July at the state capitol when he was reelected for the second time to the House of Representatives. He was halfway through his speech when he decided that he would show his hand in the upcoming floor fight for a controversial highway bond; his words were: “. . . When a group of people get together to maintain more than a couple miles of roads, they begin to have a community identity for they are making an investment for the future in the place they have chosen to live, a place where they have chosen to raise their children. We’re talking about Americans, people who pulled themselves up by their own bootstraps. We’re talking about people with grit and determination. They’ve made a commitment, the government ought to join them! . . .”

If it was true for whites, it was true for the colored; that single fact is what so many whites misunderstood about the racial question. A different skin color and being an ex-slave did not stop a person from wanting the dignity and stability that any normal person would want. Big Daddy was under no illusions about the superiority of skin color. He was a well-read man who knew that history was written by the victors and had little to do with reality. If the road was any indication, the people of Bodie Wells were prepared to stand up and fight.

During his time in the legislature, Big Daddy had heard a lot of stories about hushed-up incidents where the colored towns had wiped out roving bands of night riders and regulators. He shook his head and watched acres of tilled earth pass outside his window as the car followed the road over low, rolling hills. He was irritated with himself. He had allowed himself to be nagged into participating in a foolish act. He felt pretty confident that he could control the whites in his caravan, but what if the coloreds were led by some hothead or someone with revenge on his mind. If shooting started, Big Daddy was not optimistic about his chances. He was a big target, he couldn’t run fast, and he would be perceived to be the leader.

“There it is,” Skip announced as he pointed a long finger in the direction of the town. Bodie Wells was a jumble of buildings nestled in a valley between two low hills. Its three church spires could be seen standing high above the rest of the structures. They drove past several outbuildings and there was no sign of movement. “What did I tell you?” Skip said smugly. “The niggers have hightailed it!”

Big Daddy noticed that once the town started, the main street was paved in asphalt. There were a lot of white towns the size of Bodie Wells that didn’t have a paved main road. The town had done a lot of improvements in the ten years since he had brought electricity to Bodie Wells.

The caravan turned onto Main Street and there were two men standing alone in the street in front of a small barricade. Big Daddy recognized them as Marshal Bass and Mace Edwards. It was almost ironic, but he was extremely happy to see that two of the cooler heads were in charge.

The car came to a stop in front of the men and Skip jumped out. “What the hell is going on here? What are you two niggers trying to do? I have a deputized posse. You better get this damn trash out of the street so we can drive on to where we want to go.”

“You know you don’t have jurisdiction here, Mr. Dalton,” Marshal Bass said without inflection.

Skip answered. “I’m investigatin’ a crime and I advise you boys to cooperate and maybe we’ll leave some of this town standin’!” Three deputies got out of the second car and came over to stand with Skip.

Mace spoke for the first time. “If you don’t have a warrant from Judge O’Brien, undersheriff, you have no authority to conduct an investigation here in Bodie Wells!”

Skip laughed and turned to the men standing on the back of the truck. “He says we have no authority here! That we can’t conduct an investigation! What do you think, boys?” There was a chorus of jeers and rebel shouts. Then a shot rang out.

Marshal Bass was spun around and knocked to the ground. Another shot rang out in response and a man fell off the truck, his rifle clattering to the pavement.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Mace called out as he turned from side to side.

The men in the truck were looking around for where the answering shot originated and got more than they bargained for. People started emerging on roofs and from behind buildings. All along Main Street windows opened and rifle barrels poked out. Within a few minutes there were nearly two hundred people in the street and almost half of them carried firearms.

Big Daddy was out of the car in an instant and called Skip over. After a few minutes of discussion, Skip turned and shouted, “No more firing! No more shooting!”

Someone on the truck shouted, “Look! The niggers is settin’ a barricade behind us!” After that the street was silent. Where before the men in the truck had been laughing and joking, they were now silent and there was fear on their faces.

Big Daddy walked over to where Mace was assisting Bass to his feet. “You going to be alright?” he asked Bass.

“I’ll live,” grunted Bass. Dr. Stephens and an assistant rushed to his side and helped him back to the doctor’s office.

“We’re here to find out what happened to my son Frank,” Big Daddy announced. “He disappeared after he had some meeting with Booker Little.”

“Two other men also disappeared with him,” Skip joined in. “We want to find out about them too.”

“Don’t know anything about it,” Mace answered. “They didn’t come to Bodie Wells and meet here. Nobody in Bodie Wells has seen them! Maybe you ought to check in Clairborne.”

“Who appointed you to be spokesman?” Skip challenged. “I don’t like your sass. A white man has asked you a question, boy!”

“I don’t want trouble. Neither do the people of Bodie Wells. But the days of being railroaded are over. I’ve told you the answer to your question. Whether you accept it or not is not my problem, but you and your regulators won’t run through here shooting and burning, unless you want to leave feet first.”