Where Southern Cross the Dog (6 page)

“Find anything good?” Moses asked after a few minutes.

“Oh yeah, there's always something good in these reports. It's just a matter of finding what we can print and what we can't.”

The newspaper reporter continued reading and taking notes for another ten minutes, hastily paging back and forth among various sections of the document. Finally, he closed the report and placed it back on the desk, exactly as he had found it. Moses moved it slightly.

“Well, that was certainly interesting,” Murphree said, still sitting in Montgomery's chair. “Seems like we have a pattern. I wonder what they plan on telling the public?”

“Which public?” Moses said, as he gathered his cleaning supplies near the door.

“Good question.”

Murphree stood up and rearranged the chair as he had found it. “I don't know. Maybe another story in the paper will get the sheriff moving a little quicker on this. It's pretty clear somebody needs to do something before things get out of hand, because this surely isn't what we typically see in Clarksdale. I think I can help speed up the process. Whether that's what they want or not, I guess we'll find out.”

Both men entered the hallway and made the short trip back to Moses's storage room. Murphree pulled out a few dollars—compensation equal to at least a few days' worth of monotonous janitorial work—and pressed it into Moses's hand, who closed a tight fist around the money and smiled.

“Thanks, Moses, and let me know if you find anything else,” said the visitor.

“Yessuh, Mr. Murphree. You know I will.”

Moses turned out the light and slowly opened the back door.

Murphree slipped out, walked home, and crawled back into bed. He lay awake for an hour, writing the story in his head. He finally fell asleep but was up two hours later for work. He yawned all
through breakfast, but his wife didn't ask any questions. She understood it was better not to.

Two days later, Sam Tackett picked up the morning paper and read a second article describing the most recent murder, complete with details only a few people knew.

“Son of a—. Where are they getting this information?”

He read about the crime scene, the use of gasoline in the murder, and several theories relating to the case. In his anger and frustration, he almost picked up the phone and called Emmett Wilson, the senior editor and owner of the paper, to condemn the reporter's irresponsible release of sensitive information during an ongoing investigation.

Then he reminded himself that talking to editors never helped. The reality was that Wilson's reporter would continue to embarrass him until he solved this case.

The Mississippi Delta begins in the lobby of the Peabody
Hotel in Memphis and ends on Catfish Row in Vicksburg.

—David L. Cohn

THE HECTIC DAYS OF HARVEST PASSED BY QUICKLY while Travis continued his duties as the runner for the county courthouse. Whether the task took him to the farthest reaches of the county or to an office down the hall from his father's, Travis relished the independence of the work and its complete lack of real responsibility.

One lazy Thursday afternoon, Travis picked up a magazine and sat back on the couch across from Ruth's desk. He was a paragraph into the first article when the phone rang.

“Bill Montgomery's office,” Ruth said.

Travis reread the paragraph as he listened to Ruth.

“Sure, Rachel, he's in.” She covered the receiver and called out, “Bill, it's Rachel.”

“Hi, Rachel,” Montgomery said, answering the phone.

Travis looked toward his dad's office.

“Yeah, I think he's here. What time do you need him?”

Travis knew he'd have one last chore before his workday ended.

“Couple of hours? He'll be there.” Montgomery hung up and raised his voice a little. “Ruth, is Travis still out there?”

Travis quickly put his finger to his lips.

Ruth looked at him and smiled. “Yes, sir,” she said, rearranging her grin into a disapproving look.

“Travis, can you pick up Rachel today?”

“Sure,” Travis said.

“She needs you at Gilman's place in two hours.”

“Okay. I'll leave in a little while.”

“If you leave now, you can watch some of Professor Higson's experiment. He's testing another cotton harvester this afternoon. Sheriff Collins will be out there with some other folks if you want to go.”

Travis tossed the magazine on the table next to the couch. “I'll see you tomorrow, Ruth,” Travis said. He stepped into his father's doorway. “See you at home, Dad.”

“Don't be late for dinner.”

Travis pulled off the road in front of the Gilman commissary and saw that Rachel was not outside waiting for him. He looked down the road and saw a half dozen cars and two trucks parked on the shoulder about two hundred yards away. In the field directly in front of the cars was a strange contraption. It could only be one thing—the harvester.

He walked over and recognized Sheriff Collins in the small crowd.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” Travis said, approaching the group.

“Travis,” Collins said.

“Hello, Travis,” said Wilson.

“Hello, Mr. Wilson,” Travis said. “Plan on writing an article for the paper?”

“Not just yet. The professor says it's still experimental. Don't want to get everyone excited for nothing.”

“What are you out at Gilman's for?” Collins asked.

“Picking up Rachel,” Travis said. “But I'm early, so I thought I'd take a look at the harvester.”

“Not much to see,” Collins said, removing his cap and wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

They watched as Professor Conrad Higson, perched on the monstrosity, requested tools from his assistants and made the final mechanical adjustments to his harvester.

“When was the last test?” Travis asked.

“It's been a while,” Wilson said.

“Couple months at least,” Collins said.

“I think he's been up in Oxford conducting some research,” said Wilson. “I also heard he was doing a little work with the Agricultural Extension Service in Starkville.”

Finally, Higson stood up on the machine and turned to the gathering. “Well, all right, chaps,” he began, his peculiar accent and word choices a result of having spent part of his youth in England before his family returned to the coal mines of Germany. “We're going to start it up and see how we do.”

Hank Gilman walked over and stood next to Wilson. His arms were folded across his chest. “If Higson doesn't get this thing to work—” Gilman said, shaking his head.

With help from an assistant on the ground, the professor turned the ignition, and the giant machine sputtered to life. It backfired once or twice at first, which caused a few in the crowd to flinch, but it finally settled into a low growl.

Higson pressed on the gas and the engine roared a little louder. He raised a hand with his thumb in the air, then reached for the
gearshift. The harvester bucked into motion and started down a path parallel to the rows of cotton.

Travis watched the machine slowly rumble through the field, its massive width stretched across five rows of cotton. The stalks passed underneath the machine, and the cotton bolls were fed between two arms that yanked the bolls from the stalks and tossed them into a hopper attached to the rear of the harvester.

At ten yards, the harvester appeared to be cleaning the stalks fairly well, but at fifteen the crowd heard metal grinding on metal. Before Higson could shut it down, the arms were entangled with one another, twisting and bending in every direction. Finally, the harvester locked up and quit moving forward.

Higson turned off the ignition and stared at his newly spun web of steel. “Well there, I guess that just about does it for today. Wouldn't everyone agree?”

His assistants rushed to the harvester trying to piece together exactly what happened. The crowd let out whistles and murmurs of exasperation as it began to disperse.

“He's never going to get that thing working,” Gilman said. “This is the one thing that could change the face of the South, and our friend Higson can't make it work. I'll be paying someone to work my doggone plantation ‘til I die. You know how much money I've sunk into this?” Gilman didn't wait for an answer. He waved his hand at the professor in frustration and stomped off.

“He's obviously none too happy,” Collins said as he, Wilson, and Travis watched Gilman get in his car and leave.

“Yep,” Wilson said. “Seems he wants to get rid of his sharecroppers and day laborers once and for all.”

Collins stared down the road at Gilman, pulled out a notepad and pencil, and wrote something down. “They sure are a heap of trouble,” he said, nodding. “Of course, we got someone trying to do that for him.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“Got to have 'em, though,” Travis said. “Else that cotton's staying in the field.”

“But not all of them,” Collins said. “That contraption will work one day, and then all those pickers won't have any pickin' to do, and they'll head north. Save us all a lot of trouble.”

Collins and Wilson each got in their cars and headed back into town. Travis walked back to the commissary and went inside to let Rachel know he had arrived. He was instantly engulfed in the day's-end frenzy, people scurrying in and out with their purchases.

“Excuse us, sir,” two young girls said, bumping into Travis on their way out the door.

“Have a good evening,” Travis said. They quickened their pace, startled at his civility.

Travis looked around for Rachel but didn't see her. Most of the patrons were Gilman's sharecroppers, most of the help Gilman's family or friends. Rachel got a job because Bill Montgomery and Hank Gilman knew each other from college.

“Hey, Travis,” one of the employees shouted from behind a counter.

Travis replied with a nod and a wave.

The store was stocked with a large variety of provisions to ensure that the laborers would not have to go anywhere else to shop. It was also the only store where tenants and sharecroppers were offered credit. Although the prices were high and the 20 percent credit terms usurious, the plantation laborers' options were limited. All debts were settled at the end of the year, when the cotton crop was in.

Travis strolled through the store, looking at shelves of canned foods, bags of sugar and flour, sewing supplies, and some toys. He glanced around for Rachel every so often. Eventually, he made his way behind the wide and deep counter and peeked in the back for her.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Raymond Wilkins recording a customer's order. Travis had known Raymond since they were kids, and he had never cared for him. Raymond had grown up in town
but decided he liked it better out here for some reason. After high school, he took a job at one plantation and then another. Recently, he had been hired at the Gilman plantation as the store's assistant manager. Raymond was a bully—always had been—and life on the plantation offered him the opportunity to flourish.

Travis eased along behind the counter until he was just a few feet from Raymond, who was still busy ringing up some purchases. The buyer was a widow Travis had met once when Rachel introduced them. She was about seventy years old, and her children worked the land her husband, their father, had worked. Because she didn't produce crops, the widow's balance was always added to her children's account at the end of the year.

Travis peered over Raymond's right shoulder while the clerk noted the widow's purchases in the tenant-transaction ledger. “These cans all together are thirty-four cents,” Raymond said, while writing down the amount in the ledger, then picking up another item. “These are twenty-three cents.”

Travis watched closely. Raymond recited a price for each item, but for a few, he wrote a different—higher—price in the book.

“Twelve cents,” Raymond droned. Travis watched him write twenty-one cents.

“Whoa there, Raymond,” Travis said.

Raymond jumped a little, startled.

“You said twelve cents, like on the label, but you reversed the numbers when you wrote it.”

Raymond picked up the can and compared its price to the number he had written.

“You wrote twenty-one cents,” Travis said. “It should be twelve cents.”

“Oh, I guess I did write down the wrong number,” Raymond said, putting the can down to erase his last notation.

“And you did it here and here,” Travis said, pointing to two more lines in the book.

“Thanks, college boy. Or maybe Aunty should thank you.”

The old woman nodded her head in Travis's direction when Raymond looked away.

Travis acknowledged her with a smile. “There's no need to thank me. I'm just trying to help out.”

Raymond scowled as he corrected the other numbers and gave the woman her purchases. Travis turned away. He knew Raymond was furious.

At last Rachel emerged from the back of the store.

“Where've you been?” he said. “Let's go.”

“Okay, just a minute.”

“C'mon, Rache, let's go now!” Then she disappeared again.

Travis walked back outside to the car. A couple of minutes later Rachel came out, carrying a paper sack and accompanied by a young woman. Travis guessed she was almost his age.

“What's in the bag?” Travis asked.

“I'll tell you in the car,” Rachel said. “Get in. We're going to give someone a ride home.”

“Okay.”

They all got in, Rachel in the front, and their guest in the backseat. Travis had pulled onto the highway and was headed back toward town before his sister spoke.

“This is Hannah Morgan,” she said. “Sometimes she works at the commissary with me when they need extra help.”

“Hello, Hannah,” Travis said.

“Hannah,” she continued, “this is my brother, Travis.”