A Day to Pick Your Own Cotton - Michael R. Phillips [80]
“Dat’s what I feared, Miz Katie! Dat’s what I been tellin’ you.”
“Dey’s fixin’ ter string her up, all right,” whispered Jeremiah, his voice suddenly sober and a look of determination on his face. “I heard ’bout dis eber since da war. I almost got in some trouble like it myse’f wiff some white men dat had been drinkin’.”
“Oh, Miz Katie—Mayme’s so good,” Emma was babbling. “She must not hab told ’em about me. She gwine git herself strung up fer me. How can a body be so good dat dey’d do dat fer a nuthin’ like me, an—”
“Emma!” whispered Katie as loudly as she dared, not worrying any longer if Jeremiah knew her name. “Get hold of yourself. We’ve got to do something!”
“Dere’s a whole parcel ob dem, Miz Katie. Dey kill us too if we—”
“Shush, Emma! We’re not going to let them kill Mayme.”
“Yes’m.”
“No, we ain’t,” added Jeremiah, anger rising in his voice at what he saw. “I’ll kill ’em all if I have to! I’m goin’ t’ git one ob dose guns!”
“Just a minute, Jeremiah!” said Katie. “We’ve got to think first.—I wonder why some of them are wearing white hoods over their heads.”
“I heard ob it,” said Jeremiah. “Some kind er white man’s religion, I think.”
“It looks like one of the other men’s talking to her.”
“Dat’s William McSimmons,” said Emma. “I can see him from here. He shoutin’ at her—he plenty riled.”
“Then we’ve got to hurry!”
“Jes’ tell me what ter do, ’cause I’m feared outer my wits.”
“What should we do, Jeremiah?” she asked.
“I’d like t’ kill ’em all,” he said. “But dere’s too many. I hate ’em. To tell you da truf, I neber shot a gun in my life, an’ I don’ know if I could kill a man, eben effen he’s white.”
“We don’t have to kill anybody. We can just try to make them think we are. It’s a trick Mayme showed me.—Let’s get the guns.”
They ran to the horses and pulled out the rifles.
Quickly she explained as she and Jeremiah loaded the rifle and each took a handful of shells.
“I’ll go ober dere,” said Jeremiah, “ober in dat clump er trees. I think I can git a little closer dere. Den we’ll start shootin’.”
“You’ve got to hold real tight because it knocks back on your shoulder,” said Katie.
“Jes’ ’cause I ain’t shot a rifle don’ mean I don’ know how dey is,” he said with the hint of a grin. “I’d be mo worried ’bout you, Miz Clairborne, dan I is fer mysel’.”
“Just be careful. I don’t want you really shooting someone … or hitting Mayme.”
“Don’ you worry, Miz Clairborne, I’ll jes’ aim up in da air ober dere heads.”
Jeremiah moved off, leaving Katie holding her rifle and Emma trembling beside her.
They tried to watch and listen. Katie could just barely make out William McSimmons yelling things like, “… know where she is … know what’s good for you … not worth losing your life … some bastard baby …”
She wasn’t inclined to wait around to see what might happen next. She glanced through the trees. Jeremiah was already out of sight.
They were far enough away from each other, Katie said to herself. She knelt down behind a tree, put the rifle to her shoulder, then aimed out toward the gathering of men at the tree.
Please, God, don’t let me hit anyone, she whispered, especially Mayme.
Then she set her finger to the trigger and fired a shot over the heads of the men.
In spite of her warnings to Jeremiah, she’d forgotten what a kick the gun had. She nearly got knocked on her rump. Emma cried out from the sound as Katie steadied herself and fired again. Then came the sound of Jeremiah’s first shot.
As the echo died away, Katie fired again. Then a few seconds later three or four more shots came from Jeremiah’s gun in rapid succession.
Watch out, Jeremiah, she thought to herself, I don’t want to hear any bullets coming toward me!
Taken by surprise, the men turned toward the shots, yelling and swearing in confusion.
Katie fired again. A loud curse roared as William Mc-Simmons grabbed his leg in pain where she’d accidentally hit him in the thigh.
“Let’s get out of here!” he cried. “We’ve done what we came to do. She’s practically dead now anyway—we’ll let the