The Land(99)

Throughout all this, John Wallace worked with us, until one day when his brother showed up. We already knew from Tom Bee that John Wallace’s brother went by the name of Digger, and as soon as I saw him, I figured Digger Wallace to have also been on the ridge that night. He was a small-built man with worn clothes and eyes that were bloodshot and hands that shook. He looked to have had too much drink, and even from where I stood I could smell the liquor on him, the same as I had smelled liquor on one of the men who had come looking for the chicken thieves. A whip was looped at his side, hanging from his belt, and he kept his hand on it as he talked.

“I come for my brother,” he announced. “Where he at?” Digger Wallace turned directly toward Mitchell, who was on the bank hacking at branches that had been left on some of the logs. I was a few feet away with Tom Bee and the mules, stacking logs to be run down the creek.

Mitchell glanced up but said nothing. At that, Tom Bee greeted Digger with a wide wave. “’Ey there, Mister Digger!” he called. “Say ya lookin’ for John?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Where he at?”

“He back there in them woods choppin’ branches wit’ ’nother boy,” answered Tom Bee.

Now, it was an unfortunate thing that Mitchell was the one standing closest to Digger, for Digger looked from Tom Bee to him again and said, “You, boy, go get him. Tell him I wants him down here.” That was Digger Wallace’s first mistake.

Mitchell had an axe in his hand, and I knew how dangerous that could be. He just looked at Digger and kept on with his work. I left what I was doing and started over.

“’Ey, nigger! I’m talkin’ t’ ya! I told ya t’ get my brother!” That was Digger’s second mistake.

Mitchell turned to face him. “I ain’t nobody’s errand boy,” Mitchell said. “You want him, then you follow that nose of yours through them woods ’til ya find him.”

Mitchell again turned back to his work. He was holding his temper. Digger Wallace, though, didn’t hold his. He untied the whip from his belt and uncoiled it to strike. “Nigger, ya do what I say!” he cried, then flashed the whip toward Mitchell, his final mistake.

Mitchell grabbed hold of the whip in midair and yanked it from him. “Don’t nobody whip on me no more!” he declared. “And you call me nigger again, I’m gonna lay this whip right ’cross you!” Then Mitchell cracked the whip hard in front of Digger’s face.

Digger jumped back fearfully and, as he did, wet his pants.

Mitchell sneered at Digger’s mishap. Then he said, “Now, you get yo’self off this land!”

Digger stood trembling and humiliated. “Ya gonna pay for this!” he threatened. “Ya gonna pay!”

Mitchell stepped forward, the whip still in his hand. “Yeah, I know. Now, get!”

Digger backed away. “I wants my brother!”

“I’ll get him for ya, Mister Digger!” cried Tom Bee, and hurried off into the woods.

Digger, now some feet away from Mitchell, said pitifully, “I wants my whip.”

Mitchell tossed it at him. The whip landed at Digger’s feet. With shaking hands, Digger picked it up and tried to muster some dignity. “Tell my brother I’m waitin’ on him down yonder by the bridge!” he said loudly, giving one last order, and walked away.

I went to Mitchell. “We could face trouble about this. I can’t swear to it, but I believe he was on that ridge too.”

“Ah, he ain’t nothin’ but a drunk.”

“A white drunk,” I said.

“Don’t forget, coward too. I wouldn’t put it past him, if he was on that ridge with his brother, t’ been doin’ all that chicken thievin’ his own self. He look like the kinda scound’ t’ do somethin’ like that, then come lookin’ for a black man to hang it on.”

I watched Digger Wallace’s slim figure as he headed for the bridge, and I thought on what Mitchell said. Could be he was right, but that didn’t change my thinking about Digger Wallace and trouble.

When John Wallace came from the woods, both Nathan and Tom Bee were with him. “Where’s Digger?” John Wallace asked.

“Yonder by the road,” I said.

John Wallace glanced over at his brother, then went to talk to him. When he returned, Digger stayed put. “He says he headin’ back t’ Alabama and he figures best I go with him. I’ll get my things.” He went off to the shed, and Tom Bee went with him. A few minutes later John Wallace, his bedroll across his back, came over to me and he said, “Ya know, Paul Logan, you sure look like another fella I done seen a while back on a ridge south of Strawberry. A white man.” The boy kept his eyes on me. “I done told Tom Bee you looked familiar from that place, but he the only one and he won’t say nothin’, ’cause he already done told me not to. If you was there, ya got no reason t’ worry ’cause-a me . . . you or your friend. Ya done treated me right fair.” Then John Wallace went to join his brother.