"I don't see how in the world it happened," said Jim Hawkins for the tenth time.
The crowd parted and Dave's mother, father, and small brother pushed into the center.
"Where Dave?" his mother called.
* * *
"There he is," said Jim Hawkins.
His mother grabbed him.
"Whut happened, Dave? Whut yuh done?"
"Nothin."
"C'mon, boy, talk," his father said.
Dave took a deep breath and told the story he knew nobody believed.
"Waal," he drawled. "Ah brung ol Jenny down here sos Ah could do mah plowin. Ah plowed bout two rows, just like yuh see." He stopped and pointed at the long rows of upturned earth. "Then somethin musta been wrong wid ol Jenny. She wouldn ack right a-tall. She started snortin n kickin her heels. Ah tried t hol her, but she pulled erway, rearin n goin in. Then when the point of the plow was stickin up in the air, she swung erroun n twisted herself back on it . . . She stuck herself n started t bleed. N fo Ah could do anything, she wuz dead."
"Did you ever hear of anything like that in all your life?" asked Jim Hawkins.
There were white and black standing in the crowd. They murmured. Dave's mother came close to him and looked hard into his face. "Tell the truth, Dave," she said.
"Looks like a bullet hole to me," said one man.
"Dave, whut yuh do wid tha gun?" his mother asked.
The crowd surged in, looking at him. He jammed his hands into his pockets, shook his head slowly from left to right, and backed away. His eyes were wide and painful.
"Did he hava gun?" asked Jim Hawkins.
"By Gawd, Ah tol yuh tha wuz a gun wound," said a man, slapping his thigh.
His father caught his shoulders and shook him till his teeth rattled.
"Tell whut happened, yuh rascal! Tell whut ..."
Dave looked at Jenny's stiff legs and began to cry.
"Whut yuh do wid tha gun?" his mother asked.
"Whut wuz he doin wida gun?" his father asked.
"Come on and tell the truth," said Hawkins. "Ain't nobody going to hurt you ..."
His mother crowded close to him.
"Did yuh shoot tha mule, Dave?"
Dave cried, seeing blurred white and black faces.
* * *
"Ahh ddinn gggo tt sshooot hher . . . Ah sswear tt Gawd Ahh ddin. . . . Ah wuz a-tryin t sssee ef the gggun would sshoot—"
"Where yuh git the gun from?" his father asked.
"Ah got it from Joe, at the sto."
"Where yuh git the money?"
"Ma give it t me."
"He kept worryin me, Bob. Ah had t. Ah tol im t bring the gun right back t me ... It was fer yuh, the gun."
"But how yuh happen to shoot that mule?" asked Jim Hawkins.
"Ah wuzn shootin at the mule, Mistah Hawkins! The gun jumped when Ah pulled the trigger . . . N fo Ah knowed anythin Jenny was there a-bleedin."
Somebody in the crowd laughed. Jim Hawkins walked close to Dave and looked into his face.
"Well, looks like you have bought you a mule, Dave."
"Ah swear fo Gawd. Ah didn go t kill the mule, Mistah Hawkins!"
"But you killed her!"
All the crowd was laughing now. They stood on tiptoe and poked heads over one another's shoulders.
"Well, boy, looks like yuh done bought a dead mule! Hahaha!"
"Ain tha ershame."
"Hohohohoho."
Dave stood, head down, twisting his feet in the dirt.
"Well, you needn't worry about it, Bob," said Jim Hawkins to Dave's father. "Just let the boy keep on working and pay me two dollars a month."
"What yuh wan fer yo mule, Mistah Hawkins?"
Jim Hawkins screwed up his eyes.
"Fifty dollars."
"Whut yuh do wid tha gun?" Dave's father demanded.
Dave said nothing.
"Yuh wan me t take a tree n beat yuh till yuh talk!"
"Nawsuh!"
"Whut yuh do wid it?"
"Ah throwed it erway."
"Where?"
"Ah . . . Ah throwed it in the creek."
"Waal, c mon home. N firs thing in the mawnin git to tha creek n fin tha gun."
* * *
"Yessuh."
"Whut yuh pay fer it?"
"Two dollahs."
"Take tha gun n git yo money back n carry it t Mistah Hawkins, yuh hear? N don fergit Ahma lam you black bottom good fer this! Now march yoself on home, suh!"
Dave turned and walked slowly. He heard people laughing. Dave glared, his eyes welling with tears. Hot anger bubbled in him. Then he swallowed and stumbled on.
That night Dave did not sleep. He was glad that he had gotten out of killing the mule so easily, but he was hurt. Something hot seemed to turn over inside him each time he remembered how they had laughed. He tossed on his bed, feeling his hard pillow. N Pa says he's gonna beat me . . . He remembered other beatings, and his back quivered. Naw, naw, Ah sho don wan im t beat me tha way no mo. Dam em all! Nobody ever gave him anything. All he did was work. They treat me like a mule, n then they beat me. He gritted his teeth. N Ma had t tell on me.
Well, if he had to, he would take old man Hawkins that two dollars. But that meant selling the gun. And he wanted to keep that gun. Fifty dollars for a dead mule.
He turned over, thinking how he had fired the gun. He had an itch to fire it again. Ef other men kin shoota gun, by Gawd, Ah kin! He was still, listening. Mebbe they all sleepin now. The house was still. He heard the soft breathing of his brother. Yes, now! He would go down and get that gun and see if he could fire it! He eased out of bed and slipped into overalls.
The moon was bright. He ran almost all the way to the edge of the woods. He stumbled over the ground, looking for the spot where he had buried the gun. Yeah, here it is. Like a hungry dog scratching for a bone, he pawed it up. He puffed his black cheeks and blew dirt from the trigger and barrel. He broke it and found four cartridges unshot. He looked around; the fields were filled with silence and moonlight. He clutched the gun stiff and hard in his fingers. But, as soon as he wanted to pull the trigger, he shut his eyes and turned his head. Naw, Ah can't shoot wid mah eyes closed n mah head turned. With effort he held his eyes open; then he squeezed. Blooooom! He was stiff, not breathing. The gun was still in his hands. Dammit, he'd done it! He fired again. Blooooom! He smiled. Blooooom! Blooooom! Click, click. There! It was empty.
* * *
If anybody could shoot a gun, he could. He put the gun into his hip pocket and started across the fields.
When he reached the top of a ridge he stood straight and proud in the moonlight, looking at Jim Hawkins' big white house, feeling the gun sagging in his pocket. Lawd, ef Ah had just one mo bullet Ah'd taka shot at tha house. Ah'd like t scare ol man Hawkins jusa little . . . Jusa enough t let im know Dave Saunders is a man.
To his left the road curved, running to the tracks of the Illinois Central. He jerked his head, listening. From far off came a faint hoooof-hoooof; hoooof-hoooof. . . He stood rigid. Two dollahs a mont. Les see now . . . Tha means it'll take bout two years. Shucks! Ah'll be dam!
He started down the road, toward the tracks. Yeah, here she comes! He stood beside the track and held himself stiffly. Here she comes, erroun the ben . . . C mon, yuh slow poke! C mon! He had his hand on his gun; something quivered in his stomach. Then the train thundered past, the gray and brown box cars rumbling and clinking. He gripped the gun tightly; then he jerked his hand out of his pocket. Ah betcha Bill wouldn't do it! Ah betcha . . . The cars slid past, steel grinding upon steel. Ahm ridin yuh ternight, so hep me Gawd! He was hot all over. He hesitated just a moment; then he grabbed, pulled atop a car, and lay flat. He felt his pocket; the gun was still there. Ahead the long rails were glinting in the moonlight, stretching away, away to somewhere, somewhere where he could be a man . . .
Richard Wright, The Man Who Was Almost a Man
(Series: # )
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