A loose huddle formed around Stick; the Spruills loitering on one side, the Chandlers hanging around the other, though when it came down to it, we were all on the same side. I was not pleased to be allied with Hank Spruill, but the cotton was more important than anything else.
Pappy introduced Stick to Mr. Spruill, who awkwardly shook Stick’s hand and then took a few steps back. It looked like the Spruills were expecting the worst, and I tried to remember if any of them had witnessed the fight. There’d been a large crowd and things had happened so fast. Dewayne and I had been mesmerized by the bloodletting. I couldn’t recall really noticing the faces of the other spectators.
Stick worked a blade of grass that was protruding from one corner of his mouth, and with both thumbs hung in his pants pockets, he studied our hill people. Hank leaned against the pin oak, sneering at anybody who dared to look at him.
“Had a big fight in town yesterday behind the Coop,” Stick announced in the direction of the Spruills. Mr. Spruill nodded but said nothing. “Some local boys got into it with a fella from the hills. One of ’em, Jerry Sisco, died this mornin’ in the hospital in Jonesboro. Fractured skull.”
Every Spruill began fidgeting, except Hank, who didn’t move. They obviously had not heard the latest on Jerry Sisco.
Stick spat and shifted his weight, and he seemed to enjoy being the man in the middle, the voice of authority with a badge and a gun. “And so I’m lookin’ around, askin’ questions, just tryin’ to find out who was involved.”
“Ain’t none of us,” Mr. Spruill said. “We’re peaceful folks.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes sir.”
“Did y’all go to town yesterday?”
“We did.”
Now that the lying had started, I peeked from between the two women for a better look at the Spruills. They were clearly frightened. Bo and Dale stood close together, their eyes darting around. Tally studied the dirt at her bare feet, unwilling to look at us. Mr. and Mrs. Spruill seemed to be looking for friendly faces. Trot, of course, was in another world.
“You got a boy named Hank?” Stick asked.
“Maybe,” Mr. Spruill said.
“Don’t play games with me,” Stick growled with sudden anger. “I ask you a question, you give me a straight answer. We got a jail over in Jonesboro with lots of room. I can take the whole family in for questions. You understand?”
“I’m Hank Spruill!” came a thunderous voice. Hank strutted through the huddle and stood within striking distance of Stick, who was much smaller but managed to maintain his cockiness.
Stick studied him for a second, then asked, “Did you go to town yesterday?”
“I did.”
“Did you get in a fight behind the Co-op?”
“Nope. I stopped a fight.”
“Did you beat up the Sisco boys?”
“I don’t know their names. There was two of ’em beatin’ up a boy from the hills. I stopped it.”
Hank’s face was smug. He showed no fear, and I grudgingly admired him for the way he confronted the law.
The deputy looked around the crowd, and his eyes stopped with Pappy. Stick was hot on the trail and quite proud of himself. With his tongue he moved the blade of grass to the other corner of his mouth, then looked up at Hank again.
“Did you use a stick of wood?”
“Didn’t need to.”
“Answer the question. Did you use a stick of wood?”
Without hesitating, Hank said, “Nope. They had a two-by-four.”
This, of course, conflicted with what someone else had reported to Stick. “I guess I better take you in,” Stick said, but made no move for the handcuffs dangling from his belt.
Mr. Spruill took a step forward and said to Pappy, “If he leaves, we leave, too. Right now.”
Pappy was prepared for this. Hill people were noted for their ability to break camp and disappear quickly, and none of us doubted Mr. Spruill meant what he said. They would be gone in an hour, back to Eureka Springs, back to their mountains and their moonshine. It would be virtually impossible to harvest eighty acres of cotton with just the Mexicans to help us. Every pound was crucial. Every hand.
“Slow down, Stick,” Pappy said. “Let’s talk about this. You and I both know the Siscos are good for nothin’. They fight often, and they fight dirty. Seems to me they picked on the wrong fella.”
“I got a dead body, Eli. You understand?”
“Two against one sounds like self-defense to me. Nothin’ fair about two against one.”
“But look how big he is.”
“Like I said, the Siscos picked on the wrong fella. You and I both know they had it comin’. Let the boy tell his story.”
“I ain’t no boy!” Hank snapped.
“Tell what happened,” Pappy said, stalling for time. Drag it out, and maybe Stick would find some reason to leave and come back in a few days.
“Go ahead,” Stick said. “Let’s hear your story. God knows ain’t nobody else talkin’.”
Hank shrugged and said, “I walked up to the fight, saw these two little sodbusters beatin’ up on Doyle, and so I broke it up.”
“Who’s Doyle?” Stick asked.
“Boy from Hardy.”
“You know him?”
“Nope.”
“Then how do you know where he’s from?”
“Just do.”
“Damn it!” Stick said, then spat near Hank. “Nobody knows nothin’. Nobody saw nothin’. Half the town was behind the Co-op, but nobody knows a damned thing.”
“Sounds like two against one,” Pappy said again. “And watch your language. You’re on my property, and there’re ladies present.”
“Sorry,” Stick said, touching his hat and nodding in the direction of Mother and Gran.
“He was just breakin’ up a fight,” my father said, his first words.
“There’s more to it, Jesse. I’ve heard that after the fight was over, he picked up a piece of wood and beat the boys. I figure that’s when the skull was fractured. Two against one ain’t fair, and I know it’s the Siscos, but I ain’t sure one of ’em had to get killed.”
“I didn’t kill nobody,” Hank said. “I broke up a fight. And there was three of ’em, not two.”
It was about time Hank set the record straight. It seemed odd to me that Stick didn’t know that three of the Siscos had been maimed. All he had to do was count the battered faces. But they had probably been hauled off by their kin and hidden back home.
“Three?” Stick repeated in disbelief. The entire gathering seemed to freeze.
Pappy seized the moment. “Three against one, and there’s no way you can take him in for murder. No jury in this county’ll ever convict if it’s three against one.”
For a moment Stick seemed to agree, but he wasn’t about to concede. “That’s if he’s tellin’ the truth. He’ll need witnesses, and right now they’re few and far between.” Stick turned to face Hank again and said, “Who were the three?”
“I didn’t ask their names, sir,” Hank said with perfect sarcasm. “We didn’t have a chance to say howdy. Three against one takes up a lotta time, especially if you’re the one.”
Laughter would’ve upset Stick, and nobody wanted to run that risk. So we just lowered our heads and grinned.
“Don’t get smart with me, boy!” Stick said, trying to reassert himself. “Don’t suppose you got any witnesses, do you?”
The humor vanished into a long period of silence. I was hoping that maybe Bo or Dale would step forward and claim to be a witness. Since the Spruills had just proved that they would lie under pressure, it seemed sensible to me that one of them would quickly verify Hank’s version. But nobody moved, nobody spoke. I slipped over a few inches and was directly behind my mother.
Then I heard words that would change my life. With the air perfectly still, Hank said, “Little Chandler saw it.”