As Hank neared the bridge, Cowboy quickened his pace and started walking in the center of the road. I stayed at the edge of the cotton, sweating and out of breath and wondering why I was being so foolish.
Hank got to the river and started over the bridge. Cowboy began running. When Hank was about halfway over, Cowboy stopped long enough to cock his arm and throw a rock. It landed on the boards near Hank, who stopped and whirled around. “Come on, you little wetback,” he growled.
Cowboy never stopped walking. He was on the bridge, heading up the slight incline, showing no fear whatsoever as Hank waited and cursed him. Hank looked twice as big as Cowboy. They would meet in the middle of the bridge, and there was no doubt that one of them was about to get wet.
When they were close, Cowboy suddenly cocked his arm again and threw another rock, almost at point-blank range. Hank ducked, and somehow it missed him. Then he charged at Cowboy. The switchblade snapped open, and in a flash it was introduced into the fray. Cowboy held it high. Hank caught himself long enough to swing wildly with his bag. It brushed Cowboy and knocked off his hat. The two circled each other on the narrow bridge, both looking for an advantage. Hank growled and cursed and kept his eye on the knife, then he reached into the bag and removed a small jar of something. He gripped it like a baseball and got ready to hurl it. Cowboy kept low, bending at the knees and waist, waiting for the perfect moment. As they circled slowly, each came within inches of the edge of the bridge.
Hank gave a mighty grunt and threw the jar as hard as he could at Cowboy, who was less than ten feet away. It hit him somewhere in the neck or throat, I couldn’t tell exactly, and for a second Cowboy wobbled as if he might fall. Hank threw the bag at him and charged in. But with amazing quickness Cowboy switched hands with the knife, pulled a rock from his right pants pocket, and threw it harder than any baseball he’d ever pitched. It hit Hank somewhere in the face. I couldn’t see it, but I certainly heard it. Hank screamed and clutched his face, and by the time he could recover it was too late.
Cowboy ducked and hooked low and drove the blade up through Hank’s stomach and chest. Hank let loose with a painful squeal, one of horror and shock.
Then Cowboy yanked it out and thrust it in again and again. Hank dropped to one knee, then two. His mouth was open, but nothing came out. He just stared at Cowboy, his face frozen in terror.
With strokes that were quick and vicious, Cowboy slashed away and finished the job. When Hank was down and still, Cowboy quickly went through his pants pockets and robbed him. Then he dragged him to the side of the bridge and shoved him over. The corpse landed with a splash and immediately went under. Cowboy went through the bag, found nothing he wanted, and threw it over, too. He stood at the edge of the bridge and watched the water for a long time.
I had no desire to join Hank, so I burrowed between two rows of cotton and hid so low that I couldn’t have found myself. My heart was pounding faster than ever before. I was shaking and sweating and crying and praying, too. I should’ve been in bed, safe and asleep with my parents next door and my grandparents just down the hall. But they seemed so far away. I was alone in a shallow foxhole, alone and frightened and in great danger. I’d just seen something that I still didn’t believe.
I don’t know how long Cowboy stood there on the bridge, watching the water, making sure Hank was gone. The clouds would move over the half-moon, and I could barely see him. They’d move again, and there he was, still standing, his dirty cowboy hat cocked to one side. After a long time, he walked off the bridge and stopped by the edge of the river to wash his knife. He watched the river some more, then turned and started walking down the road. When he passed me he was twenty feet away, and I felt like I was buried at least two feet in the ground.
I waited forever, until he was long out of sight, until there was no possible way he could hear me, then I crawled out of my little hole and began my journey home. I wasn’t sure what I would do once I got there, but I’d be safe. I’d think of something.
I stayed low, moving through the tall Johnson grass along the edge of the field. As farmers we hated Johnson grass, but for the first time in my life I was thankful for it. I wanted to hurry, to sprint down the middle of the road and get home as fast as possible, but I was terrified, and my feet were heavy. Fatigue and fear gripped me, and I could hardly move at times. It took forever before I saw the outlines of our house and barn. I watched the road in front of me, certain that Cowboy was up there somewhere, watching his rear, watching his flanks. I tried not to think about Hank. I was too concerned with getting to the house.
When I stopped to catch my breath, I picked up the unmistakable smell of a Mexican. They seldom bathed, and after a few days of picking cotton they took on their own particular odor.
It passed quickly, and after a minute or two of heavy breathing I wondered if I was just imagining things. Not taking chances, I retreated once again to the depths of the Jeter cotton and slowly headed east, cutting through row after row without a sound. When I could see the white tents of Camp Spruill, I knew I was almost home.
What would I tell about Hank? The truth, nothing but. I was burdened with enough secrets; there was room for no more, especially one as heavy as this. I’d crawl into Ricky’s room, try and get some sleep, and when my father woke me to collect eggs and milk I’d tell the whole story. Every step, every move, every cut of the knife — my father would hear it all. He and Pappy would head to town to report the killing to Stick Powers, and they’d have Cowboy in jail before lunch. They’d probably hang him before Christmas.
Hank was dead. Cowboy would be in jail. The Spruills would pack up and leave, but I didn’t care. I never wanted to see another Spruill, not even Tally. I wanted everybody off our farm and out of our lives.
I wanted Ricky to come home and the Latchers to move away, then everything would be normal again.
When I was within sprinting distance of our front porch, I decided to make my move. My nerves were frayed, my patience gone. I’d been hiding for hours, and I was tired of it. I scooted to the very end of the cotton rows and stepped over the ditch into the road. I ducked low, listened for a second, then started to run. After two steps, maybe three, there was a sound from behind, then a hand slapped my feet together and down I went. Cowboy was on top of me, a knee in my chest, the switchblade an inch from my nose. His eyes were glowing. “Silence!” he hissed.
We were both breathing hard and sweating profusely, and his odor hit me hard; no doubt the same one I’d smelled just minutes earlier. I stopped wiggling and gritted my teeth. His knee was crushing me.
“Been to the river?” he asked.
I shook my head no. Sweat from his chin dripped into my eyes and burned. He waved the blade a little, as if I couldn’t see it already.
“Then where you been?” he asked.
I shook my head again; I couldn’t speak. Then I realized my whole body was shaking, trembling in rigid fear.
When it was apparent I could not utter a word, he took the tip of the blade and tapped my forehead. “You speak one word about tonight,” he said slowly, his eyes doing more talking than his mouth, “and I will kill your mother. Understand?”
I nodded fiercely. He stood and walked away, quickly disappearing into the blackness and leaving me in the dust and dirt of our road. I started crying, and crawling, and I made it to our truck before I passed out.
They found me under their bed. In the confusion of the moment, with my parents yelling at me and quizzing me about everything — my dirty clothes, the bloody nicks on my arms, why exactly was I sleeping under their bed — I managed to conjure up the tale that I’d had a horrible dream. Hank had drowned! And I had gone to check on him.