Our engine quit.
“I’m sorry,” said Miss Tant.
“Are we out of fuel?” Miss Hoe asked her.
“Yes, I fear we are.”
Miss Tant’s fingertip tapped the little round gasoline gauge on the control board. The arrow was pointed to E.
“Empty,” said Miss Hoe.
One by one, we piled out of the Ford.
Coo Coo made a gentleman’s effort to assist Hyacinth, whose generous size wasn’t designed for climbing in or out of a snug fit.
“Leave me be,” said Hyacinth. But then, as Coo Coo continued to help her to stand, Mrs. Hyacinth Day had a sudden warming of heart. “Thank you, mister.”
Something bad happened. In order to unsqueeze Hyacinth from the backseat, Coo Coo had let loose of our cat. Right then, the Ford chugged a small explosion.
Lady Luck took off running.
Tar and I ran after her, calling her name, but Lady Luck weren’t in no mood to stop, at least not until she’d run out of sight.
“Where she go?” Tar asked.
I pointed. “Ahead,” I said, “that there is Jailtown. I’d know it upside down.”
Beyond some windwhipped trees, I recognized the tower of the sugarcane crusher. High up, and rusty brown. In the past, I’d worked at it when Roscoe Broda dragged me there by a rope.
We run, Tar and I.
Calling out Lady Luck’s name, Tar Calhoun and I poked through the bushy weeds and the many piles of loose gray boards. Then we saw Lady Luck ahead of us, a ways off, hightailing toward the cane-chopper buildings.
“Lady Luck,” I was yelling. “Come on, Tar. We got to catch her before she’s clean gone.”
A few poor-dressed people was outside a shack, trying to nail a board into place, whacking it with a mallet. They stared silent at Tar and me when we went charging by, after the cat.
We run through a small shed that was still standing, without half of its roof, and into the open again. Coming to the main crusher, we darted inside. It was darker than out in the sunlight, and I couldn’t see much right away. But I could hear a engine. It sounded to me like a truck. But it wasn’t. As my eyes got used to less light, I saw what it was, just as the dogs barked.
It was a blue bus! There was only three fenders on it. The left front fender was missing. Beyond the cracked window panes, several scared faces looked out at me. All children.
As three dogs come at us, two men followed behind, both toting guns. Tar was clinging to me, afraid, as the dogs crowded us against a inside wooden wall. All I could do was see those dreadful teeth and hear their growling.
“Hey,” the taller of the two men said, pointing a finger at me, “I just bet I seen you before, boy.”
I knowed his voice.
Mr. Boss.
“You a runaway,” the shorter man said. His dogs had Tar Calhoun crying, and me so scared I couldn’t even wiggle a toe. My feet seemed to die. Grabbing ahold of my shirt, yanking it loose, he squinted at my chest. “Well, well, well,” he said, “looky what we got here. A work number. In code. You owe me money, skinny boy. A chasing fee.”
“Where’s the old guy?” the shorter man asked me. As he spoke, I remembered his name. Herman, the dog man.
Mr. Boss put a hand to my chest, and didn’t do it too gentle. “I feel all them scars, boy. You is branded to me for life. All you got’s a number now. And that’s all you’ll ever have until you die a old pickie, out in the produce field.”
The dogs was jumping up, snapping at Tar Calhoun and me, until Herman kicked one of the dogs. It yelped. But then all three turned quiet.
“Where be old Coo Coo?”
“Yeah, he run too. Where’s he at?”
Mr. Boss cuffed my face. Both ways, a lot of times. Forward. Back. Forward. Back. His long arm was swinging at me, slapping one side of my face, then the other. One slap cracked my ear and I heared a loud ringing.
“Where’s Coo Coo?”
Herman grabbed Tar. “Hey, little bug-eye nigger. I bet you’ll know where old Coo Coo’s hiding. Where? Tell me. Tell.”
As I was holding Tar, with my arm around to protect him, I could feel his body shaking. Tar, who was always so afraid of everyone he didn’t know, was now closing in on crazy. His fingers clawed at me like he’d fell in deep water.
Herman slapped Tar. Awful hard.
“Cut out yo circus, boy. Or else I’ll maybe let these dogs bite into you so fierce that they’ll have you for supper.”
Again he hit Tar. Blood spattered on my face.
“Leave him be,” I said. “Please.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Boss, “we catch ourselfs a uppity boy, right here. A nigger lover.” His hand grabbed my throat. “You a nigger lover, white boy? Zat what you be?”
“You best tell us right quick,” Herman said, “where that old Mr. Coo Coo be hid, or they’s won’t be a inch of hide on either you.”
Mr. Boss and Herman were hitting me again. Harder now. And cuffing Tar Calhoun. “Tell. Tell us. Where’s that Coo Coo be? Tell.” My lips was cut and I could taste the sweet blood in my mouth, sticky hot.
“Hold it!”
I heard a voice.
It weren’t Mr. Boss or Herman.
“You leave ’em go, you hear? Back off. You leave them childrens alone. So back off, mister, and now.”
Holding to Tar, I looked to where the voice was coming from, and saw. There, walking toward all of us really fast was three men. All very big. Two dredgers, men who worked the big machines that scooped dirt from the ditches. I could tell by their boots. Both of them white men. Between the two whites come a very big colored man, with white hair. I knowed who.
It was Brother. His deep voice spoke again, even though one of Herman’s dogs was snarling in his throat. I wanted to say “Brother Smith,” but my mouth weren’t able to form any words. Or any name.
“Turn those two childrens loose,” Brother said. His voice wasn’t ornery or angry. It was steady and deep, like it was leaping right out of the Bible.
“We got guns,” said Mr. Boss. “All we doing is taking what be our property. All legal. Capturing a couple of runaway field hands that owe us money.”
“Yeah,” said Herman, “these are runaways.”
Brother’s big voice boomed out.
“They … be … children.”
“We got more men outside,” said one of the large dredgers. “Some of us are missing our kin.”
Hurrying to the blue bus, the other dredger looked in its door. “There’s more kids in here. A lot more. Maybe nine or ten of ’em. Good grief, they’re tied up in ropes.”
“They all pickers,” said Herman.
“That’s correct,” said Mr. Boss. “Pickies, every one. They all been tagged legal.”
“And branded,” said the dredger at the bus. “I can smell the stink of burnt flesh.”