HENRY SHORT

On that first Black Monday come three murders at the Bend. Second Monday, that was the Great Hurricane. Third was Monday October 24th of 1910, goin on toward evening.

House men was ready. Hearing that boat, Old Mist’ Dan and his three boys loaded their guns and headed over to the shore. Mis Ida waved me to the cookhouse, told me to go with ’em. Look after Mist’ Dan, she said, on account he was all agitated, fired up, might take and do some foolishness, get her boys killed. But it was her was agitated, not Mist’ Dan. Mr. D. D. House always knew just what he wanted, he had set like glue.

I stood there looking straight ahead like I was hit by lightning. No nigger had no business over there, she knew that, but being so frightened for her men, she never cared what fool thing she told a colored man to do.

When I started to foller ’em, Mis Ida called after me, “Where is your rifle, Henry? You take that rifle, hear?” I was so scared I sagged down to my knees, went to rolling my eyes back like some gospel nigger.

“No ma’am, no please no, Mis Ida, Mist’ Dan ain’t told me come! Ain’t no place for no nigger with no shootin iron, no, ma’am!”

Miz Ida got all flustered up and angry. Commenced to hollering how I owed my life to Houses on account Mist’ Dan done saved this colored child back up the Georgia road and raised him up in a fine Christian family. Was this the gratitude they got? Those was the words I was most afraid of—how these kin’ly white folks saved this pickaninny’s life so the very least that he could do was give it back.

Miz Ida sunk down a-weeping and a-praying, got the Good Lord on her side for sure. I known right then that Henry Short was done for. I mumbled, “Yes’m,” went to fetch my old Winchester .30-30, which I kept oiled and polished up like new. “See there!” she yelled. “ ’Member how Mr. House give you that rifle, Henry? How he done spoiled you? So mind you load it good! You never know!”

Oh I knew, I knew.

As I passed the store, Mist’ Smallwood warned me I was making a mistake, but being a nigger, I never had no choice. I was praying, praying, praying for some sign. All I wanted was some place I could hide out from life till I was safe again. In them days, his safety was all a black man could ask for.