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ans would work a little farther away； and the cotton trailer would act as a dividing line between the two groups。 Distance was needed between Hank and Cowboy； otherwise there would be another killing。
〃I don't want any more trouble；〃 I heard Pappy say。 Everyone knew the switchblade would never leave Cowboy's pocket； and we doubted that Hank； dumb as he was； would be stupid enough to attack him again。 Over breakfast that morning Pappy had ventured the guess that Cowboy wasn't the only armed Mexican。 One reckless move by Hank； and there might be switchblades flying everywhere。 This had been shared with Mr。 Spruill； who had assured Pappy that there would be no more trouble。 But by then no one believed that Mr。 Spruill； or anybody else； could control Hank。
It had rained late last night； but there was no trace of it in the fields； the cotton was dry； the soil almost dusty。 But the rain had been seen by Pappy and my father as an ominous warning of the inevitable flooding； and there was an anxiousness about the two that was contagious。
Our crops were nearly perfect； and we had just a few more weeks to gather them before the skies opened。 When the tractor stopped near the cotton trailer； we quickly grabbed our sacks and disappeared among the stalks。 There was no laughing or singing from the Spruills； not a sound from the Mexicans in the distance。 And no napping on my part。 I picked as fast as I could。
The sun rose quickly and cooked the dew from the bolls of cotton。 The thick air clung to my skin and soaked my overalls； and sweat dripped from my chin。 One slight advantage in being so small was that most of the stalks were taller than me； I was partially shaded。
Two days of heavy picking； and the cotton trailer was full。 Pappy took it to town； always Pappy； never my father。 Like my mother and （he garden； it was one of those chores that had been designated long before I came along。 I was expected to ride with him； something I always enjoyed because it meant a trip to town； if only to the gin。
After a quick dinner； we took the truck to the field and hitched up the cotton trailer。 Then we climbed along its edges and secured the tarp so that no bolls would blow away。 It seemed a crime to waste a single ounce of something we'd worked so hard to gather。
As we drove back to the house； I saw the Mexicans behind the barn； grouped tightly； slowly eating their tortillas。 My father was at the tool shed； patching an inner tube for a front tire on the John Deere。 The women were washing dishes。 Pappy abruptly stopped the truck。 〃Stay here；〃 he said to me。 〃I'll be right back。〃 He'd forgotten something。
When he returned from the house； he was carrying his twelve…gauge shotgun； which he slid under the seat without a word。
〃We goin' huntin'？〃 I asked； knowing full well that I would not get an answer。
The Sisco affair had not been discussed over dinner or on the front porch。 I think the adults had agreed to leave the subject alone； at least in my presence。 But the shotgun suggested an abundance of possibilities。
I immediately thought of a gunfight； Gene Autry style； at the gin。 The good guys； the farmers； of course； on one side； blasting away while ducking behind and between their cotton trailers； the bad guys； the Siscos and their friends； on the other side returning fire。 Freshly picked cotton flying through the air as the trailers took one hit after another。 Windows crashing。 Trucks exploding。 By the time we crossed the river； there were casualties all over the gin lot。
〃You gonna shoot somebody？〃 I asked； in an effort to force Pappy to say something。
〃Tend to your own business；〃 he said gruffly as he shifted gears。
Perhaps he had a score to settle with some offending soul。 This brought to mind one of the favorite Chandler stories。 When Pappy was much younger； he； like all farmers； worked the fields with a team of mules。 This was long before tractors； and all farming was done by man and animal。 A ne'er…do…well neighbor named Woolbright saw Pappy in the fields one day； and evidently Pappy was having a bad day with the mules。 According to Woolbright； Pappy was beating the poor beasts about their heads with a large stick。 As Woolbright later told the story at the Tea Shoppe； he'd said； 〃If I'd had a wet burlap sack； I'd've taught Eli Chandler a thing or two。〃 Word filtered back； and Pappy heard what Woolbright said。 A few days later； after a long hot day in the fields； Pappy took a burlap sack； put it in a bucket of water； and skipping dinner； walked three miles to Woolbright's house。 Or five miles or ten miles； depending on who happened to be telling the story。
Once there； he called on Woolbright to e out and settle things。 Woolbright was just finishing dinner； and he may or may not have had a houseful of kids。 Anyway； Woolbright walked to the screen door； looked out into his front yard； and decided things were safer inside。
Pappy yelled at him repeatedly to e on out。 〃Here's your burlap sack； Woolbright！〃 he yelled。 〃Now e on out and finish the job。〃
Woolbright retreated deeper into his house； and when it was evident he wasn't ing out； Pappy threw the wet burlap sack through the screen door。 Then he walked three or five or ten miles back home and went to bed； without dinner。
I'd heard the story enough to believe it was true。 Even my mother believed it。 Eli Chandler had been a hot…tempered brawler in his younger days； and at the age of sixty he still had a short fuse。
But he wouldn't kill anybody； unless it was in self…defense。 And he preferred to use his fists or less menacing weapons like burlap sacks。 The gun was traveling with us just in case。 The Siscos were crazy people。
The gin was roaring when we arrived。 A long line of trailers waited ahead of us； and I knew we'd be there for hours。 It was dark when Pappy turned off the engine and tapped his fingers on the wheel。 The Cardinals were playing； and I was anxious to get home。
Before getting out of the truck； Pappy surveyed the trailers and the trucks and tractors； and he watched the farmhands and gin workers go about their business。 He was looking for trouble； and seeing none； he finally said； 〃I'll go check in。 You wait here。〃
I watched him shuffle across the gravel and stop at a group of men outside the office。 He stayed there awhile； talking and listening。 Another group was congregated near a trailer in the line ahead of us； young men smoking and talking and waiting。 Though the gin was the center of activity； things moved slowly。
I caught a glimpse of a figure as it appeared from somewhere behind our truck。 〃Howdy； Luke；〃 the voice said； giving me a start。 When I jerked around； I saw the friendly face of Jackie Moon； an older boy from north of town。
〃Hi； Jackie；〃 I said； very relieved。 For a split second I thought one of the Siscos had started the ambush。 He leaned on the front fender with his back to the gin； and produced a cigarette； one that he'd already rolled。 〃Y'all heard from Ricky？〃 he asked。
I watched the cigarette。 〃Not lately；〃 I said。 〃We got a letter a couple of weeks ago。〃
〃How's he doin'？〃
〃Fine； I guess。〃
He scraped a match on the side of our truck and lit the cigarette。 He was tall and skinny and had been a basketball star at Monette High School for as long as I could remember。 He and Ricky had played together； until Ricky got caught smoking behind the school。 The coach； a veteran who'd lost a leg in the war； bounced Ricky from the team。 Pappy had stomped around the Chandler farm for a week threatening to kill his younger son。 Ricky told me privately that he was tired of basketball anyway。 He wanted to play football； but Monette couldn't have a team because of cotton picking。
〃I might be goin' over there；〃 Jackie said。
〃To Korea？〃
〃Yep。〃
I wanted to ask why he thought he was needed in Korea。 As much as I hated picking cotton； I would much rather do it than get shot at。 〃What about basketball？〃 I asked。 There was a rumor that Arkansas State was recruiting Jackie。
〃I'm quittin' school；〃 he said； and blew a cloud into the air。
〃Why？〃
〃I'm tired of it。 Been goin' for twelve years already； on and off。
That's more 'an anybody else in my family。 I figure I've learned enough。〃
Kids quit school all the time in our county。 Ricky tried several times； and Pappy had bee indifferent。 Gran； on the other hand； laid down the law； and he finally graduated。
〃Lot of boys gettin' shot over there；〃 he said； staring into the distance。
That was not something I wanted to hear； so I said nothing。 He finished his cigarette and thrust his hands deep into his pockets。 〃They're tellin' that you saw that Sisco fight；〃 he said； again without looking at me。
I figured that somehow the fight would get discussed during this trip to town。 I remembered my father's stern warning not to discuss the incident with anyone。
But I could trust Jackie。 He and Ricky had grown up together。
〃Lots of folks saw it；〃 I said。
〃Yeah； but ain't nobody talkin'。 Hillbillies ain't sayin' a word 'cause it's one of their own。 Locals ain't talkin' 'cause Eli's told everybody to shut up。 That's what they're tellin'； anyway。〃
I believed him。 I didn't doubt for a second that El