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as they were leaving； their trailer empty； headed home for another load。
The gin roared with the chorus of heavy machines at work。 They were incredibly loud and dangerous。 During each picking season； at least one worker would fall victim to some gruesome injury inside the cotton gin。 I was scared of the machines； and when Pappy told me to wait outside； I was happy to do so。 He walked by a group of field hands waiting for their trailers without so much as a nod。 He had things on his mind。
I found a safe spot near the dock； where they wheeled out the finished bales and loaded them onto trailers headed for the Carolinas。 At one end of the gin the freshly picked cotton was sucked from the trailers through a long pipe； twelve inches around； then it disappeared into the building where the machines worked on it。 It emerged at the other end in neat square bales covered in burlap and strapped tightly with one…inch steel bands。 A good gin produced perfect bales； ones that could be stacked like bricks。
A bale of cotton was worth a hundred and seventy…five dollars； give or take； depending on the markets。 A good crop could produce a bale an acre。 We rented eighty acres。 Most farm kids could do the math。
In fact； the math was so easy you wondered why anyone would want to be a farmer。 My mother made sure I understood the numbers。 The two of us had already made a secret pact that I would never； under any circumstances； stay on the farm。 I would finish all twelve grades and go play for the Cardinals。
Pappy and my father had borrowed fourteen thousand dollars in March from the owner of the gin。 That was their crop loan； and the money was spent on seed； fertilizer； labor； and other expenses。 So far we'd been lucky…the weather had been nearly perfect； and the crops looked good。 If our luck continued through the picking； and the fields yielded a bale an acre； then the Chandler farming operation would break even。 That was our goal。
But； like most farmers； Pappy and my father carried debt from the previous year。 They owed the owner of the gin two thousand dollars from 1951； which had seen an average crop。 They also owed money to the John Deere dealer in Jonesboro for parts； to Lance Brothers for fuel； to the Co…op for seed and supplies； and to Pop and Pearl Watson for groceries。
I certainly wasn't supposed to know about their crop loans and debts。 But in the summertime my parents often sat on the front steps late into the night； waiting for the air to cool so they could sleep without sweating； and they talked。 My bed was near a window by the porch。 They thought I was sleeping； but I heard more than I should have。
Though I wasn't sure； I strongly suspected Pappy needed to borrow more money to pay the Mexicans and the hill people。 I couldn't tell if he got the money or not。 He was frowning when we walked to the gin； and he was frowning when we left it。
The hill people had been migrating from the Ozarks for decades to pick cotton。 Many of them owned their own homes and land； and quite often they had nicer vehicles than the farmers who hired them for the harvest。 They worked very hard； saved their money； and appeared to be as poor as we were。
By 1950 the migration had slowed。 The postwar boom had finally trickled down to Arkansas； at least to some portions of the state； and the younger hill people didn't need the extra money as badly as their parents。 They simply stayed at home。 Picking cotton was not something anyone would volunteer to do。 The farmers faced a labor shortage that gradually grew worse； then somebody discovered the Mexicans。
The first truckload arrived in Black Oak in 1951。 We got six of them； including Juan； my buddy； who gave me my first tortilla。 Juan and forty others had traveled three days in the back of a long trailer； packed in tightly together； with little food； no shade from the sun or shelter from the rain。 They were weary and disoriented when they hit Main Street。 Pappy said the trailer smelled worse than a cattle truck。 Those who saw it told others； and before long the ladies at the Baptist and Methodist churches were openly plaining about the primitive manner in which the Mexicans had been transported。
My mother had been vocal； at least to my father。 I heard them discuss it many times after the crops were in and the Mexicans had been shipped back。 She wanted my father to talk to the other farmers and receive assurances from the man in charge of labor that those who collected the Mexicans and sent them to us would treat them better。 She felt it was our duty as farmers to protect the laborers； a notion my father shared somewhat； though he seemed unenthusiastic about leading the charge。 Pappy didn't give a damn。 Nor did the Mexicans； They just wanted to work。
The Mexicans finally arrived just after four o'clock。 There had been rumors that they would be riding in a bus； and I certainly hoped this was true。 I didn't want my parents straining at the issue for another winter。 Nor did I want the Mexicans to be treated so poorly。
But they were in a trailer again； an old one with planks for sides and nothing over the top to protect them。 It was true that cattle had it better。
They carefully hopped down out of the trailer bed and onto the street； three or four at a time； in one wave after another。 They spilled forth； emptying in front of the Co…op； and gathered on the sidewalk in small bewildered groups。 They stretched and bent and looked around as if they had landed on another planet。 I counted sixty…two of them。 To my great disappointment； Juan was not there。
They were several inches shorter than Pappy； very thin； and they all had black hair and brown skin。 Each carried a little bag of clothing and supplies。
Pearl Watson stood on the sidewalk in front of her store； hands on hips； glaring。 They were her customers； and she certainly didn't want them mistreated。 I knew that before church on Sunday the ladies would be in an uproar again。 And I knew my mother would quiz me as soon as we arrived home with our gang。
Harsh words erupted between the man in charge of labor and the driver of the truck。 Somebody down in Texas had； in fact； promised that the Mexicans would be shipped in a bus。 This was the second load to arrive in a dirty trailer。 Pappy never shied away from a fight； and I could tell he wanted to jump into the fray and finish off the truck driver。 But he was also angry with the labor man； and I guess he saw no point in whipping both of them。 We sat on the tailgate of our truck and waited for the dust to clear。
When the yelling stopped； the paperwork began。 The Mexicans clung together on the sidewalk in front of the Co…op。 Occasionally； they would glance at us and the other farmers who were gathering along Main Street。 Word was out…the new batch had arrived。
Pappy got the first ten。 The leader was Miguel。 He appeared to be the oldest and； as I noticed from my initial inspection； he had the only cloth bag。 The rest of them carried their belongings in paper sacks。
Miguel's English was passable； but not nearly as good as Juan's had been。 I chatted him up while Pappy finished the paperwork。 Miguel introduced me to the group。 There was a Rico； a Roberto； a Jose； a Luis； a Pablo； and several I couldn't understand。 I remembered from a year earlier that it would take a week to distinguish among them。
Although they were clearly exhausted； each of them seemed to make some effort to smile…except for one who sneered at me when I looked at him。 He wore a western…style hat； which Miguel pointed to and said； 〃He thinks he's a cowboy。 So that's what we call him。〃 Cowboy was very young； and tall for a Mexican。 His eyes were narrow and mean。 He had a thin mustache that only added to the fierceness。 He frightened me so badly that I gave a passing thought to telling Pappy。 I certainly didn't want the man living on our farm for the weeks to e。 But instead I just backed away。
Our group of Mexicans followed Pappy down the sidewalk to Pop and Pearl's。 I trailed along； careful not to step close to Cowboy。 Inside the store； I assumed my position near the cash register； where Pearl was waiting for someone to whisper to。
〃They treat them like animals；〃 she said。
〃Eli says they're just happy to be here；〃 I whispered back。 My grandfather was waiting by the door； arms folded across his chest； watching the Mexicans gather what few items they needed。 Miguel was rattling instructions to the rest of them。
Pearl was not about to criticize Eli Chandler。 But she shot him a dirty look； though he didn't see it。 Pappy wasn't concerned with cither me or Pearl。 He was fretting because the cotton wasn't getting （licked。
〃It's just awful；〃 she said。 I could tell Pearl couldn't wait for us to clear out so she could find her church friends and again stir up the issue。 Pearl was a Methodist。
As the Mexicans； holding their goods； drifted to the cash register； Miguel gave each name to Pearl； who in turn opened a charge account。 She rang up the total； entered the amount in a ledger by the worker's name； then showed the entry to both Miguel and the customer。 Instant credit； American style。
They bought flour and shortening to make tortillas； lots of beans in both cans and bag