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He seemed to consider the question. “I thought I’d throw a line in the river. It’s not too late in the morning to catch a catfish or two. Tell Sid to clean up my fishing shack and put up the trail tent.”
“What are you doing, Hack?”
“You got me. I’ve never been good at specificity.”
“At what?”
“It means why worry about what hasn’t happened yet,” he replied.
He put a lead on a horse in the lot and led it to the shed where he kept his buggy. After he harnessed the horse, he got up on the buggy seat and picked up the reins.
“I’m going, too,” she said.
HACKBERRY DROVE THE buggy up the county road and under the arch that gave on to Cod Bishop’s property. By the time he reached the cabins, the logs had collapsed into mounds of flickering charcoal and soft ash. Except for Aint Ginny, the black people were climbing onto a flat wagon that would take them to town. Hackberry got down from his buggy. He was coatless and wearing a tall-crown Stetson that had sweat stains above the band, and a shirt with no collar. Bishop stared at him, his eyes dropping briefly to Hackberry’s waist.
“This is not an official visit,” Hackberry said.
“Then state your purpose.”
“Aint Ginny has nursed half the white children in this county, including a few woods colts whose fathers wouldn’t recognize them.”
“I’m not a particular admirer of you, Mr. Holland,” Bishop said. His eyes drifted to Ruby Dansen. “Nor do I approve of the way you conduct your personal life.”
“Miss Ruby is my bookkeeper,” Hackberry said. “She also takes care of my house. I’d like to call her my companion, but she’s not. If you allude to her in a disrespectful way again, I’ll bury you up to your neck in an ant pile.”
“I’m sure you would, Mr. Holland. At least if you were drunk enough.”
Hackberry scratched at his eye and gazed at the river. It was coppery green in the early sunlight, a long riffle undulating through gray boulders in the deepest part of the current. “Did you know Aint Ginny prepared breakfast for Davy Crockett and his Tennesseans on their way to the Alamo?”
“No, I didn’t. And I don’t care. She sassed me. Do you allow your servants to sass you?”
“I don’t have servants. I’ll take these people with me, though.”
“Then your niggers await you, sir.”
“We’re not quite finished here.”
“Stand back from me,” Bishop said.
“I heard popping sounds on the road. I bet those were her preserve jars blowing up.”
“I’m armed, Mr. Holland. I won’t hesitate to defend myself.”
Hackberry slapped him across the face. Bishop stumbled backward in shock, one hand rising to protect himself. Hackberry struck him again, harder, using his knuckles. “Apologize.”
“I’m a white man, sir. I do not apologize to niggers.”
“Don’t address me as ‘sir.’”
“What?”
“‘Sir’ from a man of
your ilk implies we belong to the same culture. We do not.”
“You cannot behave like this. You’re an officer of the law.”
This time Hackberry broke his nose.
