Shucks, a man oughta hava little gun aftah he done worked hard all day.
“How you n ol man Hawkins gitten erlong?”
“Suh?”
“Can’t yuh hear? Why don yuh lissen? Ah ast yu how wuz yuh n ol man Hawkins gittin along?”
“Oh, swell, Pa. Ah plows mo lan than anybody over there.”
“Waal, yuh oughta keep yo mind on whut yuh doin.”
“Yessuh.”
“But Ma, we needa gun. Pa ain got no gun. We needa gun in the house. Yuh kin never tell whut might happen.”
In the gray light of dawn he held it loosely, feeling a sense of power. Could kill a man with a gun like this. Kill anybody, black or white.
The gun felt loose in his fingers; he waved it wildly for a moment. Then he shut his eyes and tightened his forefinger. Bloom! A report half deafened him and he thought his right hand was torn from his arm.
Then he saw the hole in Jenny’s side, right between the ribs. It was round, wet, red. A crimson stream streaked down the front leg, flowing fast. Good Gawd! Ah wuzn’t shootin at the mule.
Somebody in the crowd laughed. Jim Hawkins walked close to Dave and looked into his face.
“Well, looks like you have bought you a dead mule, Dave.”
“Ah swear fo Gawd, Ah didn go t kill the mule Mistah Hawkins!”
“But you killed her!”
Nobody ever gave him anything. All he did was work. They treat me like a mule n then they beat me.
When he reached the top of a ridge he stood straight and proud in the moonlight, looking at Jim Hawkins’ big white house, feeling the gun sagging in his pocket. Lawd, ef Ah had just one mo bullet Ah’d taka shot at that house. Ah’d like t scare ol man Hawkins jusa little . . . Jusa enough t let im know Dave Saunders is a man.
He felt his pocket; the gun was still there. Ahead the long rails were glinting in the moonlight, stretching away, away to somewhere, somewhere where he could be a man . . .
