His mouth smiled as he spoke to the preacher, but his words snarled. It was plain that he was furiously angry. Breeze felt as if he’d choke with excitement. The breath was squeezed out of his body as the crowd pushed closer, and his bare feet were trod on until he felt his toes were mashed too flat ever to walk again.
The stillness was broken only by Leah’s sniveling, and April’s hurried breathing.
Uncle Bill put up a warning hand when April slowly took off his hat. “Keep you’ hat on, April. Don’t you dare to butt dis servant of Gawd! You’ll git struck dead, sho’ as you do!”
April smiled knowingly, then pulled his hat down tight on his head.
“I doubt if Gawd would knock me ’bout dat, but I don’ b’lieve I want to dirty my skull on such a jackass, not no mo’. I butt him good de last time we met. E ain’ fo’got.”
“Great Gawd! April, shut you’ mouth!”
“Did you cuss me for a jackass?” the preacher shrieked and darted furiously at April.
Women screamed out. Children wailed. Men mumbled protests. But before anybody suspected his intention April leaped forward and seized the preacher’s head with two powerful hands, held it like a vise, and bit a neat round mouthful out of the cheek next to him.
Making a horribly ugly face he spat out the morsel of flesh. Old Louder, Uncle Bill’s faithful hound, caught it and swallowed it down.
A fearful outcry arose. Men groaned. Women shrieked and yelled. Some went off into trances. The wounded preacher toppled, fell over, limp as a rag, his high white collar reddening as it swallowed the blood that streamed out of the hole in his face. Poor man. His face would rot off now. Poison would swell it up, bloat it, then peel it off.