Something heard somewhere, someone who “got through!” A trail—footprints headed “no’th”—toward a star! And as they talked, eyes that had glazed over with dullness cleared, shoulders straightened beneath the load, and weary, aching limbs no longer dragged.
It was a good fall. Even Covey, forcing himself through the days, had to admit that. Crops had done well, and the land he had put in cotton promised much. Undoubtedly cotton was the thing. Next year he would buy a gin and raise nothing else. But now it was a big job to weigh, bale, and haul his cotton into town.
Covey’s strength came back slowly. He had Tom Slater in to help him for a spell, but Tom wasn’t much good at figuring; and figuring was necessary, if he didn’t want those town slickers to cheat him out of every cent.
One Sunday evening he was sitting out front, waiting for it to get dark so he could go to bed. Around the house came Amelia, trowel in hand. Covey didn’t mind Amelia’s flowers. That little patch of purple was right nice. But Amelia had hardly knelt down when from out back came the boy Fred. He stopped at a respectful distance and bowed.
“You sent for me, Miss Amelia?”
Covey sucked his tongue with approval. They had said this nigger was house-broke. He sure had the manners. Amelia had jumped up and was talking brightly.
“Yes, Fred. I wonder if you can’t fix that old gate. Even with our netting this yard has no protection as long as the gate’s no good.”
She indicated the worm-eaten boards sagging between two rotten posts. Fred turned and studied them a moment before replying.
“Miss Amelia,” he said slowly, “I better make you a new gate.”
Damn! thought Covey.