And so after a while somebody told her how there was a fellow named Burch or Bunch or something working at the planing mill in Jefferson, and she come on here.
She got here Saturday, on a wagon, while we were all out at the murder, and she come out to the mill and found it was Bunch instead of Burch.
And Byron said he told her that her husband was in Jefferson before he knew it.
And then he said she had him pinned down and he had to tell her where Brown lived.
But he ain’t told her that Brown or Burch is mixed up with Christmas in this killing.
He just told her that Brown was away on business.
And I reckon you can call it business.
Work, anyway.
I never saw a man want a thousand dollars badder and suffer more to get it, than him.
And so she said that Brown’s house was bound to be the one that Lucas Burch had promised to get ready for her to live in, and so she moved out to wait until Brown come back from this here business he is away on.
Byron said he couldn’t stop her because he didn’t want to tell her the truth about Brown after he had already lied to her in a way of speaking.
He said he aimed to come and tell you about it before now, only you found it out too quick, before he had got her settled down good.”
“Lucas Burch?” the sheriff says.
“I was some surprised, myself,” the deputy says. “What do you aim to do about it?”’
“Nothing,” the sheriff says. “I reckon they won’t do no harm out there And it ain’t none of my house to tell her to get out of it.
And like Byron told her, Burch or Brown or whatever his name is, is going to be right busy for a while longer yet.”
“Do you aim to tell Brown about her?”
“I reckon not,” the sheriff says. “It ain’t any of my business.
I ain’t interested in the wives he left in Alabama, or anywhere else.
What I am interested in is the husband he seems to have had since he come to Jefferson.”
The deputy guffaws.
“I reckon that’s a fact,” he says.
He sobers, muses. “If he don’t get that thousand dollars, I reckon he will just die.”
“I reckon he won’t,” the sheriff says.
At three o’clock Wednesday morning a negro rode into town on a saddleless mule.
He went to the sheriff’s home and waked him.
He had come direct from a negro church twenty miles away, where a revival meeting was in nightly progress.
On the evening before, in the middle of a hymn, there had come a tremendous noise from the rear of the church, and turning the congregation saw a man standing in the door.
The door had not been locked or even shut yet the man had apparently grasped it by the knob and hurled it back into the wall so that the sound crashed into the blended voices like a pistol shot.
Then the man came swiftly up the aisle, where the singing had stopped short off, toward the pulpit where the preacher leaned, his hands still raised, his mouth still open.
Then they saw that the man was white: In the thick, cavelike gloom which the two oil lamps but served to increase, they could not tell at once what he was until he was halfway up the aisle.
Then they saw that his face was not black, and a woman began to shriek, and people in the rear sprang up and began to run toward the door; and another woman on the mourners’ bench, already in a semihysterical state, sprang up and whirled and glared at him for an instant with white rolling eyes and screamed,
“It’s the devil!
It’s Satan himself!”
Then she ran, quite blind.
She ran straight toward him and he knocked her down without stopping and stepped over her and went on, with the faces gaped for screaming falling away before him, straight to the pulpit and put his hand on the minister.
“Wasn’t nobody bothering him, even then,” the messenger said. “It was all happening so fast, and nobody knowed him, who he was or what he wanted or nothing.
And the women hollering and screeching and him done retch into the pulpit and caught Brother Bedenberry by the throat, trying to snatch him outen the pulpit.
We could see Brother Bedenberry talking to him, trying to pacify him quiet, and him jerking at Brother Bedenberry and slapping his face with his hand.
And the womenfolks screeching and hollering so you couldn’t hear what Brother Bedenberry was saying, cep he never tried to hit back nor nothing, and then some of the old men, the deacons, went up to him and tried to talk to him and he let Brother Bedenberry go and he whirled and he knocked seventy year old Pappy Thompson clean down into the mourners’ pew and then he retch down and caught up a chair and whirled and made a pass at the others until they give back.
And the folks still yelling and screeching and trying to get out.
Then he turned and clumb into the pulpit, where Brother Bedenberry had done clumb out the other side, and he stood there—he was all muddy, his pants and his shirt, and his jaw black with whiskers—with his hands raised like a preacher.
And he begun to curse, hollering it out, at the folks, and he cursed God louder than the women screeching, and some of the men trying to hold Roz Thompson, Pappy Thompson’s daughter’s boy, that was six foot tall and had a razor nekkid in his hand, hollering,
‘I’ll kill him.
Lemme go, folks.
He hit my grandpappy.
I’ll kill him.
Lemme go.
Please lemme go,’ and the folks trying to get out, rushing and trompling in the aisle and through the door, and him in the pulpit cursing God and the men dragging Roz Thompson out backwards and Roz still begging them to let him go.
But they got Roz out and we went back into the bushes and him still hollering and cursing back there in the pulpit.