Tucker had finished almost a quarter of the field since Stewart had seen him and whipped the crippled horse into town, and now was close to half done. Across the field Harry could see him, one small speck of white shirt; he wore black pants and was himself black and barely discernible against the darkness of the trees enclosing the farm. Harry watched as Tucker ran out of salt and came slowly toward the house and mound, stepping high over the furrows. Then he was close by, his head lowered, and Harry could see the small features seeming lost on the large head, the steel-rimmed spectacles on his flat nose. If he had gone insane, was running wild as Stewart had suggested at the porch, he did not show it. To Harry, he seemed quiet and thoughtful as if he was doing nothing out of the ordinary. Just like he’s planting seed. Just like it’s spring planting time and he started early and don’t have to worry none about missing the first good days. Just like all of us every spring, getting up early and eating and then going out into the field and tossing in seed. Only he ain’t planting nothing; he’s surely killing the land and he don’t even look like he hates it. It ain’t at all like he got up one morning and said to hisself, “I ain’t busting my backbone another day. I’m getting that land before it gets me.” Not running out like a mad dog and putting down the salt like it was salt, but putting it down like it was cotton or corn, like come fall, it’d be a paying crop. He’s so tiny to be doing such a terrible thing, no bigger than Harold even, doing that like a boy building a model plane or working with a little hoe beside his daddy, pretending he is his daddy and it’s his field and his own little son is working beside him.

Tucker was close enough now for Mister Harper to reach out and pound his shoulder. But the old man only whispered, barely heard by even Harry, who stood close by. “Tucker? What you doing, boy?” The men waited for an answer. It had not surprised them that Tucker had not spoken to Stewart before, but they were certain if a man had a tongue in his head, he would answer Mister Harper. Tucker, however, showed no signs of recognition, just filled his satchel. “Tucker, Tucker Caliban.” Mister Harper spoke again to his back. “You hear? What you doing?”

Stewart was already on the second rung of the fence, his face red and twisted. “I’ll teach that nigger some respect.” Mister Harper reached out and grabbed his arm; the men were surprised that both could move so quickly.

“Leave him alone.” Mister Harper turned away from the fence. “You can’t stop him, Stewart. You can’t even hurt him.”

“What d’you mean?” Stewart stumbled after the old man.