But it was enough so that as he watched Tucker’s farm house burn and crumble, as he heard around him his father’s friends speak of Tucker in mocking tones, calling him evil and crazy, he had begun to cry again, and pushed through the forest of legs, running up the road after the Negro, feeling betrayed because Tucker had done such things and seemed to deserve being called evil and crazy, wanting also to be given some explanation so he might defend his friend to the others, to be able to say, when they said he was evil and crazy: “He is not. He did it because…”

He caught up to the two Negroes and called to them, but they did not turn, stop, or give any sign of hearing him. He grabbed at Tucker’s coattail, using it as a rein to halt him.

“Go on back, Mister Leland. Do like I say.”

“Why you going?” He cleared his nose and tilted his head. “You ain’t really evil—is you, Tucker?”

Tucker stopped and put his hand on the boy’s head. The boy stiffened. “That what they saying, Mister Leland?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does you think I is?”

Mister Leland stared into Tucker’s eyes. They were large and too bright. “I…But why’d you do all them evil, crazy things?”

“You young, ain’t you, Mister Leland.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you ain’t lost nothing, has you.”

The boy did not understand and said nothing.

“Go on back.”

He found himself backing up, not really wanting to, not having decided to, rather as if the finality and quiet command of Tucker’s voice was pushing him as would a heavy autumn wind. Then his father’s hand was on his shoulder, light, not guiding him, but being guided by him, as if his father was a blind man and he was leading him. Then he had been lifted into the wagon and began to shiver and his father had given him the jacket and he was warmed, not so much by the oily denim as by the smells of his father’s body, of tobacco and sweat and soil. He had fallen asleep on the way to Mister Thomason’s, his head resting against his father’s muscle. They had let the men out and his father handed the reins to Mister Stewart, who asked if they needed a ride home. “No, thanks, Stewart, we come in on Deac this morning.” They went around to the back of Mister Thomason’s store, through the cold shadows, and found the horse where his father had left him, tied to a twisted, tiny bush and his father lifted him up, then swung up himself and next he knew they were turning off the Highway into their road, out three quarters of the way to Tucker’s, but not so far and he was waking up. “Papa?”