Yep, I do remember it clear, cause there was a fight too. That Cyrus Johns and old Cicero Edmunds was both crazy over that little Amy Williams gal, who was too young, in the first place, for two grown men like that, but her family was so poor that her mama was trying to push her off to get married to the first thing that shook his tail her way. But that girl didn’t have a bit more sense about no courting than a sagebush, and both them men could strike a figure when they pleased to. Cyrus was taller than Cicero, but Cicero was a big man, and strong as a mule; course, Cyrus won’t no weakling as I remember. And old Cicero decided he was going to pay for Amy’s ride and was gone sit with her on the backseat to boot, but he didn’t think to ask old Cyrus what he thought about the arrangement—not that he would a thought much of it anyhow. Lord, I can see them boys now (both of them dead now—Amy, too—all three of them married different people, even though they tell me, and I don’t know whether I believe it or no, that she went on and had a child for each of them boys after she got married since her husband wont as headstrong as them two) dust was flying everywhichaway, blood dripping around, clothes ripping and floating in the air—that girl was just a screaming and jumping up and down and hollering: Stop that, now! Oh, stop! Please, stop! Oh, somebody stop them, please! But nobody was fool enough to step into that tussle, so what folks done, well, the menfolks at least—well, no, as I remember the womenfolks was just as bad—commenced to place a little wager here and there as to who was gone come out on top. And it did go on for a spell, interrupting old Geoffrey’s riding business considerable. Oh, but it was entertaining. Both them boys, big and strong as oxes, would have fought till the sun went down, but what stopped it was old Miss Lystra Edmunds, Cicero’s mamma, who was just as big and as black and as strong as Cicero, and she took a beanpole—reckon she come up to the store in the middle of it in all that confusion and dust and yelling and screaming and betting and seen her boy fighting—so she grabbed that beanpole and took to whopping that boy upside the head for all she was worth—and let me tell you she was one ferocious black woman—hitting him with the pole in one hand and gathering up her skirt in the other, chasing him and keeping up with him, just a beating and a whopping that head up, and asking him over and over: Do you love the Lord Jesus? Do you love the Lord Jesus? Uh-huh? Well, you better, cause I aim to send you to him this very day . . .