“All right,” I said, “here it is. If them stories ain’t true, how come them to get started? How come almost everybody claims they ‘are’ true?”

Sam blinked. He opened his mouth, and then he closed it again. And he and Zeke looked at each other.

“Well, uh,” Sam began. “I, uh, I—”

“Now, hold up there!” Zeke butted in, turning to me. “What do you mean everybody’s saying they’re true? Who the hell’s everybody?”

“I stand corrected,” I said. “I reckon everybody ain’t saying it, when you get right down to cases. Prob’ly ain’t no more than two, three hundred people that are sayin’ it. But that still leaves the same question. How come even two, three hundred people are sayin’ it ‘is’ true that Sam raped a little colored baby an’ beat his pappy to death an’ fed his wife to the hawgs an’—”

“Never mind, dammit!” Zeke grabbed Sam by the arm. “Come on, Sam. You don’t have to answer no damn-fool question like that.”

“Well, of course, he don’t have to,” I said. “But I should think he’d want to. Don’t rightly see how he can get elected sheriff if he don’t answer.”

Zeke hesitated, scowling. He shot a glance at Sam, then gave him a nudge.

“All right, Sam. Maybe you’d better answer.”

“Uh, well, of course,” Sam nodded. “Uh, what was the question again, Sheriff?”

I started to tell him, but someone behind me interrupted.

“You know the question, Sam! How’d them stories about you get started? How come folks say they’re true if they ain’t?”

There was a loud murmur of agreement, with people nodding and nudging each other. Sam cleared his throat to speak, and there was another interruption. A catcall from the outskirts of the crowd.

“How about that nigger baby, Sam?”

The crowd looked at each other, embarrassed, snickering, or outright guffawing. All at once there were catcalls from half a dozen different directions.

“Where’s them gold teeth, Sam?” and “Did you just screw that widder for her money, Sam?” and “What’d you do with them hawgs you fed your wife to?” and so on. Until everything was in an uproar of shouts and laughter and bootstampings.

I let it go on for two, three minutes, letting these here good Christians work themselves up to the proper pitch. Then I held up my arms and called for quiet, and finally I got it. But it was restless, you know. The kind of quiet you get just before a storm.

“Now, Sam,” I said, facing around to him again. “You reckon you fully understand the question, or do you want me to repeat it?”

“Uh, well—”

“I’ll repeat it,” I said, “an’ you listen closely, now, Sam. If you didn’t rape any little defenseless colored babies or beat your poor ol’ pappy to death or feed your sweet, trusting wife that you’d sworn to protect and cherish to the hawgs or—if you didn’t do none of them dirty low-down things that make me sick to my stomach to think about, how come so many folks say you did? Or puttin’ it briefly, Sam, how come folks say that you done things that would out-stink a skunk and that you’re lower down than a puke-eating dawg, if it ain’t true? Or puttin’ it still another way, are you sayin’ that you’re telling the truth an’ that everyone else is a dirty no-good liar?”