“Tell them about the nigger women you kissed on the mouth! You did, I’ve got proof. Proof, you hear me, you understand what I’m saying?” Adam stepped back. His breathing had become quick and heavy and his eyes were wild. “Oh, you don’t think for a minute you’re fooling these people, do you, Griffin? Because if you do, you’re wrong. They’re too smart for you and your filth. Believe me. I know them. I know they’re too smart. They laugh at you, Griffin. Understand? Because you are nothing on this earth; nothing, nothing.” His voice had risen to a high pitch now, and the people stared. “Folks!” he cried. “They think they’ve got us scared. But they haven’t. We’re not about to give up, not now nor ever, no sir! Hear that, Griffin? Paton, you hear what I’m saying?”

Harley Paton and Agnes Angoff walked over to Joey Green and untied his hands and led him away, back toward the school.

“Go on, you miserable cowards. Run!” Adam clutched Verne Shipman’s sleeve. “You talk to them,” he said. “Tell them, listen, Verne—tonight! a meeting, at Joan’s; seven-thirty! We’re—Paton! You and your nigger better listen to this! We’re gonna show you you can’t stop justice and right, no matter what you do. This is only the beginning! We—”

Suddenly Shipman drew back his hand and slapped Adam’s face. The sound was sharp. He slapped him again, harder.

Then, slowly, he turned and began to walk across the lawn toward town, the way men walk in their sleep.

Bart Carey opened his mouth, but he said nothing. He and the Reverend Lorenzo Niesen squinted at the others and followed Shipman.

The crowd broke, dispersed, the men and women walking off singly, by themselves, in all directions.

In a while they were gone.

“Boy?”

Adam Cramer opened his eyes. Sam Griffin was standing over him, reaching down his hand and smiling in the old way, without the hardness.

“Boy, you’re gonna get grass stains all over those trousers if you don’t get up.”

Adam felt himself being lifted, gently. He did not resist.

“I figure our work in this town is just about cleaned up,” Griffin said. “If you pack in a hurry, you can grab a bus to Farragut. They got trains to Los Angeles there.” He paused. “If you’re a little light on ticket money, I’d be proud to—”

Adam pulled his arm away.

“Right certain now?” Sam Griffin waited; then he sighed and reached into his pocket. “Here.”

His hand unfolded. In the center was a gleaming copper fire.

“I wouldn’t want to steal from you,” he said, and tipped his palm. The bullets spilled out, one by one, and fell in their bright skins without a sound.

“They’re yours, boy.”