Old Mr. Marblehall! He may have years ahead yet in which to wake up bolt upright in the bed under the naked bulb, his heart thumping, his old eyes watering and wild, imagining that if people knew about his double life, they’d die.

Keela, the Outcast Indian Maiden

One morning in summertime, when all his sons and daughters were off picking plums and Little Lee Roy was all alone, sitting on the porch and only listening to the screech owls away down in the woods, he had a surprise.

First he heard white men talking. He heard two white men coming up the path from the highway. Little Lee Roy ducked his head and held his breath; then he patted all around back of him for his crutches. The chickens all came out from under the house and waited attentively on the steps.

The men came closer. It was the young man who was doing all of the talking. But when they got through the fence, Max, the older man, interrupted him. He tapped him on the arm and pointed his thumb toward Little Lee Roy.

He said, “Bud? Yonder he is.”

But the younger man kept straight on talking, in an explanatory voice.

“Bud?” said Max again. “Look, Bud, yonder’s the only little clubfooted nigger man was ever around Cane Springs. Is he the party?”

They came nearer and nearer to Little Lee Roy and then stopped and stood there in the middle of the yard. But the young man was so excited he did not seem to realize that they had arrived anywhere. He was only about twenty years old, very sunburned. He talked constantly, making only one gesture—raising his hand stiffly and then moving it a little to one side.

“They dressed it in a red dress, and it ate chickens alive,” he said. “I sold tickets and I thought it was worth a dime, honest. They gimme a piece of paper with the thing wrote off I had to say. That was easy. ‘Keela, the Outcast Indian Maiden!’ I call it out through a pasteboard megaphone. Then ever’ time it was fixin’ to eat a live chicken, I blowed the sireen out front.”

“Just tell me, Bud,” said Max, resting back on the heels of his perforated tan-and-white sport shoes. “Is this nigger the one? Is that him sittin’ there?”

Little Lee Roy sat huddled and blinking, a smile on his face. . . . But the young man did not look his way.

“Just took the job that time. I didn’t mean to—I mean, I meant to go to Port Arthur because my brother was on a boat,” he said. “My name is Steve, mister. But I worked with this show selling tickets for three months, and I never would of knowed it was like that if it hadn’t been for that man.” He arrested his gesture.

“Yeah, what man?” said Max in a hopeless voice.