Entrapment and Other Writings Read Online Free Page B

father’s boots as she fell, so that for a moment the head rolled loosely about as though undecided which way to drop, caught by the flesh of her cheek on the rough boots’ points. Then it tumbled to the left, struck the ground, and slowly, quietly, turned gently upward. Lloyd returned the gun to his father. His hand trembled slightly as he did so, and he looked down at the girl. The thumb of the left hand was still twitching. It continued to twitch for six seconds.
    The boy seemed to feel a surge of sudden manhood in his veins. He thrust out his chest, spat on the ground, and laughed a brief, nervous little laugh that came out of his throat in tiny tortured jerks. As though making an unprecedented announcement he called out twice: “The puny yaller bitch. The puny yaller bitch.” The voice quavered. Christopher repeated this phrase to himself, revolving it over and over in his dazed brain, as though it must, somehow, explain the thing he had just seen. There was something here he could not quite grasp, and over and over he repeated it to himself, seeking a hidden meaning. “The puny yaller bitch. The puny yaller bitch. Yes, that must be so, But why ‘puny’? Why not ‘little’ yaller bitch, or even ‘gentle’ yaller bitch? That would have been much better, because it would have made things so much clearer.”
    The sight of her pale throat, lying so still on the moonlit grass, twisted up now to the quiet stars, reminded Christopher of the throat of a German soldier he had seen one night at St. Mihiel. It was so naked and helpless. It was so long and soft.
    Christopher listened to the three as they untied the horses. Lloyd was still trying to laugh, and Luther, irritated by the attempt, spoke sharply: “Ef you-all aint got the livin’ sense to thank yer paw an’ me fer gettin’ yo’ outen this unnateral mess yo’ can anyhow keep yergoddam nasty little trap shet—Yo’ little side-winding bastard.” Then he heard Bryan speak firmly, yet without anger: “You-all got no call to preach, Major, yo’ aint missed a Sunday night with that uptown nigger whore sense Easter.” Christopher listened to the rhythmic hooves of the horses falling swiftly away into distance.
II
    The black girl named Queenie Lee laughed a soft little laugh in her sleep—more like a dream than a laugh. On the sleepy mountain of her breast the great dark head of Christopher Morgan lay warmly pressed. Christopher was not asleep. His eyes were opened wide, agleam with fear, and something more than fear. Twice he spoke her name before she woke. “Queenie honey,” he said. “Queenie honey.” She passed her warm hand down his side in soft reply but did not open her eyes. “Queenie honey, I’se worried. I’s skeered. I’se skeered and worried bad.” She opened her eyes then, took his wooly head in her hands, and looked directly into the broad, good-natured face, heavy now with trouble. She read running terror there, and it leaped across like living flame into her own brain, so that the hands with which she held him clenched with a sudden chill.
    “Lawd, nigger, what’s skeerin’ yo’ lak dis?”
    “Ah seen somethin’ bad. Somethin’ powerful bad. Ah seen it with mah own eyes, an’ ah got to tell,—ah got to tell. Oney promise—”
    “Ah promise.”
    “Promise what?”
    “Ah’ll promise anythin’ yo’ want me to promise.”
    “Promise yo’ wont tell nobody then—never.”
    “Ah promise.”
III
    Every Sunday night Christopher sat on the courthouse steps. It was quiet there, and quite dark, and he enjoyed the chimes which tolled out above his head every half hour. He would sit there until twelveo’clock was struck, then would rise slowly and start toward his cottage. Eleven-thirty had just chimed, and he was beginning to feel a bit tired. It had been a week since he had slept well, but since last night, since he had unburdened himself to Queenie, he had been at peace in his mind. Before that he had been so torn between