He tried again, and just before the engine quit completely, it turned over and started, sputtering and kicking. HQ had obviously given Stick the worst leftover of the fleet. Black Oak was not exactly a hotbed of criminal activity.

Before he could put it into gear, I saw the tractor moving slowly down the field road. “Here they come,” I said. He squinted and strained, then turned off the engine. We got out of the car and walked back to the tree.

“You think you wanna be a deputy?” Stick asked.

And drive a ragged patrol car, nap half the day, and deal with the likes of Hank Spruill and the Siscos? “I’m gonna play baseball,” I said.

“Where?”

“St. Louis.”

“Oh, I see,” he said with one of those funny smiles adults give to little kids who are dreaming. “Ever’ little boy wants to be a Cardinal.”

I had many more questions for him, most of which dealt with his gun and the bullets that went into it. And I had always wanted to inspect his handcuffs, to see how they locked and unlocked. As he watched the trailer draw nearer, I studied his revolver and holster, eager to grill him.

But Stick had spent enough time with me. He wanted me to leave. I held my barrage of questions.

When the tractor stopped, the Spruills and some of the Mexicans crawled off the trailer. Pappy and my father came straight for us, and by the time they stopped under the tree there was already tension.

“What do you want, Stick?” Pappy snarled.

Pappy in particular was irritated with Stick and his nagging presence in our lives. We had a crop to harvest; little else mattered. Stick was shadowing us, in town and on our own property.

“What is it, Stick?” Pappy said. Contempt was evident in his tone. He had just spent ten hours picking five hundred pounds of cotton, and he knew our deputy hadn’t broken a sweat in years.

“That oldest Sisco boy, Grady, the one in prison for murder, he escaped last week sometime, and I think he’s back home.”

“Then go get him,” Pappy said.

“I’m lookin’ for him. I’ve heard they might start some trouble.”

“Such as?”

“Who knows with the Siscos. But they might come after Hank.”

“Let ‘em come,” Pappy said, anxious for a good fight.

“I’ve heard they’ve got guns.”

“I got guns, Stick. You get word to the Siscos that if I see one of ‘em anywhere near this place, I’ll blow his stupid head off.” Pappy was practically hissing at Stick by the time he finished. Even my father seemed to warm to the idea of protecting his property and family.

“It won’t happen out here,” Stick said. “Tell your boy to stay away from town.”

“You tell him,” Pappy shot back. “He ain’t my boy. I don’t care what happens to ‘im.”

Stick looked around at the front yard, where the Spruills were going about the business of preparing supper. He had no desire to venture over there.

He looked at Pappy and said, “Tell him, Eli.” He turned and walked to his car.

It groaned and sputtered and finally started, and we watched him back into the road and drive away.

After supper I was watching my father patch an inner tube from our tractor when Tally appeared in the distance. It was late but not yet dark, and she seemed to cling to the long shadows as she moved toward the silo. I watched her carefully until she stopped and waved for me to follow. My father was mumbling, the patching was not going well, and I slipped away toward the house. Then I ran behind our truck, found the shadows, and within seconds we were walking along a field row in the general direction of Siler’s Creek.

“Where you goin’?” I finally asked, after it became apparent she was not going to speak first.

“I don’t know. Just walkin’.”

“You goin’ to the creek?”

She laughed softly and said, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Luke? You wanna see me again, don’t you?”

My cheeks burned, and I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Maybe later,” she said.

I wanted to ask her about Cowboy, but that subject seemed so ugly and private that I didn’t have the nerve to go near it. And I wanted to ask her how she knew that Libby Latcher was telling that Ricky was the father of her baby, but again, it was something else I just couldn’t bring up. Tally was always mysterious, always moody, and I adored her completely. Walking with her along the narrow path made me feel twenty years old.

“What did that deputy want?” she asked.

I told her everything. Stick had delivered no forbidden secrets. The Siscos were talking big, and they were crazy enough to try something. I relayed it all to Tally.

She thought about it as we walked, then asked, “Is Stick gonna arrest Hank for killin’ that boy?”

I had to be careful here. The Spruills were at war with each other, but any hint of an outside threat and they’d close ranks. “Pappy’s worried about y’all leavin’,” I said.

“What’s that gotta do with Hank?”

“If he gets arrested, then y’all might leave.”

“We ain’t leavin’, Luke. We need the money.”

We had stopped walking. She was looking at me, and I was studying my bare feet. “I think Stick wants to wait till the cotton’s in,” I said.

She absorbed this without a word, then turned and started back toward the house. I tagged along, certain I’d said too much. She said good night at the silo and disappeared into the darkness.

Hours later, when I was supposed to be asleep, I listened through the open window as the Spruills growled and snapped at each other. Hank was in the middle of every fight. I could not always hear what they were saying or bickering about, but it seemed as though each new skirmish was caused by something Hank had said or done. They were tired; he was not. They woke before sunrise and spent at least ten hours in the fields; he slept as late as he wanted, then picked cotton at a languid pace.

And evidently he was roaming at night again. Miguel was waiting by the back steps when my father and I opened the kitchen door on our way to gather eggs and milk for breakfast. He pleaded for help. The shelling had resumed; someone had bombed the barn with heavy clods of dirt until after midnight. The Mexicans were exhausted and angry, and there was about to be a fight of some variety.

This was our sole topic of conversation over breakfast, and Pappy was so angry he could barely eat. It was decided that Hank had to go, and if the rest of the Spruills left with him, then we’d somehow manage. Ten well-rested and hardworking Mexicans were far more valuable than the Spruills.

Pappy started to leave the table and go straight to the front yard with his ultimatum, but my father calmed him. They decided that we would wait until quitting time, thereby getting a full day of labor out of the Spruills. Plus they’d be less likely to break camp with darkness upon them.

I just listened. I wanted to jump in and describe my conversation with Tally, especially the part about her family needing the money. In my opinion, they wouldn’t leave at all, but would be delighted to get rid of Hank. My opinions, however, were never welcome during these tense family discussions. I chewed my biscuit and hung on every word.

“What about Stick?” Gran asked.

“What about him?” Pappy fired in her direction.

“You were gonna tell Stick when you were finished with Hank.”

Pappy took a bite of ham and thought about this.

Gran was a step ahead, but then she had the advantage of thinking without being angry. She sipped her coffee and said, “Seems to me the thing to do is tell Mr. Spruill that Stick is comin’ after Hank. Let the boy sneak away at night. He’ll be gone, that’s all that matters, and the Spruills’ll be thankful you kept him from gettin’ arrested.”

Gran’s plan made perfect sense. My mother managed a slight grin. Once again the women had analyzed a situation more quickly than the men.