When I stopped to catch my breath, I picked up the unmistakable smell of a Mexican. They seldom bathed, and after a few days of picking cotton they took on their own particular odor.

It passed quickly, and after a minute or two of heavy breathing I wondered if I was just imagining things. Not taking chances, I retreated once again to the depths of the Jeter cotton and slowly headed east, cutting through row after row without a sound. When I could see the white tents of Camp Spruill, I knew I was almost home.

What would I tell about Hank? The truth, nothing but. I was burdened with enough secrets; there was room for no more, especially one as heavy as this. I’d crawl into Ricky’s room, try and get some sleep, and when my father woke me to collect eggs and milk I’d tell the whole story. Every step, every move, every cut of the knife-my father would hear it all. He and Pappy would head to town to report the killing to Stick Powers, and they’d have Cowboy in jail before lunch. They’d probably hang him before Christmas.

Hank was dead. Cowboy would be in jail. The Spruills would pack up and leave, but I didn’t care. I never wanted to see another Spruill, not even Tally. I wanted everybody off our farm and out of our lives.

I wanted Ricky to come home and the Latchers to move away, then everything would be normal again.

When I was within sprinting distance of our front porch, I decided to make my move. My nerves were frayed, my patience gone. I’d been hiding for hours, and I was tired of it. I scooted to the very end of the cotton rows and stepped over the ditch into the road. I ducked low, listened for a second, then started to run. After two steps, maybe three, there was a sound from behind, then a hand slapped my feet together and down I went. Cowboy was on top of me, a knee in my chest, the switchblade an inch from my nose. His eyes were glowing. “Silence!” he hissed.

We were both breathing hard and sweating profusely, and his odor hit me hard; no doubt the same one I’d smelled just minutes earlier. I stopped wiggling and gritted my teeth. His knee was crushing me.

“Been to the river?” he asked.

I shook my head no. Sweat from his chin dripped into my eyes and burned. He waved the blade a little, as if I couldn’t see it already.

“Then where you been?” he asked.

I shook my head again; I couldn’t speak. Then I realized my whole body was shaking, trembling in rigid fear.

When it was apparent I could not utter a word, he took the tip of the blade and tapped my forehead. “You speak one word about tonight,” he said slowly, his eyes doing more talking than his mouth, “and I will kill your mother. Understand?”

I nodded fiercely. He stood and walked away, quickly disappearing into the blackness and leaving me in the dust and dirt of our road. I started crying, and crawling, and I made it to our truck before I passed out.

They found me under their bed. In the confusion of the moment, with my parents yelling at me and quizzing me about everything-my dirty clothes, the bloody nicks on my arms, why exactly was I sleeping under their bed-I managed to conjure up the tale that I’d had a horrible dream. Hank had drowned! And I had gone to check on him.

“You were sleepwalkin’!” my mother said in disbelief, and I seized this immediately.

“I guess,” I said, nodding. Everything after that was a blur-I was dead tired and scared and not sure if what I’d seen at the river had really happened or had in fact been a dream. I was horrified at the thought of ever facing Cowboy again.

“Ricky used to do that,” Gran added from the hallway. “Caught ‘im one night out past the silo.”

This helped calm things somewhat. They led me to the kitchen and sat me at the table. My mother scrubbed me while Gran doctored the Johnson grass cuts on my arms. The men saw that matters were under control, so they left to gather eggs and milk.

A loud thunderstorm hit just as we were about to eat, and the sounds were a great relief to me. We wouldn’t be going to the fields for a few hours. I wouldn’t be near Cowboy.

They watched me as I picked at my food. “I’m okay,” I said at one point.

The rain fell heavy and loud onto our tin roof, drowning out conversation so that we ate in silence, the men worrying about the cotton, the women worrying about me.

I had enough worries to crush us all.

“Could I finish later?” I asked, slightly shoving my plate away. “I’m really sleepy.”

My mother decided that I would go back to bed and rest for as long as I needed to. As the women were clearing the table, I whispered to my mother and asked her if she would lie down with me. Of course she would.

She fell asleep before I did. We were in my parents’ bed, in their semidark bedroom, still and cool and listening to the rain, with the men in the kitchen not far away, drinking coffee and waiting, and I felt safe.

I wanted it to rain forever. The Mexicans and the Spruills would leave. Cowboy would be shipped home, back to where he could cut and slash all he wanted, and I’d never know about it. And sometime next summer, when plans were made for the harvest, I’d make sure Miguel and his band of Mexicans were not hauled back to our county.

I wanted my mother next to me, with my father nearby. I wanted to sleep, but when I closed my eyes I saw Hank and Cowboy on the bridge. I was suddenly hopeful that Hank was still there, still in Camp Spruill rummaging for a biscuit, still throwing rocks at the barn at midnight. Then it would all be a dream.

I clung to my mother throughout the day, after the storm passed, after lunch, after the rest of them went to the fields and we stayed around the house. There were whispers between my parents and a frown from my father, but she was adamant. There were times when little boys just needed to be with their mothers. I was afraid to let her out of my sight.

The very thought of telling what I saw on the bridge made me weak. I tried not to think about either the killing or the telling of it, but it was impossible to think of anything else.

We gathered vegetables from the garden. I followed her with the straw basket, my eyes cutting in all directions, ready for Cowboy to leap from nowhere and slaughter both of us. I could smell him, feel him, hear him. I could see his nasty liquid eyes watching every move we made. The weight of his switchblade on my forehead grew heavier.

I thought of nothing but him, and I stayed close to my mother.

“What’s the matter, Luke?” she asked more than once. I was aware that I wasn’t talking, but I couldn’t force words out. There was a faint ringing in my ears. The world was moving slower. I just wanted a place to hide.

“Nothin’,” I said. Even my voice was different-low and scratchy.

“You still tired?”

“Yes ma’am.”

And I’d be tired for a month if it kept me out of the fields and away from Cowboy.

We stopped to examine Trot’s house painting. Since we were there and not picking cotton, Trot was nowhere to be seen. If we left the house, then he would return to his project. The east wall now had a white strip about three feet high, running from the front almost to the rear. It was clean and neat, obviously the work of someone who wasn’t burdened with time.

At his current pace there was no way Trot would finish the house before the Spruills left. What would happen after they left? We couldn’t live in a house with a two-toned east wall.

I had more important things to worry about.

My mother decided she would “put up,” or can, some tomatoes. She and Gran spent hours during the summer and early fall putting up vegetables from our garden-tomatoes, peas, beans, okra, mustard greens, and corn. By the first of November the pantry shelves would be packed four-deep with quart jars of food, enough to get us through the winter and early spring. And, of course, they also put up enough for anyone who might need a little help. I was certain that we’d be hauling food to the Latchers in the months to come, now that we were kinfolk.