Speaker 1: Hate by David M. Newell. Old Man Cow rode staggered
under a smashing blow in the mouth, shaking his grizzled
head in a vain attempt to clear his sight so
that he might yet pound the bloody face that loomed
before him. But he was done for That last crushing
blow had broken him, and he sank slowly to his
hands and knees in the soft, damp soil. Little old
man Knight swayed on his feet, gazing vacantly down on
his larger foe. It had been a bitter, bitter fight,
the result of an old quarrel between these backwoods neighbors,
and contrary to local custom, they had fought it out clean.
Old Man Tom had said quietly, no guns or knives Cow,
and Cow had agreed. Missus Tom had washed Old Tom
go down to the field with many misgivings, calling after him.
He ain't to be trusted, Tom, that cracker eight and
sides he's bigger than you. Better take your pistol. God
made guns and knives to make all men the same size.
And if y'all can't fight like gentlemen, but has to
use your fists, why don't come home less you whip him.
Old Tom had just shaken his head, and now as
he looked down on his enemy, he spoke again, quietly
through his bettered, bleeding lips. I whipped you, fair, Cal,
and you know I did, But you fought. Well, let's
call it quits. Old man cow raised his head with
a great effort. For a moment, his lips moved with
no sound, and his swollen eyes burned with savage hate.
Then all right, Tom, you whip me fair. Let the
haire go with the hide. They shook hands, and Old
Tom picked up his coat and walked slowly off toward
his cabin under the big live oaks. For a long
time thereafter, Calrode sat staring off to the west, across
the harefield and charred pine stumps. The preacher leaned across
his pulpit in his earnestness that bright Sunday morning, The
heart is deceitful and wicked above all things who can
know it. That's my text, friends, and y'all know it's true.
I don't know what's in your heart, and you don't
know what's in mine. God knows and sees. May he
find no malice in any of our hearts. This morning,
if y'all turn to, and Calvin roodes with unhearing ears,
gazed beneath shaggy brows at Old Tom and the pew across,
devising away, devising away. Two years pasted, old man cow
paused in his plowing and again stared out across the
little field. Again he saw himself beaten equipped by a
smaller man in a fair fight, and he spoke aloud,
I'll have revenge on you, Tom Knight, ye if, And
that's the last thing I ever do. I hate the
sight of you. I hate your name. From far away
towards the Cypress Swamp came the distant cry of a hound.
Cal road stopped. The hound's baying was growing steadily nearer,
and the old man forgot his grudge. By Jingo, that's
zeb Allison's sproudy, and he's a bringing a deer out
across the ridge as sure as I'm a foot eye.
There was no time to go to his own house
for a gun, and he bethought himself of the night cabin.
I'll get Tom's the old well. Let him think I'm
peaceable like till I get my chance. He arrived at
the neighbors out of breath. Missus Tom met him at
the door. Why howdy col come in? She beamed, Sure,
glad you've decided to let bygones be bygones. Tom's down
at the millhouse. A grinding cane can't come in, Thank you, ma'am,
panted Old man Cow just wanted to borrow Tom's gun.
There's a dogg coming with a deer, and I thought
maybe as how I could cut him off shore, agreed
missus Tom. There it is a sitting behind the door.
Hope you get the deer, and ifing you do, bring
us a quarter, as we're plumb out of meat. Old
man Cow noticed the gun was loaded as he ran.
When he reached the hog pasture gate, rowdy and the
deer had passed, and he sat down on a log
to get his breath. Might a note I couldn't kill
nothing with his gun anyway? The old skunk exploded, his
failure to get a shot, fanning his hatred. A sudden
idea seized him. He rested a few minutes and then
returned to the field, where he unhitched his mule and
started up the lane to his own cabin. Arriving there,
he went to a cupboard and took down his old
powder horn and pouch of shot. Craftily, he peered from
the window to make sure no one watched. An hour
or two later, the gun stood in its place behind
the door, and Col Rose shifted uneasily on his feet
as he said, no, ma'am, I didn't get there in time,
thank y'all. Anyway, spring came. Old Man Tom plowed his
corn and played in the evenings to Little Tom on
his banjo, and Calvin, hearing Little Tom's whoops of pleasure
at the old darky song, would shake his fist in
the direction of the sound and go inside, wherein I
don't have to listen to the old skunk's voice. A
lank cracker boy on an ancient moth eaten mule pulled
up in front of Cal's cabin. Hear the news, he
shouted to Old man Cow, who was coming up the
lane from feeding his hogs. Tom Knight dropped dead this evening,
just all of a sudden heart failure. I reckon, what,
screamed Old col It can't be, it mustn't be. I
don't believe it. Hi, the cracker boy addressed the group
in front of the post office. I never see the
like of the way old man Roads carried on. When
I told him why, he must have actually got to
love mister Knight. He sure did take on. They buried
Old Tom Knight from the little backwoods church. Calvin Rose,
by request of the Night family, served as a pallbearer.
With his last look at Old Tom's weather beaten face,
now so still and white, he cursed silently at the
fate that had robbed him of his revenge, and went
home to brood alone. Death had cheated him. There was
nothing he could do. A year passed. Little Tom shouldered
the farming valiantly, and Widow Knight, as befitted her heroic breed,
took up the lighter chores. Old Cow tilled his little field.
It could be seen that he had aged from his
stooping shoulders and the way he would absently stop in
his plowing to stare vacantly into thin air. Came another fall.
From far across the ridge floated the faint, quivering cry
of an old hound. Calvin Rhodes heard and shouted to
Little Tom in the next field, get your gun, son,
and come a runnin The old pity dog.
Speaker 2: A Zeke's is a comin' with a deer. Little Tom
came a running, eyes bright with excitement. Hurry up, mister Rhodes.
Heel crossed by the hog pasture gate, he puffed, handing
the old muzzleloader to cow. Old cow hurried as best
he could, and together they crouched in a pine thicket.
It might have been the same buck that broke again
into the clearing. Old cow fired. The preacher drew a
large handkerchief from his shabby coat. Friends, he said, we're
here to day to pay respect to our beloved brother,
Calvin weather be Roads. He was a good and kind man,
with malice toward none. His death is a great loss
to our little community. He was a noble forgiving spirit.
May we all learn from him the spirit of forgiveness.
And little Tom, in his father's seat, sniffled softly and whispered,
poor mister Rhodes. I sure wonder what made the gun
sound so uncommon loud and burst that away. The End
of Hate by David M.
Speaker 1: Newell