'I got to do it, boy,' Pritchard said with that sickening grin on his lips. 'It's my job to brand all the new niggers.'
Pritchard moved with the shamble of a dead man, taking a step with his whole leg and then dragging the other. He was hunched over too. And he had a smile on his face all the time but you knew he wasn't thinking about anything funny. He moved in my direction and I inched away.
'I got to burn these numbers in your shoulder boy. Got to. That's my job. Here all this time you been layin' up in the barn, huggin' on Fat Flore an' eatin' corn cakes while us niggers be out here eatin' sour grain and strainin' in the cotton fields. Now you gonna know what it's like to sweat and strain and hurt.'
'It ain't my fault that they made you work so hard out here, Pritchard,' I said. 'I din't want them to do that to you.'
'I seen you laughin' at me, boy. While I was carryin' them bags'a cotton, while I be hobblin' around on this broke down leg.'
He took a step toward me and I took a step back.
'I never laughed at you,' I pleaded. 'If I laughed it's just because I was playin'.'
'You ain't gonna play no more, niggah,' he said as he crept forward. 'After I burn these here numbers inta yo' flesh you gonna know what it's like to be a nigger-slave workin' sunup to sundown until you vomit up your guts and die.'
As he said these words he took a quick step and threw the crutch at me. I tried to get out of the way but that twirling stick got between my legs and I went down. Before I could get to my feet again Pritchard was on me. He got both of my wrists together in one big hand and he lifted me up off of the ground. When he pulled me up next to his face I could smell his rotten breath.
'Fma burn that numbah so far into you,' he said, 'that after you die they gonna find it burnt into bone.'
He dragged me back across the room and no matter how hard I struggled I couldn't break his grip.
When we got back to the iron stove he dropped his crutch and pressed the iron, which had cooled, back into the red embers.
'Please don't do this to me,' I begged. 'Please don't. Please.'
'Fma burn you good, boy,' was his reply. 'Fma burn you good.'
I screamed and pulled and kicked and bit trying to get away from that iron. But try as I would Pritchard got me down on the floor, pulled off my burlap shirt, and held my arms down with his knees. Then he pulled that poker out of the fire and said, 'Here it come,' and then I felt a pain that I had never imagined a person could feel. It went all the way through me and I yelled and then I passed out for a short while.
I would have rather stayed unconscious but the pain in my shoulder was so great that I woke up crying. I wanted
to touch the wound but it was too sore. Pritchard was saying something but I couldn't make it out because the pain wouldn't let me know anything else.
But then Pritchard yanked me up off the floor and yelled, 'You bit me, niggah! Bit me on my arm!'
I heard him but somehow it didn't make sense. I was the one who hurt. How could anything he felt be so bad?
'Little bastard,' Pritchard said. 'Just for that I'ma brand you again. See if'n you bite me this time.'
He pulled the brand out of the fire again and when I saw it I screamed louder than I ever had before, or since. Pritchard threw me on the hard floor and then held me down with his knees again.
'Here it come,' he said, but the brand never touched my skin.
'Get up from there, Twenty-five!' a man shouted.
It was Champ Noland.
Suddenly Pritchard was gone from on top of me. I heard the iron fall on the floor. I sat up and saw him backing away, brandishing his crutch. Then I saw Champ. He was very tall and powerful with a handsome black face except for a scar that ran over his right eye and back toward his ear.
Champ picked up the brand and put it back on the stove and then he went for Pritchard.
Pritchard was in for it because everyone on the plantation knew that you didn't mess with Champ. He was strong and fast and didn't even know what the word
Champ moved in and Pritchard swung his crutch. It hit Champ on the shoulder but he didn't even grunt. He hit Pritchard so hard that the crippled slave fell to the floor and rolled away. Champ moved fast then and picked Pritchard up by his shirt.
'You know it's Mud Albert that s'posed to brand the new slaves,' Champ said. 'You know it ain't your job.'
'But I was just tryin' to help out, Champ,' Pritchard whined. 'I didn't know I was doin' somethin' wrong.'
I almost felt sorry for Pritchard in spite of the pain in my shoulder. He sounded like a lonely child wanting a playmate or a toy. In my mind I could see Champ letting the poor cripple go and walking back to see if I was hurt.
But instead Champ hit Pritchard and hit him again. He kept hitting him even though the poor man was screaming and begging for his life.
'Don't kill me, Champ!' Pritchard cried.
'Why you wanna make that little boy hurt?' Champ asked, and then he hit him.
'Don't kill me, Champ!'
