sandwich, and they ate. Karen stayed in the tent.
When they finished eating, Clyde said, “I think I’m going to be the first ass in that outhouse. I feel it coming.”
“I don’t need to hear that,” Hillbilly said.
“It’s just a natural process,” Clyde said.
“Boys,” Sunset said, “interesting as Clyde’s outhouse habits are, I been thinking, and I believe it’s time we start earning our pay.”
9
Clyde knew Zendo and where he lived. Unlike many negroes, Zendo owned his own land and was not a sharecropper. He had worked in the sawmill for years, putting back every available dollar. Growing crops on the side while he sharecropped, feeding himself and selling the excess.
When he had the money, he bought at an inflated price, because he was a negro and in no position to quibble, a fine piece of bottomland near the creek, cleared a large chunk with an axe, a mule, and a strong back, and started growing vegetables. Used terracing and water channeling from the creek, staked tomatoes, fought bugs.
Fifteen years later, much to the dismay of many white farmers, his farm was the most productive in the county. People drove by just to look at it, lying there in its man-made black dirt, bordered at all four corners by massive compost piles contained within log structures.
Sunset and her deputy constables, and Karen, rattled out to Zendo’s farm in Clyde’s pickup. When they got there, they went by Zendo’s house, which was in better condition than most houses in the area. The tar-paper roof was nailed down tight and there wasn’t any cardboard in the windows.
They found Zendo’s wife out in the yard. She was a big coffee-colored woman in a bright sack dress with a toddler clutching her leg. She had a pan of shelled corn in one hand and with the other she was tossing it to the chickens that gathered around her like servants before the queen.
Sunset got out of the truck and walked up to the lady, passing a small pig that was rolling in a damp depression in the yard, grunting, turning its head as if hoping for some sort of positive comment.
Nearby, a dog lay in the middle of a flower bed that had died out. The dog looked dead himself, but when Sunset walked up, his tail beat a few beats, then went still.
“Not a watchdog,” Sunset said to Zendo’s wife.
“Naw he ain’t,” the lady said. “I used to have a pig that would bite you, but we eating on him. Can I help you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How come you got that badge on? You some kind of farm inspector?”
“I’m the constable.”
“Naw you ain’t.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Really? You the constable? How’d that happen? Thought Mister Pete was the constable.”
“No. I shot him.”
“That’s funny,” the lady said. “You done shot him and took his badge. You funny, miss.”
“Yeah, well, I really am the constable. And I really did shoot him. And he really is dead. And once again, I really am the constable.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, no offense.”
“Like to talk to your husband. Could you tell me where I might find him?”
“He ain’t in any kind of trouble, is he?”
“Nothing like that.”
Zendo’s wife told her, with what Sunset thought was reluctance, that Zendo was still in the field.
On her way out to the truck she passed the hog and the dog again, but this time neither took note of her.
They drove to where the wife had indicated, got out of the truck and started walking toward where they could see Zendo having his dinner under a tree.
Two sleek, sweat-shiny mules stood nearby, still in plow harness, but the plow was no longer attached. The plow was leaning against the tree with Zendo. The mules had been hobbled and were mouthing grain from two flat pans.
The field Zendo had plowed, running the middles, cutting up weeds, was dark as sin, the rows straight enough to have been laid out with a ruler. The dark soil exploded with all manner of vegetables. Corn growing tall and green. Tied tomato vines twisted around wooden stakes, tomatoes dangled from them like little evening suns.
Zendo was biting into a biscuit when he saw a redheaded woman, a teenage girl, and two men walking toward him.
The woman looked roughed up, and his first thought was to run, just in case he was going to be blamed. Then he noted she was wearing a badge on her shirt. He considered this, but couldn’t get a fix on it.
By this time, they were standing beneath the oak, looking down at him. He put the biscuit in his lunch bucket and stood up. It wasn’t a long trip. He had a large head, broad shoulders, and a short body. If he mounted a Shetland pony, the pony would have to be cut off at the knees and placed in a ditch for Zendo’s feet to touch the ground.
“Howdy, this hot day,” he said, hanging his head, starting to shuffle his feet. “How is you folks? It sure is one of God’s good days, now ain’t it, even if it is hot.”
“It’s me,” Clyde said. “You can cut the ‘I sure is dumb’ routine.”
“Is that you, Mr. Clyde? I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age, if you’ll pardon the joke. We got to do us some more fishing.”
“I agree,” Clyde said, stuck out his hand, and they shook. Hillbilly did the same, hesitantly. Zendo didn’t offer to shake hands with either Sunset or Karen.
“Crops look great, Zendo,” Clyde said.
“Bottomland,” Zendo said. “And I treat it good. I run the creek water in it sometimes, does it with lots of cured manure and compost.”
“Sure looks good,” Clyde said. “Zendo, this is Sunset Jones. She’s the constable in these parts now.”
“Say she ain’t,” Zendo said.
“No. She is.”
“Shut me up. Really? You the constable, miss?”
“I am.”
“You’re yanking on me.”
“I tell you I’m not,” Sunset said.
“I thought Mister Pete was the constable.”
“He’s dead,” Sunset said.
“Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Zendo said.
“He was my husband.”
“Well, now, I’m sure sorry. How did he die, you don’t mind me asking?”
“I shot him.”
“Say you did?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Dead.”
