White Pilgrim from Sumac Ridge

“Damn!” shouted Todd. “Look at them niggers fightin’!”

            Brad said, “Look at them damn knives! Biggest I ever saw.” They had switchblades like the kind whites commonly believed all black men carried.

            “Hey!” added Jabe. “There’s two more fighting, and look at that, two more!”

Three knife fights were going on at once and black people running from all directions crowded around to watch.

            Todd said, “Let’s go up close so we can see.”

Jabe knew they were making a mistake but he was curious and reluctantly went along. They left the car and worked through the crowd until they were only a couple of rows back from the closed circle. They had seen fights like this from the hill above Mulrow but never three fights at once and never anywhere near this close.

            Eye to eye with the minute details of the horrible scene they heard every woman’s shriek, every man’s cuss, the fighters’ hisses and grunts and gasps, and shuffling of feet on loose gravel. They tasted gritty dust mixed thick with heavy odors of beer and teaming sweaty bodies packed in and banging together.

            There was nothing shoddy about the way the men fought. Strong as oxen, nimble as tigers, and fast as lightning, they circled, crouched, lunged, sidestepped, and danced around each other. An arm would thrust out so quick Jabe couldn’t tell it had moved except for the flash of a silver blade. Proof was that the razor-sharp edge had hit its mark when a red gash as much as an inch wide and several inches long lay open spilling blood from a shiny cheek or massive arm or heaving chest. They didn’t jab and stab. They slashed and sliced, not with the intent to kill, but to mark and bleed the opponent until he quit, passed out, or was too weak to continue.

            Marveling at the artistry of the gladiators Jabe suddenly became aware that the screaming mob was crushing him from all sides. A force greater than his power to resist pushed him forward where he was bound to fall among the fighters. He looked over at Todd and Brad and saw terror on their faces for they were in the same predicament as he.

            At that moment a strong hand vice-gripped his arm and turned him around to face a powerful woman who said, “Come with me.” He grabbed Todd’s arm, Todd grabbed Brad’s arm, and she dragged them through the mob.

            “Y’all boys go on back to Sumac Ridge,” the woman said. “Them’s the meanest niggers ever lived, and they’s drunk, too. This ain’t no place for white folks on Saturday night.”

            They wanted to thank her but were too traumatized. At the nearest drive-in restaurant they sat silently in the car until calm enough to talk.

“That woman,” Jabe finally said, “she’s the one lives up Sumac Ridge with that buggy and fast horse.”

            “Yeah,” said Todd, “and she knows who we are.”

            Brad added, “And you know what? She saved our lives.”

            “Damn sho did,” the others agreed in unison.

            “Damn!” said Todd, slamming his fist into his hand. “What a stupid idea! That’s the last time I’ll ever mess around in nigger business on Saturday night.”

            “Damn straight,” Brad whispered. “You got that right.”

            They mulled over the experience and talked about the dual white and black societies. They didn’t know scholarly terms for these things but could point to significant differences between the two subcultures of violence. One could spend a lifetime in this territory and never witness a white knife fight like what they had just seen. Rarely did a white man have scars like the one on Nat Tucker’s neck and he got his from a black man.

            It was common, however, for black men to have scars on their faces and bodies and arms like long banks of irregular chevrons. Left to heal naturally the wounds became badges of honor, symbols of courage, and warning to anyone who might be inclined to cross the men who displayed them.