told the Look writer: “Well, what else could we do? He was hopeless.”
This is more of what Milam told that writer:
“I’m no bully. I never hurt a nigger in my life. I like niggers in their place — I know how to work ’em. But I just decided it was time a few people got put on notice.”
Back in Belzoni Gus Courts refused to be intimidated. The murders of George Lee and Emmett Till only hardened his determination to fight back. All through 1955 he recruited new members for the local NAACP, doubling its charter. That summer he started talking about filing a lawsuit against the Citizens’ Councils.
Courts owned a bus that he used to transport field hands to cotton plantations around the Delta. One local planter and Citizens’ Council leader made it his business to follow the bus every morning. When it stopped at a plantation, the white man would get out of his car and have a talk with the owner. Before long there wasn’t a plantation in the Delta that would hire field hands hauled by Courts.
Courts consulted a local white lawyer about filing a suit over his loss of business. Apparently word got around. In late November another white citizen stopped by Courts’s grocery store.
“They’re planning to get rid of you,” the man told Courts. “I don’t know how, and I don’t want to know.” It was a threat as much as a caution. And Courts had no doubt who “they” were.
Three nights later, at 8:30 on November 28, 1955, Courts had just rung up a sale and was standing behind the counter of his store when a shotgun blast shattered the front window and hit him in the left arm and abdomen. Savannah Luton, who had just bought a can of kerosene, ran outside and saw a two-tone green sedan pull away in the darkness. She clearly saw a white man in the rear window.
Someone tried to call Sheriff Ike Shelton, but nobody could find him. Courts was bleeding and in pain when another police officer arrived at the scene and the witnesses described what had happened. Friends gently lifted Courts into a car and drove sixty miles to the hospital in Mound Bayou.
Medgar Evers got the call in Jackson that night. This time he followed procedure: he called Ruby Hurley, the national office, and the press. And then he got in his car and drove to Mound Bayou.
Roy Wilkins would often show people a picture of Gus Courts lying in his hospital bed. In the photograph was a grim young man standing next to Courts, one hand gripping the bed, the other plunged deep in his coat pocket, like a vengeful guardian angel, ready for anything. The man in the picture was Medgar Evers.
Gus Courts lived. He gave a number of bedside interviews to northern reporters who flocked south to cover the latest outrage.
Courts was philosophical. He said he’d known his time was coming, that he had “tried to prepare my mind for it.” The hard part, he said, was knowing that his enemies could slip up on him any time, and that the shot would come out of the darkness.
A reporter from the New York Post drove to Belzoni to ask Sheriff Shelton whether he had located any suspects.
“I honestly think some damn nigger just drove there and shot him,” Shelton told him. He still hadn’t interviewed Courts.
Two FBI agents from Greenville were assigned to the case, but they got sidetracked by a bank robbery before they could interview Courts or any witnesses.
Incredibly the Belzoni Citizens’ Council posted a $250 reward for information leading to the conviction of the gunman. It was never claimed. No arrests were made.
The brave old man finally packed it in and moved to Chicago. It was, for many, the only way to stay alive.
The Citizens’ Council of Philadelphia, Mississippi, worked long hours to drive Charles Evers out of town. He held out as long as he could.
By the end of 1954 Charles had so many things going it was hard to keep track of them all. He was married with children now. His wife, Nan, was a smart, patient woman. She had to be to
This is more of what Milam told that writer:
“I’m no bully. I never hurt a nigger in my life. I like niggers in their place — I know how to work ’em. But I just decided it was time a few people got put on notice.”
Back in Belzoni Gus Courts refused to be intimidated. The murders of George Lee and Emmett Till only hardened his determination to fight back. All through 1955 he recruited new members for the local NAACP, doubling its charter. That summer he started talking about filing a lawsuit against the Citizens’ Councils.
Courts owned a bus that he used to transport field hands to cotton plantations around the Delta. One local planter and Citizens’ Council leader made it his business to follow the bus every morning. When it stopped at a plantation, the white man would get out of his car and have a talk with the owner. Before long there wasn’t a plantation in the Delta that would hire field hands hauled by Courts.
Courts consulted a local white lawyer about filing a suit over his loss of business. Apparently word got around. In late November another white citizen stopped by Courts’s grocery store.
“They’re planning to get rid of you,” the man told Courts. “I don’t know how, and I don’t want to know.” It was a threat as much as a caution. And Courts had no doubt who “they” were.
Three nights later, at 8:30 on November 28, 1955, Courts had just rung up a sale and was standing behind the counter of his store when a shotgun blast shattered the front window and hit him in the left arm and abdomen. Savannah Luton, who had just bought a can of kerosene, ran outside and saw a two-tone green sedan pull away in the darkness. She clearly saw a white man in the rear window.
Someone tried to call Sheriff Ike Shelton, but nobody could find him. Courts was bleeding and in pain when another police officer arrived at the scene and the witnesses described what had happened. Friends gently lifted Courts into a car and drove sixty miles to the hospital in Mound Bayou.
Medgar Evers got the call in Jackson that night. This time he followed procedure: he called Ruby Hurley, the national office, and the press. And then he got in his car and drove to Mound Bayou.
Roy Wilkins would often show people a picture of Gus Courts lying in his hospital bed. In the photograph was a grim young man standing next to Courts, one hand gripping the bed, the other plunged deep in his coat pocket, like a vengeful guardian angel, ready for anything. The man in the picture was Medgar Evers.
Gus Courts lived. He gave a number of bedside interviews to northern reporters who flocked south to cover the latest outrage.
Courts was philosophical. He said he’d known his time was coming, that he had “tried to prepare my mind for it.” The hard part, he said, was knowing that his enemies could slip up on him any time, and that the shot would come out of the darkness.
A reporter from the New York Post drove to Belzoni to ask Sheriff Shelton whether he had located any suspects.
“I honestly think some damn nigger just drove there and shot him,” Shelton told him. He still hadn’t interviewed Courts.
Two FBI agents from Greenville were assigned to the case, but they got sidetracked by a bank robbery before they could interview Courts or any witnesses.
Incredibly the Belzoni Citizens’ Council posted a $250 reward for information leading to the conviction of the gunman. It was never claimed. No arrests were made.
The brave old man finally packed it in and moved to Chicago. It was, for many, the only way to stay alive.
The Citizens’ Council of Philadelphia, Mississippi, worked long hours to drive Charles Evers out of town. He held out as long as he could.
By the end of 1954 Charles had so many things going it was hard to keep track of them all. He was married with children now. His wife, Nan, was a smart, patient woman. She had to be to
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