The Well by Mildred D. Taylor

C harlie Simms was always mean, and that’s the truth of it. Thing is we never knew just how mean he was until that year back when all the wells in our part of Mississippi went dry. All the wells except ours, that is. We was blessed. We had good sweet water in a well that ran deep. Most folks said our land must’ve been sitting on an underground lake, if there is such a thing. Well, I don’t know about that. All I know is that well of ours never went dry. Now some folks wouldn’t’ve shared their water, but Mama, and Papa too, weren’t those kind of folks. They believed in sharing what they had, and they tried to teach us boys—my brothers Mitchell and Kevin, Hammer, and me—the same thing; but sometimes it was real hard to do, to share, especially when some of the folks you had to share with were folks the likes of Charlie Simms and his family, folks who hated your guts.
    Our two families, the Logans and the Simmses, had never much gotten along. What with the Simmses living less than a mile or so from us on that forty-acre spot of land they tenant-farmed, and we sitting on our own two hundred acres, there was always likely to be trouble, and there was. Now this was back before my papa went and bought that second two hundred acres; but still that two hundred acres we had then, that was a lot, and the Simmses didn’t like it—that we had when they didn’t. They didn’t like it one bit. That was part of the trouble between us. Other part of the trouble was that we were colored and they were white. Fact of the matter was we ain’t never had much use for the Simmses, and they ain’t never had much use for us either; but seeing that we couldn’t hardly afford trouble with them, Papa said best thing to do was try and stay out of their way much as we could. He said it was better to mind our business, let them mind theirs, and just walk away if they tried to start something.
    I heeded his words. My brother Hammer didn’t.
    During those dry days the Simmses, like a lot of other folks, took their water from the Creek Rosa Lee. But then things got so bad that even the Rosa Lee began to muddy and dry, and folks who had never been to our place for water before began to show up. Colored folks, and white folks too.
    Even the Simmses.
    It was just after dawn the morning Charlie and his brother Ed-Rose pulled up in their wagon with two big barrels setting on it. Hammer and me, we’d just come from the barn after milking some of the cows when we seen them. Hammer was walking ahead of me carrying a full milk bucket in each hand. Me, I was only carrying one bucket because I was on a crutch that summer. I had fallen from a tree and busted up my leg, so I had on a cast, had a limp, and I moved slow. Now I wasn’t any happier than Hammer to see the Simmses, but I was ready to act civil and say good morning. Not Hammer. First thing out of his mouth: “What y’all doing up here?”
    Charlie Simms, no more than fourteen at the time, held the reins to their mules. Ed-Rose, maybe a year or so younger, sat beside him. Charlie stared down at Hammer and me and didn’t answer. Ed-Rose stared too, but at least he spoke. “Where’s your folks?” he asked.
    â€œDon’t you worry ’bout where they are,” said Hammer. “I’m the one standing here.” Hammer couldn’t have been more than thirteen, and I was three years younger than that. I was kind of a quiet boy, and Hammer in his way was too, except he always spoke like a man, a man sure of himself. A man sure of himself even in front of white folks.
    â€œYou gettin’ smart with me, boy?” asked Ed-Rose.
    Now back then white folks ruled everything. A white man said jump, and most black folks did. White man said move out the way, and most black folks did. White folks could say and do what they wanted, just because they ruled things; because just one word out of them against a