Trouble in July by Erskine Caldwell Page A

one side and listening contentedly. Corra’s footsteps were much lighter than they had been the last time he heard them. He leaned back in his chair with a feeling of relief.
    Mrs. Narcissa Calhoun picked up the bulky petition and dropped it squarely before him. She turned back the cover and pointed to the typing on the first sheet.
    “This is what you are duty-bound to sign, Sheriff McCurtain,” she said, pointing to the page with her long finger.
    “Now, Cissy—” he protested, looking at the words on the paper.
    TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE U.S.A.:
    WE, THE UNDERSIGNED UPSTANDING LAW-ABIDING CITIZENS AND QUALIFIED VOTERS OF JULIE COUNTY, GEORGIA, DO HEREBY RESPECTFULLY URGE AND ENTREAT YOU, THE RESPECTED PRESIDENT OF OUR COUNTRY, THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, TO SEND ALL MEMBERS OF THE COLORED RACE, INCLUDING MULATTOES, QUADROONS, OCTOROONS, AND ALL PERSONS HAVING ANY DEGREE OF NEGRO BLOOD, TO THE COUNTRY OF AFRICA WITHOUT UNDUE DELAY.
    Jeff read it hurriedly the first time, going back afterward and looking painstakingly at each word until he realized what it meant.
    “No, sir,” he said emphatically, shaking his shaggy head from side to side, “I ain’t in favor of doing a farfetched thing like that. Maybe some colored people do have mean traits, but there are brother whites in this county a heap meaner than any nigger I ever saw. Now, you take Sam Brinson, the colored man. He’s a no-account scoundrel, all the time trading and swapping worn-out old second-hand automobiles, but aside from that he’s a companionable a fellow as you’ll find in either race. I’d hate not to have him around. I’d feel lost if Sam wasn’t here no more.”
    Narcissa backed away, regarding Jeff with deep-seated scorn.
    “You ain’t a nigger-lover, is you, Sheriff McCurtain?” she asked loudly, her eyes snapping and’ flashing.
    Jeff got up as quickly as he could, shoving the petition across the desk. The bundle of papers fell on the floor.
    Her face turned crimson with anger.
    “There ain’t no name you can think of to call me that’ll make me change my mind about the colored,” he said staunchly.
    Narcissa reached down and gathered up the papers hurriedly. With them in her arms she backed towards the door.
    “I wouldn’t put it past you to be the one who started all this rape-and-lynching talk,” he told her. “How come it was you who was the know-it-all, anyhow? I’ll bet a pretty you put that Barlow girl up to saying what she did!”
    Narcissa reached the door.
    “You just wait till election-time, Sheriff McCurtain!” she said threateningly. “The voters are going to turn on you like you was a black nigger yourself. You won’t never be sheriff of Julie County again. I’m going straight and tell Judge Ben Allen about you. He’ll fix it so you won’t never hold another political office as long as you live. You just wait and see!”
    Before he could reach her, she turned and ran out the hall and out into the yard. He followed her as far as the porch and watched her get into her car and drive off. Preacher Felts was in the front seat with her.
    Jeff went back through the hall and opened the iron door that led into the cage-room.
    “Bert!” he called, walking down the passageway and looking into each cage as he went along. It was too much to hope that he would see Sam Brinson sitting in one of the cages, but he could not keep from looking. “Bert! Come here, Bert!”
    When he got to the rear door, which was still open, he looked up the street. Bert was halfway between the jail-house and the corner.
    “Bert!” he shouted, walking out on the sidewalk.
    Bert ran towards him.
    “I can’t find out a thing about Sam, Sheriff Jeff,” he said, discouraged. “There’s plenty of people who know about it, but nobody knows what happened to him. I asked everybody I saw, too.”
    Jeff turned and walked through the jailhouse to his office. Bert followed dutifully.
    “Most of the people I talked to seem to think we ought