All God's Dangers (53 page)

Good God almighty, when I told em that, next thing I heard em runnin out of that house, hittin it to the swamps, just cleanin up from there. I reckon some of em peeped out the door or a window and seed them officers. So, stampedin, stampedin, stampedin out of there and they was still runnin scared when I come out of prison.

I just stood right on and I was standin alone. I seed there was weak spots in them men and there was bad acts comin up, but I didn't run a step. I stood there and they all runned out of there like rats runnin out of a woodpile, and all of em that run, run out the back. I didn't let that worry me; I just taken it for granted and let em go. I didn't think about gettin shot and I didn't think about not gettin shot. I thought this: a organization is a organization and if I don't mean nothin by joinin I ought to keep my ass out of it. But if I'm sworn to stand up for all the poor colored farmers—and poor white farmers if they'd takin a notion to join—I've got to do it. Weren't no use under God's sun to treat colored people like we'd been treated here in the state of Alabama. Work hard and look how they do you. Look how they done my daddy in his time and look how Mr. Watson tried to do me. Dug at me and dug at me, couldn't handle me, then he made me bring him the cotton. I carried it to him—I was workin for a easy way out—didn't carry him all of it but I carried him more than enough to pay him what I owed him. Still he dug at me and he dug at his other niggers too. Virgil Jones—he was in the organization, he was solid in bein with us, but when the showdown come he run like the rest of em. Some of em is yet standin with a watery mouth, ready when times are made better by those that's men enough and women enough to stand up, when the thing ever comes into effect; they goin to run up then and accept the good of it and they won't give you a bit more credit for riskin your life than they would a rabbit.

Virgil Jones was a friend to me. He was rentin his farm—he weren't buyin it and he weren't rentin it from Mr. Watson; Mr.
Watson didn't own that place. But Mr. Watson was dealin with him, furnishin him—had been—that's what I understood. And he claimed that Virgil owed him money. I don't know how much Virgil owed him or if he owed him at all, but that weren't the issue with me. I was forced that year to face what was happenin—

So, them officers runned that car up out there to the road comin to that house, and that house stood a good little piece off of the public road. Four of em come back there that evenin. I was outdoors, walkin around, watchin for em to come. Virgil Logan done dashed off and went and got what he could but he didn't get Kurt Beall. He wouldn't come there; he'd done got shot at that rip-it at Crane's Ford and he was shy, he wouldn't come down there. And after all this trouble was over, blessed God if a white man didn't shoot Sheriff Beall down and kill him. Since then, since then. There was a ruckus up there above Beaufort between a man and his wife and he sent his deputies to cool the water and they couldn't do nothin. He decided he'd go up there and do it. And they tell it—and there's good evidence to back it—soon as he got there the white man killed him.

Well, I didn't care if Kurt Beall come back and I didn't care if he didn't. Who came back with Logan? Lew Badger from Hamilton, just up above Beaufort; Byron Ward, Kurt Beall's deputy from Beaufort; and a old fellow by the name of Platt, I never did see him before but I knowed of him. And of course, Virgil Logan come back with em. They stopped that car and jumped out of it and come right straight toward the front of the house in a fast walk—they weren't trottin but they was walkin as fast as they could walk. I stood there and looked at em till they got up to me. And when they hit the edge of the yard, Virgil Logan pointed his finger and said, “There stands Nate Shaw. That's him right there.”

He just kept a walkin; him and Lew Badger went on around the house. Platt and Ward come straight to me. I noticed that Platt had a automatic shotgun—I could see about four inches of the barrel; he'd pulled the stock of it under a big brown weather coat. Platt walked right up to me. Ward went to the doorsteps and just laid down nearly, peepin in the house to see who was in there, me watchin Platt and watchin Ward too. They surrounded that house then and Platt walked up just about five paces from me and stopped; that's as close as he come. And he stood there, flashin his eyes over me, keepin his gun pointed on me. Right at that present
time I was the only fellow out there. All the rest of em done run away and gone to the swamps and woods where the sheriffs couldn't see em.

Everything was so quiet there—Mr. Platt stood and looked at me, looked at me; wouldn't say a word, wouldn't say “umph,” wouldn't even grunt. Looked at me from my head to my foot. Stood there for the longest and kept that gun presented right to me. Well, I was just as impudent as I could be—he didn't know it though. He'd run up against somebody that weren't scared. If they didn't want me to do nothin to em they oughta just stayed away from there or killed me at the start, on first sight, because I was goin to try em, sure as I was alive.

I reckon Platt was lookin for a crooked move someway. I was standin there with my hands in my pockets, just so. Only my finger was on the trigger of my pistol and the pistol was in my hand. I'd carried that .32 Smith and Wesson there with me that mornin and concealed it from view. I had on a pair of Big-8 overalls, brand new, and the pockets was deep. And I had on a white cowboy hat and my jumper—that's the way I was dressed. And a pair of Red Wing boots about knee high. I was beginnin to get prepared for winter—it was already December, before Christmas, December of '32. I don't know what date it was but I know it was on a Monday.

Well, everything got quiet and Mr. Logan and Mr. Badger was around there lookin in the back of the house. And Mr. Ward was busy at the doorstep there, just a few steps from where me and Mr. Platt was—Mr. Platt weren't sayin a word, he just lookin me over.

After awhile—I stood there just as long as I wanted to and I decided I'd go back in the house and get out from amongst em, and if nothin else, see if the house was clean—which it was, clean out, didn't a man show up in my sight but Mr. Platt. I weren't goin to stand right up there and look at him shoot me so I turned and walked off from him, started on into the house. And Mr. Ward was there at the doorstep. He just raised up and fastened his hand to my arm. I was a pretty good man then, I was young—I aint dead yet, thank the Lord—soon as he grabbed that arm, I just loosed up what I was holdin in my pocket and come out with a naked hand. Then I snapped him up to me and gived him a jolt and a fling—off he went like a leech. I never offered to hit him, I just flung him loose from my arm. Nobody hadn't said nothin to me, not a word.

All right. I started on again into the house, right on. Took one or two steps—BOOM—Mr. Platt throwed his gun on me. I didn't stop, the game didn't fall for him. BOOM BOOM—shot me two more times before I could get in the door. Blood commenced a flyin—I never did quit walkin. He filled my hind end up from the bend of my legs to my hips with shot. I walked on in the door, stopped right in the hallway and looked back. He was standin right close to a big old oak tree right in line with the door. Run my hand in my pocket, snatched out my .32 Smith and Wesson and I commenced a shootin at Platt. Good God he jumped behind that tree soon as that pistol fired; he jumped like lightnin. My mind told me: just keep shootin the tree, just keep shootin and maybe he'll get scared and run; you'll have a chance at him then. But as the devil would have it, the more I shot the tighter he drawed up behind that tree until I quit shootin. I seed his head poke around the tree—that tree saved him—and he seed what I was doin: good God almighty, I was reloadin and before I could reload my gun, them two sheriffs round the house, Mr. Logan and Mr. Badger, pulled out across the corn field headin to the road. Them two that had come to me, Mr. Platt and Mr. Ward, all I seed was their backs runnin. Every one of them officers outrun the devil away from there. I don't know how many people they might have thought was in that house, but that .32 Smith and Wesson was barkin too much for em to stand. They didn't see where the shots was comin from—nobody but Mr. Platt knowed that.

They hitched up to their ass-wagon and took off. And five minutes after that man shot me three times—I was standin in the door lookin out—my feet was just sloshin in blood. Now if that aint the truth the truth aint never been told. I was just burnt up with shot. Wonder they hadn't shot my secrets out.

I come out the door with my pistol shot clean out and I seed Sam MacFarland layin to the left there, bleedin at the mouth. I couldn't say to save my life where Sam come from. I walked up to him, looked at him—I was sorry, I hated that. He went for a little kin to me, Sam MacFarland did. And they tell me that Mr. Mac Sloane come there—grand rascal, he didn't live long hisself—and stomped Sam MacFarland's head. I done gone home then and gone to the doctor. And some of em told it that that nigger Cece Pickett shot Sam, but I never seed Cece come back there with them white men that evenin.

I walked on away from the house and went down to the south side of the barn where there was four or five fellows standin; had done runned up out of the swamps and they was armed. And the officers' car was out there side of the road and them officers had done runned to it. And when they seed that crowd of niggers at the barn throw up their guns they jumped in the car. Boss Hatch, chunky-built, dark complexioned fellow, he had a Winchester and he couldn't operate it. Little Waldo Ramsey—he was there—he told him, “Give it to me.” Boss Hatch handed it to him. Little Waldo took that rifle and he shook it up, juiced it, changed the sight, dropped on his knees and throwed that rifle up on that car. I was standin there, just as bloody as a hog, lookin right at him. He cut down on that car, knocked the glass out and injured the stock of one of them deputies' rifles—so they said in court.

I walked on home after I was shot, and time I walked in the yard I seed my wife run out of the house. Vernon had done reported conditions to her and stirred her all up. I didn't know Vernon had been nowhere about. Virgil Jones' house set way back off the road but there was another house, Sam MacFarland's house, settin right beside the road. Well, Vernon was up there by
that
house lookin down on that shootin business. He didn't come down there though.

I walked on in home just shot all to pieces in my seat. Vernon and Hannah taken me on my Chevrolet car, and a fellow by the name of Ambrose Butler, one of the Butler boys, got on that car with us as a friend and a protection, and when Vernon stopped drivin, the casins on them car wheels was touchin the hospital steps, Tuskegee hospital. It was called to be sixteen miles from my house to Tuskegee. Hannah went in there and got a entrance for me and they sent a stretcher out—two men with a stretcher come out to the car. I asked em, “What you all doin bringin that out here for?”

Said, “Brought it to get you.”

I said, “If you just sort of help me out of this car I can walk in there myself. You don't have to tote me.”

They helped me out—my wife and son helped me out and I walked in there. Doctors put me on the table and commenced a pickin shot out of me, and some more come in the room there and asked me how come I got shot and so on. But you got to keep some things to yourself, my judgment told me. Be careful, not tell everything. I didn't tell em it was the organization act because I couldn't
afford to tell that to people I didn't know. I told em it was a riot, just a riot between the blacks and the whites.

So they treated me—they had to treat me—but they wouldn't keep me there that night, a man of their own color. Scared the white folks would come after me and find me there and maybe tear the place up or accuse em of helpin me. It was their duty to doctor me and they did, they did, but they wouldn't keep me. They didn't tell me where to go, they didn't tell me where not to go, just leave that hospital that night. So I left. I couldn't stay there without authority.

My wife carried me away from there and on down deeper in Macon County, anglin southwest out of Tuskegee over in Quitman's Flats, to her cousin's, and I stayed there that night. Her and Vernon went on back home and run into a shootin frolic and a whole lot of devilment when they got there that night. A riot crowd come to my home and shot all over my people and around em, shot with shotguns and rifles. One shot hit one of my little girls in the jaw—Leah Ann; it weren't no bad wound, it didn't leave a mark. But it scared her and scared em all to death.

Tuesday evenin that mob crowd caught Vernon and told him if he didn't tell em where I was they'd kill him. Some of em wanted to carry him off from the house—and there was a old well out there, I spect that well was forty foot deep. Of course, I had throwed many a old dead chicken in it—that well'd been dry as long as I knowed about it. No doubt, if he hadn't told em just where I was, why, they'd a got him out there and seed that old well and throwed him in there. They'd a done it. I aint got no confidence in these folks.

They had heard that my wife and Vernon had gone to carry me somewhere but they didn't know where. Somebody told that secret. And when they got back home—that night, the night before they caught Vernon and forced him to tell em where I was, my wife runned into her brother somewhere or other and she told
him
where I was. And he come tearin down to me—I hated it—he come in there a late hour of the night. I asked him, “Where'd you come from?”

He said, “I come from up there at home.”

I said, “You have no business comin down here. They goin to catch you too in it. They goin to come here at me. They goin to
rally and raise the devil and shoot folks and kill em till they find me. Now you here too.”

He had a breech-loader in his hands and I said, “What you goin to do with that gun? They goin to hurt you if they find you here with that.”