A Yellow Watermelon by Ted M. Dunagan

Author:Ted M. Dunagan [Dunagan, Ted M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: poverty, racism, integration, prejudice, racial acceptance, A Yellow Watermelon, segregation, friendship, young adult fiction
ISBN: 9781603060769
Publisher: NewSouth Inc.
Published: 2008-01-16T05:00:00+00:00

12

Fire

By Wednesday all the white pickers had abandoned the cotton field except Fred and me. On Thursday Fred moved over to the side of the field where the Robinsons and I were picking. We continued to amaze Uncle Curvin with the number of pounds we turned in at each weighing, but we were both glad when the end of the day came on Friday. We had proved ourselves capable in the cotton field, but there was only a day’s work left before the field would be picked clean, and the Robinsons would complete that tomorrow. I had papers to sell and Fred had marbles to shoot, so we said good-bye to that cotton patch and went to Miss Lena’s store for Nehis and MoonPies.

On Saturday, I had already completed the eastern part of my paper route well before noon, but instead of turning back west I continued east on Center Point Road. Pretty soon I saw the Saltifa Creek bridge up ahead. Before crossing it I stopped and listened hard for a car coming in either direction, because I knew that once I got in the middle of the bridge there would be no place to hide. Everything was so quiet I could hear myself breathing, so I trotted across, then started walking in the ditch on the right side of the road. Somewhere, not far, I knew there had to be an old logging road going into the woods.

I kept walking, ready to dart into the woods if I heard a car approaching. Not even a quarter of a mile past the bridge, there it was, with a big no trespassing sign nailed to a tree. I knew what that sign meant, but I paid it no mind.

After finding fresh car tracks I felt confident that this road led to the still. I started jogging because I knew it was a long way. What if the bootlegger came here on Saturdays? There were plenty of places to hide on either side of the road.

After a while I knew I was on the correct road because occasionally I could hear the Satilfa rippling off to the right. Suddenly, I came to the end of the road and knew the still was right through the woods ahead.

It was quiet and deserted. Everything looked the same, except there were six boxes instead of four under the table. Lifting the lid of the top one, I saw that they were full of whiskey, ready to be picked up. I counted forty-eight pint bottles inside the box.

Next I checked the hollow tree. It was empty but I figured it would be stuffed full of money tomorrow afternoon. Now it was time to go, but not the same way because I thought I had figured out a short cut. If I was right, I could check on the still every Saturday, count the boxes under the table, then when the time was right, make my move. I would wait till there were at least six boxes before I would return on one Sunday soon and rob that money tree.

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