The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman by Ernest J. Gaines Page B

hunter said, shaking his head. “Now, I done heard everything.”
    “How come you going back South?” I said.
    “What?” he said. He wasn’t eating, he was thinking about me looking for Brown. “I’m looking for my pappy,” he said. But looked like he was still thinking about me looking for Brown.
    “Your mama dead?” I asked.
    “What?” he said. He looked at me. “No, my mama ain’t dead.” He just looked at me a good while like he was thinking about me looking for Brown. “I know where she at,” he said. “I want find him now.”
    “Y’all used to stay here in Luzana?” I asked.
    “What?” he said.
    “Your daddy and y’all?”
    “When they sold him he was in Mi’sippi,” the hunter said. “I don’t know where he at now.”
    “Then how you know where to look for him?” I asked.
    He got mad with me now. “I’m go’n do just what you doing with that child,” he said. “Look everywhere. But I got little more sense.”
    “Well, if you was beat all the time you’d be running away, too,” I said.
    “I was beat,” he said. “Don’t go round here bragging like you got all the beating.”
    I ate and sucked on the bone. I didn’t want argue with him no more.
    “Who was them other people you seen?” I asked him. “Any of them going to Ohio?”
    “They was going everywhere,” he said. “Some say Ohio, some say Kansas—some say Canada. Some of them even said Luzana and Mi’sippi.”
    “Luzana and Mi’sippi ain’t North,” I said.
    “That’s right, it ain’t North,” the hunter said. “But they had left out just like you, a few potatoes and another old dress. No map, no guide, no nothing. Like freedom was a place coming to meet them half way. Well, it ain’t coming to meet you. And it might not be there when you get there, either.”
    “We ain’t giving up,” I said. “We done gone this far.”
    “How far?” he asked me. “How long you been traveling?”
    “Three days,” I said.
    “And how far you think you done got in three days?” he said. “You ain’t even left that plantation yet. I ought to know. I been going and going and I ain’t nowhere, yet, myself. Just searching and searching.”
    When he said this he looked like he wanted to cry, and I didn’t look at him, I looked at Ned. Ned had laid down on the ground and gone to sleep. He still had the flint and iron in his hands.
    I told the hunter about the Secesh who had killed Ned’s mama and the other people. He told me he had seen some of the Secesh handywork, too. Earlier that same day he had cut a man down and buried him that the Secesh had hung. After hanging him they had gashed out his entrails.
    “What they do all that for?” I asked.
    “Lesson to other niggers,” he said.
    We sat there talking and talking. Both of us was glad we had somebody to talk to. I asked him about the bow and arrows. He told me he had made it to shoot rabbits and birds. Sometimes he even got a fish or two. I told him I bet I could use it. He said I didn’t have the strength. He said it took a man to pull back on that bow. I asked him what he knowed about my strength. But he kept quiet. After a while he said: “Y’all want me lead y’all back where y’all come from?”
    “We didn’t come from Ohio,” I said.
    “You just a pig-headed little old nothing,” he told me.
    “I didn’t ask you for your old rabbit,” I said. Now I was full, I got smart. “I don’t like no old rabbit nohow,” I said.
    “How come you ate the bones?” he said.
    “I didn’t eat no rabbit bones,” I said.
    “What I ought to do is knock y’all out and take y’all on back,” he said.
    “I bet you I holler round here and make them Secesh come and kill us, too,” I said.
    “How can you holler if you knocked out, dried-up nothing?” he said.
    I had to think fast.
    “I holler when I wake up,” I said.
    “I don’t care about you, but I care about that little fellow there,” the hunter said. “Just look at him. He might be