NELSE was elated over the defeat and dissolution of the Leagues that
had persecuted him with such malignant hatred. When the news of the
election came he was still in bed suffering from his wounds. He had
received an internal injury that threatened to prove fatal.
“Dar now!” he cried, sitting up in bed, “Ain’t I done tole you no
kinky-headed niggers gwine ter run dis gov’ment!”
“Keep still dar, ole man, you’ll be faintin’ ergin,” worried Aunt Eve.
“Na honey, I’se feelin’ better. Gwine ter git up and meander down town
en ax dem niggers how’s de Ku Kluxes comin’ on dese days.”
In spite of all Eve could say he crawled out of bed, fumbled into his
clothes and started down town, leaning heavily on his cane. He had gone
about a block, when he suddenly reeled and fell. Eve was watching him
from the door, and was quickly by his side. He died that afternoon at
three o’clock. He regained consciousness before the end, and asked Eve
for his banjo.
He put it lovingly into the hands of Charlie Gaston who stood by the bed
crying.
“You keep ’er, honey. You lub ’er talk better’n any body in de work,
en ’member Nelse when you hear ’er moan en sigh. En when she talk
short en sassy en make ’em all gin ter shuffle, dat’s me too. Dat’s me
got back in ’er.”
Charlie Gaston rode with Aunt Eve to the cemetery. He walked back home
through the fields with Dick.
“I wouldn’ cry ’bout er ole nigger!” said Dick looking into his
reddened eyes.
“Can’t help it. He was my best friend.”
“Haint I wid you?”
“Yes, but you ain’t Nelse.”
“Well, I stan’ by you des de same.”