Black Angels by Linda Beatrice Brown

the story. It would help him to stay awake. He was terribly sleepy, and his head bobbed every few minutes.
    Then he’d be awake and look around, afraid of wild things, afraid of soldiers too, or stragglers. He heard a rustle in the leaves. Some mouse or possum on the prowl, he thought.
    He should get some wood to make a fire. But that would mean leaving Daylily and Caswell alone. He was scared to move, and scared not to move. He tried to think himself into a warm piece of fatback and greens from the pot. And then that hurt his stomach and he couldn’t think of food anymore. Mam was better. He’d try to remember her face.
    All he could usually remember was how it felt to stand with her skirt wrapped around his face and her mama smell. And how she said, “Take care of your friends, Luke baby. A friend is a blessing from the Lord in this evil world.” He could almost hear her saying it. He tried to remember her laughing. She had a high thin laugh.
    She used to think he was a funny boy. Told him he was smart and funny, and to be careful cause White folks didn’t like that in a Black person. He closed his eyes real tight so he could remember his mam before her sickness in the head came on. He could feel her hands scrubbing his face clean, washing his arms. It made him sad that he couldn’t remember her face.
    Somewhere in this remembering he realized that something was moving near them. At first he heard it only in that part of him that said it wasn’t so. And then he knew it was so. There was no fire and no wood near him. Something coming closer. Luke picked up his rifle. Thank you, Jesus, he thought, it was loaded and ready.
    Leaves cracked and rustled, and the moist smell under them reached up to Luke’s nostrils. He could smell everything—their sour clothes, mold and decaying trees—and he could even see outlines of rocks and bushes in the dark. His sweat smelled like salt. Unc Steph had said animals could smell fear on you. He could taste his own saliva.
    Where was the thing? He didn’t dare move. Caswell murmured in his sleep about Mamadear. Luke was too far away to hush him up. God, please God, he prayed. Don’t let him start whining and get up.
    Then he saw them. Two yellow eyes through the underbrush. He was afraid whatever it was could hear his heart, it was beating so fast. The angels, the god of winds, some good something blew across the moon and uncovered it. And now he could see it was a mountain lion. The light brown fur, the pointed ears, the arched back. They stared at each other.
    Luke knew with a country boy’s instinct that the thing would attack if it was afraid. The cat had probably come down out of the mountains to find food. If it was hungry, it would be bold. He waited, praying, “Lord Jesus . . . ,” trying to remember what Aunt Eugenia had told him about praying, but he could only remember, “Oh, Lord Jesus, oh, Lord Jesus,” so he said that over and over.
    The big cat started over toward Caswell, slowly sniffing, not desperate, only mildly interested in human aroma. It gave Luke a chance to lift his rifle and get ready to fire.
    Caswell whimpered. If he fired and missed, Caswell would be a dead boy. The cat sniffed again. Something in his body told Luke there was no more time. He knew if Caswell woke up with that cat in his eyes, he would holler and bring death down on all of them. He fired.
    The explosion echoed violently, ringing through the dark woods, a hawk shrieked somewhere, leaves trembled and fell, and startled birds went crashing through the foliage. For once, Massa Higsaw had done something good, and he didn’t even know it. He had probably saved three children by teaching Luke about guns. The cat screamed in a death dance and fell on top of Caswell. The smell of the cat’s blood rushed out into the dark.
    Daylily cried out and at the same time, Luke was trying to load the rifle again, packing it with his musket