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mashed to jelly? The tractor continued to roll.
    Then the air was split with racing engines and honking horns and excited voices. Brakes squealed as cars and trucks were driven off the road and their transmissions were thrown into park. A throng formed as bodies boiled out of the vehicles. They arrayed themselves in front of Calhoun’s tractor and, though he didn’t cut the engine, he did cease his forward motion. Yes, he could crush a few of these people but, given their sheer numbers, he’d sooner or later find himself pulled out of the tractor’s cabin and yanked limb from limb. The cavalry had topped the hill, and the day was saved.
    Still lying flat on her butt, Faye studied the crowd. Dressed in businesswear and overalls and blue jeans and well-worn housedresses, these people had obviously dropped everything and come running. Their distinctive dark faces were calm and full of resolve, and the sun shone hot on their glossy black hair. Faye reminded herself never to trifle with the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians.
    In the forefront of the fast-moving crowd was Davis Nail, urging them onward. If Faye had to choose a leader out of that mass of humanity, it would be him. Sometimes, one person can move a crowd into doing something that, without him, would have simply remained undone.
    She wished Mr. Calhoun would open the tractor’s cabin door. Constructive negotiations begin when you put a human face on your adversary. You can’t reason with a tractor.
    A second flush of vehicles disgorged a second throng of people. Apparently, Faye was going to meet every Choctaw left in Mississippi. The newcomers gathered behind Calhoun, and Faye felt a shiver of apprehension. Animal instincts surface when human beings are surrounded. It might not be wise to make Calhoun feel cornered.
    Then Faye searched the faces of the people gathering behind Calhoun and her own animal instincts bubbled up. These were not Choctaws. They were white people and black people but, on this day, their races were unimportant. Their way of life was everything. Judging by their clothes, she’d guess that these folks had been called away from their field work to stand up for the rights of the small farmer. And, in her heart of hearts, she couldn’t blame them any more than she could blame the Choctaws for defending their own heritage. This situation had the potential to get ugly fast.
    She struggled to her feet. Squarely between the two factions, she and her friends stood a good chance of being trampled if a riot broke out.
    Joe helped her up. “You okay?”
    “Oxygen would be good.”
    A voice from deep in the crowd shouted, “Calhoun’s got every right to do what he wants to do on his own land. You people want to stop him, you need to pay him a fair price for his property. Even then, it’s his call whether he sells it to you. It’s his land.”
    Half the crowd rumbled in agreement. Through the buzz of all the voices, Faye could make out, time and again, the two critical words: “His land.”
    “Yes, it’s his land,” Dr. Mailer called out. “Nobody wants to harm Mr. Calhoun or his livelihood. But history belongs to everybody. I think we can work this thing out.”
    The crowd didn’t agree. When the words “history belongs to everybody” passed the professor’s lips, the farmers’ hot button was firmly pushed. If they were so unlucky as to own a piece of land that harbored “history”—and, in the end, who wasn’t?—then they might lose the ability to plant that land in soybeans. And, with prices being what they were, the loss of a single field might well mean the loss of an entire farm. Calhoun’s supporters surged forward.
    There were too many people. Faye was shoulder-to-shoulder with people. Her chest was pressed against someone else’s back, and her back was being crowded by the chest of someone behind her. Actually, the belly of someone behind her. She was shorter than everyone in her vicinity, which meant that she could