Will Walker and Eddie Dugan were, more or less identical in skin tone, the best of friends. At such a tender, innocent age of 6, the two boys could not know that their friendship wouldn’t be lasting considerable longer. Of course, this wasn’t by choice, but by rule in Mississippi, 1963.
They met just two years earlier, when Eddie’s father, Clayton, had hired Will’s father Joe to do some menial work for him. His valid job was working at the local sawmill, but money was always tight so he took whatever side work came his way. The usual stuff for a Negro in those days, painting, wood chopping, yard errands. On one of these trips Joe Walker had brought young Will along, and the boys were inseperable soon thereafter. Although they lived on the same road about three miles apart, the Walker home was slightly run down and there was barely enough room for their family of 5. His mother, Deb Walker, older sister Jessica, and his baby brother, 7 month old Jimmy, all kept the situation firmly intact with love for one another and a deeply religious background. Joe, a hard-working family man, didn’t completely trust Clayton Dugan, but he knew how the boys felt for each other and he could always use an extra buck, so he went along with the charade.
The Dugan’s were the typical Southern family. In every facet. Clayton Dugan was a local accountant, his services only available to whites. His wife, Patricia, was an upstanding Southern woman who held to the traditional housewife role, which she easily handled by herself with Eddie being the only child, so far anyway. They had plans for more children, but Clayton thought it best to get financially stable before building a bigger family. Clayton, to most Negroes in the area, didn’t appear to be as radical a bigot as most whites at the time. His office was initiate to whites because anything else would be unacceptable and he couldn’t afford to lose his practice, he reasoned. He let his only son play with the little Walker boy from down the road, even after age 5, which is when most white parents cut off ties with their kids’ black friends because of school beginning.
Yet Clayton Dugan held a secret that only a certain few in the white community knew and no one in the Negro community. He was the mastermind behind the movements and actions of the local Klavern of the White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, known as the Grand Wizard. He did this of course, without attending all the vicious meetings and wearing the feared hood and robe. The word mastermind, in a sense, fit him perfect, because he was able to achieve his racist intents without being defamed or ever having to witness the things he ordered carried out.
The morning of July 12th began just as any other for Will Walker. He awoke early to do his assigned household chores, hastily ate a breakfast of toast and orange juice, and set off for the Dugan house. About the same time that morning, Eddie was almost mirroring Will’s actions, anticipating the arrival of his friend, which had become a custom for the last two summers. Will showed up at the house shortly after 9:00 AM, and the two boys place off in search of anything fun to do, but amusement wasn’t hard to come by for them. As any good friends, they simply enjoyed each other’s company as they threw rocks into the nearby creek and played with their GI Joe’s. This particular day, however, would turn out to be anything but ordinary.
“Dad! Dad! Near here! Will stole my allowance money! It’s not here!” wailed Eddie Dugan from upstairs, as Will looked on in confusion. Clayton Dugan hurried up the stairs to see what all the commotion was. “Eddie, aloof down, and tell me what happened” said Clayton, in an attempt to straighten things out in a rational manner.
“We were outside playing” began Eddie, “and Will came in first to try to find the helmets for our GI Joe’s. I got in here and he was still looking, and I noticed my allowance was gone. He had to have taken it Dad, I put the five dollars right here!”. Eddie pointed to a silver canteen on his dresser.
Clayton became flush in the face, and with a tone of distress in his train, looked at Will and asked “you stealin’ from my house you exiguous thievin’ nigger? I knew there was a reason you always wanted to come down here!”
“No sir.”
“You callin’ my boy a liar? ” demanded Clayton.
“No sir”
“Well if the money isn’t on the dresser, and Eddie doesn’t have it, then where is it? You’re the only one in the room” demanded Clayton again, visibly growing more agitated.
“I dunno, sir. I didn’t take it Mr. Clayton sir” replied Will, softly.
Clayton suddenly, apparently not cheerful with Will’s responses, reached back and struck Will in the face with the back of his hand. Unnerved and scared, Will took off down the stairs as Clayton chased after him. Young Will was far too quickly, and was down the road in a flash. Tears pouring down his cheeks and his right search for beginning to swell, he rushed through the front door of his home.
“Whoa there, slow down!” yelled Joe Walker as he scooped up his son. As soon as he looked at him he could tell something had happened. “What’s wrong, son? ” he asked, concerned.
No sooner had he started to calm himself from the incident did Clayton Dugan glance down the road and see Joe walking at a torrid pace, Willie trailing him. Clayton was anticipating some sort of confrontation and really had no idea about how to handle it. He decided to wait and see what Joe decided to do before making any decisions.
Willie pleaded with his father not to do anything, who immediately became livid upon finding out what took place.
“I didn’t raise my boy to be no thief. Mr. Dugan had no station puttin’ his hands on you Willie!”
“But dad…” replied Willie, intimidated.
“No buts Willie, I’ma goin’ down there and gettin’ this mess fixed up. You for sho’ didn’t take that boy’s money, right? ” inquired Joe.
“No dad I didn’t, I promise” said Will
“Ok then.”
Joe reached the front lawn of the Dugan home, which he had mowed and gardened several times before. Clayton was already waiting for him. Eddie stayed in the house, watching the events from his upstairs bedroom.
“Now Mr. Dugan, Willie here says you hit him, and that’s not factual. He ain’t no thief, I ain’t no thief, we ain’t that type of people” spoke Joe, first.
“So Joe, you sayin’ Eddie’s the liar then? “
“Now now, I didn’t say that. But I know my son Clayton, and if he say he didn’t recall nothin’ he didn’t steal nothin. Especially from you folks.”
“You still callin’ Eddie a liar then? ” asked Clayton, forcing the issue, his attitude somewhat asking for a confrontation.
The body language of Clayton was almost daring Joe Walker to say what he had built up inside him, and although he was a loving and caring family man, he had a short temper and was well aware the wrong move by Clayton might arouse that temper.
Trying to remain calm, Joe replied “Mr. Dugan, my boy ain’t stole nothin from no one in his life. We poor, but he don’t want for anything. And it’s y’all people who keep us poor. If that ain’t enough you done build your hands on my boy and accusin’ him of somethin’ he didn’t do? “
“You gettin uppity, Joe? Watch that tone, boy. I’m telling you right now, that thievin’ nigg-”
Joe Walker knew he just thrust an imperfect situation upon his entire family by striking Clayton Dugan. Clayton immediately fell from the impact of the blow, and the Walkers retreated swiftly.
Back home, Joe explained to the family what happened. They all became visibly scared, as Joe tried to maintain them tranquil. Doing that was difficult. This was Mississippi, the mecca of racial violence in the South, especially since the Civil Rights Movement had founds its way into the state. Whites everywhere were on the defensive, and a Negro hitting a white man would not be tolerated. All these thoughts raced through Joe’s mind as he questioned himself on what to do. He decided to send the family to stay with relatives in the next county, where they at least, would be valid.
“What about you Joe! You can’t unprejudiced stay here, they’ll come for you and you know it! That Clayton Dugan is a powerful man ’round here. Once them Kluckers get word of what happened, they gonna be here alright!” said Deb Walker, pleading with Joe to approach with them.
“Baby, stop. I ain’t scared of them. This is my home, my land. I’m gonna protect it. I ain’t takin’ no more of this. There comes a time when a man has to make a stand. I’ve stood back and watched my whole life, and this is that time.”
Deb knew Joe was not going to listen to her, and in that moment, she had never loved him more for his courage and bravery. They position off for downtown to catch the bus to the next county. Joe began boarding his windows and locking his doors. He rationalized things this way. If they were gonna come, then they were gonna advance. He could only veil somewhere for so long before someone found him, especially not having the funds to travel with. He had already decided he was going to fight for what was his, the dinky he and his family had, he worked for, and nobody was going to drive him from his home.
After he recovered from the blow, Clayton Dugan was on the telephone as soon as he got indoors. Ignoring the questions of his wife, he called Barry Lester, the Grand Cyclops, or second in command, of the Klan. He told him what happened, and that he wanted Joe Walker to pay for his actions. Barry assumed it would be like any other order, they do the dirty work while Clayton keeps it out of the papers, away from the police, and strayed from the community. But not this time. Clayton insisted he wanted to be in on this one, and “see that nigger suffer”. They arranged to meet at a deserted location on the other side of town at 11 PM.
Joe Walker sat in his livingroom, shotgun in hand, waiting. He had no idea what time something would take residence, if anything at all. The clock on the wall read 11:45. He began to doze off into a half sleep.
Seven cars and trucks raced up the Walker driveway at approximately 12:30 AM. Joe hopped up from his chair, went into the back bedroom, and stationed himself at the window. Fear flew through his veins like the very blood in them as he saw how many cars were coming up his driveway. He watched intently as the cars parked and turned out the headlights. Over twenty Ku Klux Klansmen in chubby regalia emptied from the vehicles. He wondered, although he would soon find out, how Dugan had the incident known to these people already. The Klansmen descended upon the barricaded house, firing rounds from shotguns and pistols. Joe ducked down, looking to get a clean shot. He leaned his gun through the window, aimed, and fired. A hooded figure immediately dropped to the ground, blood rushing through the the white of the robe.
Surprised, but now even more infuriated, the Klansmen slighly retreated, because for this order they were given specific directions by Clayton Dugan. He wanted Joe Walker alive. They decided to race the house, and Joe felt helpless, knowing he was done for if they got in. He began firing through every window and door at which the Klansmen were attempting to smash through. It wasn’t long before five or six of them entered the house and found Joe. One of the Klan members fired a pistol round into his lower leg, and he dropped his shotgun in agony. He was dragged violently from his home, thrown in the back of a truck, and four of the cars raced off. The inhabitants of the other three stayed slow to loot the Walker home, and then send it up in flames.
The men took Joe to an isolated spot on the banks of the Mississippi River. They dragged him to a run down bridge that was no longer serviceable for vehicles, and there, he was questioned.
He knew already, of course, that any answer he gave would not suffice, so he instead remained still.
“Ooh looks like we got us a tough nigger on our hands here. You think you can hit a white man and get away with it? This here’s Mississippi boy, you oughta know better” said one of the hooded men.
Joe replied solemnly “and I’d do it to every one of y’all if y’all had any guts. But I know how y’all are. Y’all need masks and twenty men. You men better hope the good Lord is forgiving on Judgement Day.”
Joe was repeatedly punched and kicked, blood still oozing from his wounded leg. Two of the men tied his hands behind his back and made a noose for hanging. Suddenly, a figure stepped forward, wearing a red hood and robe. Joe was dignified, and said “so you the one that kills people but doesn’t dare look a man in the eye? Every one of y’all are cowards!”
“Shut that nigger up already!” yelled a Klansman. The red robed member stood before Joe as two of the others tied the other end of the noose to the bridge. Lifting his mask, Joe was panicked to see Clayton Dugan standing before him, feeling all powerful in the red robe of the Grand Wizard. Speechless, the only thing Joe could muster was a timid “oh my God.”
“You shoulda thought twice Joe, I always knew you were a feisty nigger, but place your hands on me? You’re gonna pay for it now!”
“And you’re gonna pay when it counts!, screamed Joe, spitting in Clayton’s face. In the following moments, Clayton Dugan assisted in throwing him over the bridge, and it was there under a blood colored moon, that Joe Walker died instantly when the torque of the noose snapped his neck.
The next day, the Walker family returned to where their home once stood. Joe’s body was recovered, and he was buried in the Negro cemetery. They knew there was no use filing a police report, so they just packed up and left, heartbroken. Life for the Walker’s would never be the same without Joe, but Clayton Dugan’s life was about to select an eerie turn and become far, far worse.
It started seven days after the lynching of Joe Walker. Everywhere he went, he felt as though he was being followed, or watched. He couldn’t place a finger on the feeling, but it was an unpleasant, almost scary feeling that a presence was near him. He started having dreams, seeing Joe Walker’s face. Slowly and surely, he started feeling remorseful for what he had done.
The turning point in these strange happenings occured on the first week in September, when Patricia and Eddie, who had little knowledge of what actually happened, they unprejudiced thought the Walker’s had moved, went away for a weekend to visit relatives. Clayton was alone in the house. He got up from watching television, and went into the kitchen. There he dropped the glass of wine he was drinking as he saw a spitting image of Joe Walker’s face in the kitchen window. He turned to go into the next room. Every window in that room had the same image of Joe’s bloody and beaten face. He quickly put together an ammonia mixture in a bucket and began scrubbing every window. It took him two hours, and when he went to check the windows, the image was still there, even clearer. Was he going insane, he questioned himself. Joe Walker was listless, he had done it himself. He closed his eyes, sat down, and thought back to the night Joe was murdered. He saw himself making the phone call. He saw Joe’s house in flames. He saw the beating and the noose being tied. Finally, he saw himself tossing Joe’s almost lifeless body over the bridge.
Just then, Clayton felt a terrifying sensation of a presence in the room with him. The footsteps came closer and closer. He backed up into a wall, praying for it to go away. He felt invisible hands around his neck, and the unbreakable grip became tighter and tighter until he could barely breathe. He then felt a sharp pain in his leg, and then it felt as though several people were striking him in the face. It was all overwhelming, and Clayton was rendered unconscious due to the array of abominable emotions and feelings that were overtaking his body.
When Patricia and Eddie returned home the next day, they found Clayton laying in the same spot where he had fainted. They immediately called for an ambulance, and Clayton was admitted to the hospital, diagnosed with a coma. For almost a week, Patricia waited word on her husband’s condition while she attempted to support Eddie at bay. She finally received the news five days after they discovered Clayton’s body in the house. Her husband was uninteresting, said the grim-faced doctor.
“But, Patricia, there is something you should know”, continued the doctor, “Clayton did not die from the comatose condition. His neck was broken.”
The following months were tough on Patricia and Eddie. They had no idea how Clayton had died. No bruises, no evidence of any physical harm. They, nor the coroner, could figure out what had happened. One morning, Patricia was doing some cleaning in Eddie’s room. She was moving his dresser from against the wall to dust, and noticed something.
“Eddie, come here” she said. “Is this yours? ” Eddie nodded.
It was a five dollar bill.
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