Part 11

In front of the jail, grim, white-faced, desperate, determined to end his life right there, and perfectly sure that the end was near, stood Sheriff Ulloa. In the middle of the street, a mob, bloodthirsty and cruel, listening raveningly to the frightened screams of their quarry, and eager for the kill. Up the street, a man serenely observant, apparently indifferent to what was transpiring before his very eyes; while within the jail two strangling, fear-choked negroes whose breath was like the exhaust of an engine and whose hearts beat in their breasts like war-drums, sobbed and screamed and prayed and one of them played on a cornet _Old Folks at Home_!

Not since the poor, pitiful, dissipated author of that sweet folk-song stumbled over the ragged carpet in his miserable room in the Bowery, struck his head against his broken water-pitcher, bled to death upon the floor, and was carried to his grave while his friends sang his favorite song, had these words and their music been associated with so dramatic an event.

“Fer Gawd’s sake, Pap!” Mustard sobbed. “Come here an’ he’p me play dis toon! Don’t you see Marse Tom standin’ on dat cornder? Play, nigger, play! Say yo’ prayers in dat hawn when you toot it!”

All up and down de whole creation Sadly I roam, Still longing for de old plantation And for de old folks at home!

Up the street the white-haired man listened, then took off his hat and scratched his head in a quandary.

“A mob set to music!” he smiled to himself. “This is something new to me. I wonder what that fool Mustard Prophet is doing here?”

He walked quietly down the street and stopped in front of the jail, taking his position by the side of Sheriff Ulloa. With a graceful gesture he removed his hat and thus fronted the mob, serene, powerful, his fine face glowing like an alabaster vase with a lamp in it, the wind tossing his snow-white hair and beard--the most striking and impressive figure one beholds in a lifetime. He stood with bowed head listening to the music:

Oh, darkies, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home!

The music ended and the intense silence was broken by a voice in the mob:

“_Aw, hell!_ I move we adjourn--_back’ards!_”

With a concerted movement like a piece of oiled machinery, the mob turned and tramped up the street like a drove of mules, leaving four lengthy coils of rope, a broken hatchet, a hoe-handle, and a corncob pipe in the middle of the road.

Turning with gracious Spanish courtesy, Sheriff Ulloa bowed low before the serene, powerful presence of Gaitskill, and murmured:

“I thank you. You saved my life!”

“Nothing of the sort!” Gaitskill snorted. “A mob can’t work to the tune of Suwanee River! Where’s that fool who’s blowing that horn?”

“I’ll conduct you to him,” Ulloa answered.

A minute later Gaitskill and Ulloa had secured another key to the jail, had entered, and stood in the presence of Mustard Prophet and Pap Curtain. The two negroes were too overcome to speak. Crazed by their horrible experiences, they sat wildly mumbling their prayers and uttering exclamations of thanksgiving.

“These are the men I telephoned you about,” Ulloa said.

“These are not the men we want,” Gaitskill replied in a disappointed tone. “One of these darkies is the overseer on my Nigger-Heel plantation.”

“You asked me over the telephone if one of them was yellow?” Ulloa said, pointing to Pap Curtain.

“Pap’s yellow, all right,” Gaitskill smiled. “But he’s not the man. He’s the well-digger of Tickfall. The coon we want is a nigger named Mobile Boone. He was seen early Sunday morning coming this way with my bag of money.”

Sheriff Ulloa opened his mouth to speak; then he closed it without saying a word.

“Marse Tom,” Mustard asked, “wus Mobile a yeller nigger wid a gold toof in his mouf an’ a scar on his jaw?”

“Yes.”

Mustard sprang to his feet with a loud laugh and gave Pap Curtain a mighty kick.

“Git up, Pap,” he howled. “Less go git Marse Tom’s money fer him!”

When a moment later the big automobile swung into the Massacre road leading to the old Kerlerac plantation house, Pap Curtain leaned over and whispered:

“Mustard, how you know dat Mobile is hid dat money under dat rock? S’posen you go dar an’ don’t find it? Whut’ll happen den?”

Mustard turned almost white. Then he answered:

“Pap, ef I don’t git dat money dese here white men will hang up my Chris’mus socks widout takin’ me out of ’em!”

IX

BACK TO THE OLD FOLKS.

Entering the stone ruins of the old plantation-house, Mustard walked unerringly to the large, flat rock which Mobile had lifted a few hours before and raised it from the ground. Pap Curtain clawed in the soft soil with his horny hands, then sprang to his feet with a yell.

He held the heavy canvas bag tied with a rawhide string.

Two hours later, Pap Curtain and Mustard Prophet, sons of sorrow, reach the pinnacle of happiness. Clothed in new garments, smoking cigars, rattling money in their pockets, they sat down in a banker’s five-thousand-dollar automobile, the owner at the steering-wheel, and started their journey back to Tickfall and the old folks at home.

Mustard Prophet, responsive as mercury to the least chill in the atmosphere or the slightest increase in the warmth of fortune’s sunshine, began to expand:

“Marse Tom, I shore hopes you’ll take better keer of de rest of yo’ dollars dan you did of dis bag of money. ’Twus a powerful hard day’s wuck fer me when I got it back for you!”

No answer from Colonel Gaitskill. The miles sped by.

Then Mustard asked, with as much curiosity as if he had been gone thirty years instead of less than three days:

“Marse Tom, is Hopey livin’ yit?”

“Yes.”

“I bet dat nigger wife of mine makes ’miration over dese here fine clothes I’m got on.”

Silence again, then a shout from both negroes:

“Bless Gawd! Dar’s Tickfall.”

When the car stopped in front of the bank, Gaitskill got out, carrying his money-bag, Pap and Mustard carrying their precious musical instruments.

“Marse Tom,” Mustard inquired, “does I git my same job at de Nigger-Heel back agin?”

“Certainly.”

“I’s shore glad of dat, Marse Tom. Sheriff Ulloa offered me a job, but I ain’t gwine take it.”

“What did the sheriff want you to do?” Gaitskill smiled.

“He axed me to he’p him lay a pipe-line to de Milky Way so he could start a dairy.”

Monarch of the Manacle.

“Skeeter, whose pup wus dat you wus totin’ aroun’ on yo’ arm yistiddy?” Figger Bush asked as he sat down beside a table in the Hen-Scratch saloon. “I’d druther be dead dan be perceived packin’ a pup.”

“Dat warn’t no common growl-an’-bark dawg,” Skeeter grinned, blushing until his saddle-colored face turned to a deep brownish crimson. “Dat wus one of dese here Spitz dawgs. It b’longs to Tella Tandy, dat new gal whut jes’ come to Tickfall. I’s keepin’ it fer her.”

“How come she don’t keep it fer herse’f?” Figger inquired.

“She’s stayin’ down at Mustard Prophet’s cabin, an’ she’s skeart Mustard’s fox-houn’s will eat her dawg up--dar he comes now!”

The little Pomeranian racked across the sandy floor of the saloon, small sharp ears erect, his fine intelligent eyes sparkling, his thick hair as fine and glossy as silk. He leaped into Skeeter’s lap, and licked a tiny red tongue at Skeeter’s face.

“Look out, Skeeter!” Figger exclaimed, pushing his chair out of the danger zone. “Ain’t you skeart dat Spit dawg will spit in yo’ face?”

“Naw!” Skeeter replied disgustedly. “Dey jes’ calls him a Spitz dawg fer a name. Dat’s a manner of speakin’, as it were. Ef you buys a plug of Bull-dawg chawin’ terbaccer, you don’t especk to git bit, does yer?”

“You shorely muss be stuck on dat new gal ef you totes her dawg on de street an’ feeds him puffeckly good vittles in de Hen-Scratch saloom,” Figger replied, ignoring Skeeter’s question.

“I _is_ in love wid dat gal,” Skeeter replied positively. “She’s shore easy to look at, Figger. An’ she specifies she is _wuth_ one thousan’ dollars.”

“My Lawd!” Figger exclaimed fervently. “I’d be willin’ to tote a whole litter of Spit dawgs fer her!”

“I wants you to he’p me ketch her, Figger,” Skeeter said earnestly. “I needs about a thousan’ dollars to make some improvements in dis barroom, an’ escusin’ dat, de gal is plum’ wuth havin’.”

“Am she really got dat many money, or do she jes’ value her carcass at dat many dollars?” Figger asked suspiciously.

“I dunno,” Skeeter replied doubtfully. “All she said wus dat she wus _wuth_ one thousan’ dollars.”

“Huh,” Figger grunted skeptically. “She mought be pricin’ herse’f too high.”

Suddenly the green-baize doors of the saloon were thrust aside, and a clear voice called:

“Oh, Skeeter! Come out here!”

Skeeter jumped like someone had popped a dynamite cap under his chair, and hastened out to the front. Figger followed slowly for the purpose of getting a good look at Skeeter’s new girl.

She was well worth seeing. She was as slim and straight and graceful as a stalk of sugar-cane; her color was a little darker than Skeeter’s; an Ethiopian type, with perfect features, a sinewy, cat-like movement of muscles under satiny skin, easy-smiling lips, which played constantly over perfectly beautiful teeth, and a speaking voice which any orator in the world would covet.

“Lawd,” Figger sighed enviously. “She’s wuth de thousan’ dollars, all right.”

“I wants my dawg, Skeeter,” Tella Tandy said. “I’s gwine down to de deppo to watch de train come in. Want to come wid me an’ tote de dawg?”

“No’m,” Skeeter answered regretfully, as he snapped his fingers and the little Spitz leaped under the saloon doors and sprang into his owner’s arms. “I got to make a livin’ keepin’ bar. I’ll go wid you some yuther time.”

The woman walked down the street and Skeeter returned to the table where he had been sitting. He sighed like a furnace and wiped the sweat from his face.

“Figger,” he said pantingly, “dat gal nearly gibs me de jim-jams eve’y time I sees her. I loses all de good sense I’m got. I feels like a fool an’ I acks like a fool, an’ ’pears to me like dat gal is laughin’ at me all de time.”

“I ’spect so,” Figger said commiseratingly, as he arose to go. “Dem females is mos’ in gineral laughin’ at us. But dem simpletoms you announce is shore a bad sign. Mattermony’ll ketch you ef you don’t watch out. Ef you needs any good advices, I ’speck you better send fer me.”

Figger sauntered down to the depot, watched the passenger train arrive and depart, and then hurried back to the Hen-Scratch saloon.

“Bad luck, Skeeter!” he howled, as soon as he entered the room. “Dat Tella Tandy went down to de deppo to meet a man an’ dat man looks like one of dese here watermillyumaires!”

“Lawdymussy!” Skeeter squeaked, springing to his feet. “I knowed my luck wus too good to last. Whar is dat new nigger man at?”

“Dey is bofe comin’ up dis way,” Figger informed him. “Dat new man is packin’ de Spit dawg. I figger de load will break him down about time he gits to de Hen-Scratch.”

For ten minutes the two sat in gloomy silence. Skeeter lighted cigarette after cigarette, twiddled his thumbs, jiggered his feet, and acted generally like a man with the St. Vitus dance. Figger was more composed. He was thankful that he was merely an innocent bystander. At last Skeeter sighed:

“Ef I lose dat gal, it’ll bust my heart, Figger. I been courtin’ her servigerous fer a week. My head is so full of tears now it would take a week to bail me out!”

Voices were heard at the door and Skeeter arose tremblingly and walked out. Tella and the strange man were waiting for him.

“Dis is my frein’, Mr. Deo Diddle, Skeeter,” Tella said easily. “I jes’ been tellin’ him how kind you wus to keep my dawg.”

“Glad to meet yo’ ’quaintance,” Skeeter mumbled, holding out his hand.

“Same back at you,” Deo replied. Then turning to Tella Tandy, he said: “Me an’ dis dawg is got a little bizzness wid Mr. Muskeeter Butts, Tella. You foller yo’ little nose down de street an’ see ef he don’t lead you somewhar else.”

Skeeter and Deo Diddle entered the saloon and sat down at the table with Figger Bush. The dog sniffed around the room for a minute and then passed out toward the rear.

Deo Diddle was about the size of Skeeter Butts, but it required no expert eyes to see that he was a perfect athlete. The poise of his head and body, the accuracy and decision of even the slightest move, the steady, assured gaze of his eyes indicated a man whose muscles and brain were trained in some field of endeavor which required both strength and wit.

“At de fust offstartin’, Mr. Butts,” Deo Diddle began easily, “I announces my bizzness an’ de puppus of my visit to Tickfall: I’s a Monarch of de Manacle.”

“You’s a--a--_which_?” Skeeter asked, his eyes sticking out like a bug’s.

“I gibs a show,” Deo Diddle explained. “I lets people handcuff me an’ I slips ’em off as easy as you kin take off a glove. I lets people nail me up in a box an’ I gits out as easy as you kin git outen dat chair. I lets people tie me in bed wid ropes an’ I gits loose as easy as a pickaninny kin fall outen a hammock. An’ on de side, I tells forchines, reads minds, finds lost treasures, an’ gives a few sleight-of-han’ tricks.”

“Huh!” Skeeter and Figger grunted in a duet.

“Yes, suh,” Deo Diddle went on. “I done hired dat hall down in de settlemint called Dirty-Six, an’ I’s gibin’ a show eve’y night fer three nights. Would you wish to come?”

“I shore would!” Skeeter exclaimed eagerly.

“I’s glad to hear you say dat, suh,” Deo replied. “I’s gwine gib a free pass to you an’ Mr. Bush, an’ I hopes you will speak up my show fer me. Admission ten cents fer chillun an’ two-bits fer growed-ups!”

He handed Skeeter and Figger a slip of paper apiece, and rose and walked out of the saloon, leaving the two men to gaze after him in speechless astonishment. After a long time, Figger remarked:

“You done got yo’ wuck cut out fer you, Skeeter. You know how batty female womans is about show folks!”

* * * * *

A show given by negroes will attract other negroes as a barrel of molasses attracts flies. The little hall in Dirty-Six was filled to its capacity a long time before the hour of the exhibition.

Skeeter Butts and Figger Bush occupied the front seat directly facing the center of the stage.

“Whar is Tella Tandy, Figger?” Skeeter asked uneasily, scanning the faces in the crowd. “I went to her house atter her an’ dey tole me she’d done went. But I don’t see her.”

“She’ll git here on time,” Figger assured him. “She ain’t hatin’ dis Deo Diddle none, an’ she’ll watch him pufform.”

Then the ragged curtain parted in the middle, one half being pulled to each side of the stage.

“Ladies an’ gen’lemans,” Deo Diddle began, “I’s gwine gib a refined exhibition of sleight-of-hands fust of all, an’ I defy anybody to kotch me at my tricks.”

The stunts which followed were too simple and commonplace to mention, but they were wonderful because new to the Tickfall negroes. In a little while the whole house was vocal with the comments of the spectators, who made remarks in a loud voice, and sometimes got into an argument with some friend across the room.

“My Lawd,” Hitch Diamond bellowed, when he saw the performer break an egg in a pan, scramble it, light an alcohol lamp and cook it, then lift out of the pan a live goose. “My Lawd, dat pufformance is agin nature!”

“’Tain’t so!” the Reverend Vinegar Atts bawled from the other side of the house. “De Good Book says us shall see wonders in de heaven above an’ de yearth beneath----”

“Aw, go up dar wid de buzzards!” Hitch Diamond retorted in a disgusted tone. “Not even de good Lawd could make a nigger hatch a goose outen a scrambled hen’s egg!”

In the meantime, Deo Diddle had turned his attention to a stove-pipe hat belonging to Vinegar Atts, and was winding yard after yard of colored paper out of the crown, catching it upon a wand.

“Us knowed you never did carry no brains in dat hat, Revun, even when you had it on yo’ head!” Pap Curtain guffawed.

The spectators were getting their money’s worth when Deo Diddle suddenly changed the performance.

“Friends,” he announced, “I’s gwine interjuice you to de mos’ wonderful woman in de worl’. She kin set right here in dis chair an’ tell you-alls all about yo’se’ves! She don’t know nobody in dis town, but she is gwine mention names an’ tell secrets out loud whut nobody ain’t told her but de departed sperits of de yuther land!”

At that moment Tella Tandy walked out upon the stage and sat down.

Skeeter Butts sprang to his feet with a startled exclamation, then sank back again with a cold sick sensation at the pit of his stomach.

“Dat means I done lost my little she-goddess, Figger,” he sighed pitifully. “’Tain’t no use to hope no more.”

“Aw, pert up, Skeeter!” his friend urged. “You ain’t drapped de pertater yit!”

Tella Tandy appeared to be in a trance. She looked with unseeing eyes over the faces of the crowd, then began in a weak, uncertain voice:

“I ketch de name of Vinegar Atts--I sees a fly--shoo fly!--church. Revun Atts is ’postlizin’ in de pulpit--de elder is gwine hab trouble in de cong’gation--he better watch his eye----”

“I ketch de name of Prince Total--Marse Tom am lookin’ fer dat lost demijahm whut Prince borrered--I ’speck Prince better fotch dat jug back befo’ he keeps it buried too long by dat pine stump----”

“I ketch de name of Pap Curtain--Pap is a slick-head nigger--a word from de sperit lan’ tells Pap dat he better ketch de trabbel itch an’ hike--de gram-jury meets nex’ week----”

For twenty minutes this revelation held the audience in tense, dreadful silence--twenty minutes of frightful retrospection and introspection, and when a negro’s name was mentioned that darky suffered a nervous shock from which he did not recover for a week. Even if his name was not mentioned, the darky was afraid it would be, and was appalled at what the revelation might be.

At last Tella Tandy rose from the chair, felt her way toward the side of the stage as if she were blind, rubbed her hands over her dazed eyes, and exclaimed in a dramatic voice:

“De book of de recordin’ angel is closed, an’ de sperit land reveals no more!”

“Bless Gawd!” Hitch Diamond bellowed fervently.

Deo Diddle then brought out a cot and set it in the middle of the stage. He threw down upon the floor a coil of rope many feet in length and addressed the audience:

“I wants about ten men to come up on dis flatform and tie me to dis cot. I offers to bet ten dollars I kin git loose in two minutes!”

“I takes dat bet, bully!” Skeeter Butts squealed as he sprang to his feet and climbed upon the platform.

“Me, too!” came a chorus of voices, and Vinegar Atts, Prince Total, Pap Curtain, Hitch Diamond, and a number of others who had been accused of various crimes and misdemeanors by Tella Tandy followed Skeeter to the stage.

They carefully examined the cot and rope. Then Deo Diddle stretched himself out upon it, lying flat upon the mattress with his feet together and his hands down at his sides. Vinegar Atts and Hitch Diamond passed the rope around and around him, crossing and crisscrossing it over his feet and body and neck until he was swathed like a mummy and apparently as helpless.

Then the committee climbed off the platform and left Deo to free himself in full view of the crowd.

Deo entertained the crowd for a minute by a mighty struggling and tugging and jerking and grunting, but all the while Deo’s right hand was resting upon a lateral bar under the cot which held the mattress taut. At the proper time Deo simply slipped this bar out of its fastening on one side of the cot; the mattress sagged down in the middle like a hammock, with the many coils of rope across Deo, but hardly touching his body.

Then Deo climbed from under the rope as easily as a pig slips through a gap in the fence and was free!

The shout of applause which greeted this performance almost lifted the roof, and amid the noise Deo and Tella quickly removed the cot so that the committee could not examine it again.

“Us will hab a entirely diffunt show tomorrer night, my frien’s,” Deo announced when the noise and excitement subsided. “I is knowed all over de worl’ an’ in Yurope as de Monarch of de Manacle. I’s de only real nigger Handcuff King in dis country. Tomorrer night I’s gwine hab eve’y kind of handcuff whut is used by de sheriffs an’ policemens of dis country an’ furin parts, and I’ll let you handcuff me up any way you please, an’ ef I don’t git loose in five minutes I’ll gib you twenty-five dollars reward. Fetch all de handcuffs you is got aroun’ de house an’ watch de Handcuff King pufform!”

“I’ll git dat reward-bill!” Skeeter Butts squealed.

“All right, pardner!” Deo laughed. “Do yo’ durndest! Good-night!”

While the people were leaving Skeeter Butts climbed back upon the stage and confronted Tella Tandy.

“Is you married to dis Deo Diddle, Tella?” he asked earnestly.

“Suttinly,” Tella laughed. “Ain’t Deo a wonder?”

“Whut you mean by makin’ a fool outen me?” Skeeter demanded.

“Don’t pick no fuss wid me, Skeeter!” Tella said. “Dis is a free country an’ you made love at me wid yo’ own mind. I couldn’t he’p it ef you handed me yo’ heart tied up in a paper-sack.”

Skeeter glared at her a moment, then turned and started away.

“I don’t bear you no grudge fer dem lovin’ words, Skeeter,” Tella snickered.

* * * * *

Skeeter Butts spent a large part of the night in deep meditation.

The next morning all his friends crowded into the Hen-Scratch to discuss the show. Tella Tandy’s revelations interested them most.

“How come dat purty little coon knowed all about me so good?” Vinegar Atts wanted to know.

“How did she know dat a gram-jury meetin’ is de real sign fer me to leave dis town?” Pap Curtain inquired.

“How did she guess dat I swiped Marse Tom Gaitskill’s licker-jug an’ had it hid out ferninst a pine stump?” Prince Total wanted to know.

“I kin answer all dem ’terrogations, niggers,” Skeeter Butts grinned. “When dat gal fust come to town I didn’t know she wus connected up wid no show, an’ I didn’t had no idear she wus married, an’ I armed her aroun’ an’ tried to git her to love me. She axed me about a millyum questions about you-alls, an’ las’ night when she pulled up dat stunt she was jes’ repeatin’ over whut I done tole her!”

“My Lawd!” Prince Total exclaimed. “Dat warn’t no fair. I wus mighty nigh skeart to death.”

“I reckin so,” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “Yo’ mem’ry ain’t loaded wid nothin’ but blank ca’tridges ontil people begins to talk about yo’ meanness--den yo’ shore is got plenty ammunition of remembrunce.”

“I hope she ain’t gwine pull no more of dat stuff,” Pap Curtain said uneasily. “How much did you tell her ’bout me, Skeeter?”

“She’s done turned loose all she knows,” Skeeter replied.

“I hope so,” Pap said menacingly. “Ef she revelates any mo’ about me I knows a yeller-faced bar-keep’ who is gwine hab his mug pounded into anodder color.”

“No danger--I ain’t skeart,” Skeeter said with a dry grin. “I realizes dat wus a mistake.”

There was silence for a few minutes, a drink for the crowd at Skeeter’s expense, and then Skeeter mentioned a plan he had matured in the night:

“Cain’t us niggers fix up some kind of buzzo on dat gal an’ git even wid her?” he asked.

“Whut mought dat buzzo be?” Vinegar Atts inquired.

“Well, suh, I figgers it out dis way: Dat Deo Diddle is offered a reward fer any handcuffs he can’t git out of. Now ef Sheriff Marse John Flournoy would only loan us some handcuffs----”

“Listen to dat nigger’s brains a-poppin’!” Prince Total exclaimed in extreme admiration. “Fer mussy sake, Skeeter, go see Marse John right now. I’ll keep dis saloom.”

The crowd sat down to wait while Skeeter hastened to the courthouse, entered the sheriff’s office, and stood, hat in hand, grinning at Mr. John Flournoy.