Part 14

Shin Bone tended bar for Skeeter Butts until eleven o’clock that night, then Skeeter returned to the Hen-Scratch saloon, covered with swamp mud and leading a slim black horse.

“Dis is yo’ winner, Shin,” he said in weary tones, as he placed the lead-rope into the hands of the pop-eyed owner. “I got him for fifty dollars cash down, an’ he’s shore a dandy.”

“He looks pretty peart,” Shin grinned. “Kin he run?”

“Yep,” Skeeter said in a disgusted tone. “He kin run like a log raff floatin’ _up_ de Massassap’ River. But us ain’t winnin’ on his speed--us is bettin’ on his looks.”

“I don’t ketch on ’bout dis,” Shin said stupidly. “Dis sounds to me like you done waste my money.”

“Don’t go by sound, Shin,” Skeeter snickered. “Go by looks. Now listen to dis few advices: you waste all de rest of dis night scourin’ down dis hoss wid a currycomb, a brush, an’ a rag. As soon as it is good day, you git out on de race-track an’ lope dis hoss aroun’ fer a while. Ef Pap Curtain is out on de track, you show him how good dis hoss kin pufform.”

Shin walked away, mumbling to himself in his perplexity. But he took the horse to Gaitskill’s stable and followed Skeeter’s advice. After five or six hours of the most arduous labor, Shin lifted his lantern and surveyed the animal. He shone like a new silver dollar, every hair was in place, and the horse was beautiful.

“He shore is a looker,” Shin proclaimed. “I hopes he’s got some speed inside his black hide.”

A little later, Shin rode him slowly out to the fairgrounds and entered the gate. It was just after daybreak, but early as it was, as Shin rode onto the track, he encountered Pap Curtain mounted on Doodlebug.

Without a word they started around in the same direction, each man watching the other’s horse with great interest.

Shin broke from a canter into a swinging gallop, and Pap followed with Doodlebug. By the time they had gone half a mile and had pulled up, Pap knew all about the black horse.

“Did you buy dat hoss wid de money you winned on de fourth race yistiddy, Shin?” Pap asked with a sneering grin.

“Naw,” Shin said shortly. “You tole me to bet on Skipper.”

“Skipper skipped aroun’ consid’able fast fer him,” Pap chuckled. “Somebody must hab felt sorry fer you an’ gib you dat hoss to win yo’ losin’s back wid.”

“Dat’s perzackly whut dey done,” Shin replied. “I’ll take some of dat money back now ef you is willin’ to try a private race.”

“I ain’t been made acquaintance wid dat hoss,” Pap objected.

“Is you ’quainted wid ten dollars?” Shin asked in an ugly tone, as he pulled a bill from his pocket.

“Sho’ly, sho’ly,” Pap proclaimed in unctuous tones. “Us’ll ride back to’des de gran’stan’ an’ you kin han’ dat money to de fust coon you meet. I’ll put a ten on top of it.”

Deep joy filled Pap’s heart as he watched the black horse walking beside his own Tuckapoo mustang, the little racer which had never been beaten when Pap wanted him to win. Ten dollars was a great deal of money in Pap’s mind, and easily won.

“You double criss-crossed me on dat race yistiddy, Pap,” Shin said angrily. “You made out like I wus a member of de fambly an’ you wus he’pin’ me along. Whut you wus plannin’ wus to rob me of all my loose change.”

“How much did you drap, Shin?” Pap snickered.

“I drapped eve’y cent I bet on Skipper,” Shin said non-committally.

“Ain’t dat too bad!” Pap sighed mockingly. “You is gwine drap a few mo’ change, too.”

A moon-faced negro sat on the fence near the starter’s stand, waiting for something to happen.

“Hold dis money, pardner!” Pap said, as he extended his hand with ten dollars. “Dis little Shin Bone wants to lose a bet!”

Shin dropped his bill into the eager stake-holder’s hand, and turned his horse to ride a few feet up the track for a start. The moon-faced negro took his place under the starter’s wire and the two horses loped down the track.

“Go!” the stakeholder whooped.

It was a pretty race for a quarter and the black was putting forth his best effort every foot of the way. Then Shin’s horse seemed to lose all interest in the race and all other affairs of life and the utmost efforts of the rider availed only to bring the horse under the wire about fifty yards behind Doodlebug.

“Good-bye, po’ little, las’ little ten dollar bill!” Shin chanted tearfully as he loped tearfully on toward the stable leaving Pap Curtain to collect the stakes.

But Pap was not disposed to let Shin off so easily. He galloped after him and began:

“Whut race is you gwine start dat cow in, Shin?”

“He runs in eve’y race whut Doodlebug has, Pap,” Shin said easily enough, but his heart was filled with chagrin. “I bought him to beat yo’ Doodlebug!”

“Doodlebug is in de secont race to-day,” Pap chuckled. “You shore owns a good-looker, but as a race-hoss dat shiny black is a puffeckly awful arrangement.”

This was Shin Bone’s idea exactly, and he rode out of the fairgrounds and hitched his horse in front of the Hen-Scratch saloon to hold an executive session with Skeeter Butts.

He strode into the saloon like a personified calamity, and dropped down in a chair beside the table where Skeeter sat.

“Skeeter,” he howled, “you shore made a awful miscue about dat Nigger Blackie hoss you bought fer me. He’s so nigh nothin’ dat nobody cain’t tell de diffunce betwix’ him _an’_ nothin’!”

“’Tain’t so,” Skeeter replied, continuing to count some money he had spread out on the table. “Dat’s a dandy lookin’ hoss.”

“Suttinly,” Shin retorted bitterly. “He’s a looker, but he runs like a lan’ tarrapin travelin’ in a plowed field.”

“Ain’t it awful!” Skeeter snickered. “I’d druther try to win a race ridin’ straddle of a mud scow whut I borrered outen de ribber dan to put up dat hoss fer a winner.”

Shin grunted and relapsed into an outraged silence, looking at the unperturbed Skeeter now and then with glaring eyes. Finally Skeeter asked:

“Did you gib Nigger Blackie a tryout?”

“Yep. An’ I loss de onlies’ ten dollars I’m got in de worl’ tryin’ to beat Pap’s Doodlebug.”

“Dat’s whut I loant you dat ten fer,” Skeeter said, handing Shin ten dollars more from the pile on the table. “Ef you hadn’t lost it, I’d ’a’ fit you!”

“Huh,” Shin grunted. “You ain’t tellin’ me as much as I oughter know.”

“Naw, suh, not quite as much. You see, you’s gwine marry into Pap’s fambly, an’ you’s got one of dese here open-work minds an’ cain’t keep nothin’ secret.”

“Dat ain’t no reason why I don’t want to rob Pap of all his dollars,” Shin declared belligerently. “But I don’t expeck to git much of Pap’s money wis Nigger Blackie to run fer it.”

“Mebbe you didn’t know how to ride him, Shin,” Skeeter suggested.

“’Taint dat, Skeeter,” Bone said earnestly. “Dat hoss jes’ nachelly ain’t got no speed in him.”

“I’s heerd tell dat he had racin’ blood in him,” Skeeter replied.

“Mebbe so, he did had--one time,” Shin responded gloomily. “But a stable flea bit him an’ got it all.”

Skeeter stood up and reached for his hat.

“I’s glad to git dat repote from you, Shin,” he said. “Now I wants you to tend dis bar fer me till I gits back. I’s gwine ride Nigger Blackie aroun’ a little an’ see kin I limber up his racin’ speed.”

VI

BY THREE LENGTHS.

On the morning of the second day of the Tickfall Negro Fair, Colonel Tom Gaitskill, the chief promoter of the negro uplift movement, received a shock.

A delegation of wailing women waited upon him and tearfully told their tale of woe. All the canned fruits and vegetables, all the preserves and jams, all the cakes and pies which they had brought to the Fair and entered in the competition for prizes had disappeared from the hall!

Investigation revealed the fact that the hungry negroes had helped themselves, sampling everything until nothing of the sample remained.

Half an hour later a delegation of negro farmers waited upon the Colonel and informed him that all their potatoes, cabbages, fruit, and home-raised peanuts, along with their sugar cane, corn, and hay had mysteriously disappeared from the display hall!

Investigation revealed the fact that those who had animals on exhibition on the grounds had looted and foraged, and found the supply insufficient for their needs.

A committee of howling negro girls waited upon Colonel Gaitskill and announced that all their plain and fancy sewing, their scarfs and handkerchiefs, their dresses and towels had disappeared!

Fowl raisers came to complain that their chickens, ducks, geese, and turkeys had vanished, some or all of them, and what could they do about it?

“By George!” Gaitskill exclaimed in exasperation. “These niggers don’t have to be taught any uplift. They’ve lifted everything on the fairgrounds and made away with it.”

Nothing was left on the grounds but the race-horses, and the Uplift Committee of white citizens of Tickfall decided to charge admission to the grounds for the last two days of the racing, and by the money thus received reimburse the farmers and their wives and daughters for their losses. Thus peace and happiness were restored.

The afternoon was bright and fair and Pap Curtain was on the track early with a careful eye upon Doodlebug and upon all the other horses in Doodlebug’s race, the second. He made a special inspection of Nigger Blackie as the jockey, Little Bit, rode him up the track for a warming. The black was as clumsy as a cow, and the diminutive darky rode him awkwardly and fearfully.

None of the ordinary rules and regulations were in force upon this race-track. A jockey could ride with any sort of saddle, or without one. The negroes had no uniforms, carried any sort of whips or spurs which they thought would get speed from their mounts. Only one rule was positively enforced, and that was made for this event: the man who entered a horse for a race must own the horse.

Pap was at the stable when Little Bit rode back, and he greeted the little jockey in a tone which already thrilled with anticipated victory.

“Don’t bet no chink on dat sook-cow, Little Bit,” he snickered. “Ef you got any loose change, buy yo’se’f a bernaner--don’t waste it!”

Skeeter Butts overheard this remark and hastened forward.

“No jockey kin ride my hoss wid a bettin’-ticket in his hat, Pap,” he said positively. “Ef you wants to lose yo’ money, lemme take it away from you.”

“I thought dis hoss b’longed to Shin Bone,” Pap remarked.

“He do,” Skeeter assured him. “Me an’ Shin went cahoots, an’ Shin exoncised dis hoss dis mawnin’.”

“I remember ’bout dat,” Pap chuckled, as he produced a roll of money from his pocket. “Less go down to de gramstan’ an’ git a stakeholder fer dese funds.”

Skeeter took all the money which Pap would bet, then he walked to the betting shed where a howling mass of half-intoxicated negroes demonstrated an intense love for the improvement of stock.

Ten big, hoarse-voiced, fat-necked negro gamblers from New Orleans pushed and bellowed among the darkies with their little celluloid slates, taking bets for any amount on the favorite, Doodlebug.

Hitch Diamond, Prince Total, and Figger Bush closed in upon Skeeter Butts.

“I hear tell you is got a hoss in de nex’ race, Skeeter,” Hitch Diamond rumbled.

“Yes, suh, I’s gibin’ him a leetle tryout,” Skeeter replied modestly. “Dis here race-hoss game is kinder new on me, an’ I’s jes’ tryin’ to break in easy-like. I buyed a race hoss yistiddy in Shongaloon from Tax Sambola.”

“My Lawd!” Hitch exclaimed. “You ain’t bettin’ money on him, is yer?”

“Jes’ a leetle to keep up my mind int’rusted,” Skeeter grinned.

“I hopes it ain’t no mo’ dan you kin affode to lose, Skeeter,” Hitch Diamond said earnestly. “Dat Nigger Blackie hoss is de best looker in de worl’, an’ he ack like he’s gittin’ ready to go over de land like a air-ship. But he don’t run no faster dan a sewin’-machine.”

“Ain’t it de truth!” Skeeter laughed mockingly. “I figger I better bet on his looks instid of his gait!”

Skeeter walked away and Hitch Diamond turned to his friends with eyes which glowed like a lion’s.

“Sell yo’ socks offen yo’ foots an’ bet yo’ money on Doodlebug, niggers,” he howled. “Skeeter Butts is done commit hisse’f enough to disavow dis Nigger Blackie hoss complete!”

When the bell rang for the second race, Skeeter Butts found Shin Bone in the grandstand, leaning against the rail.

“I got all our spondulix down, Shin,” he grinned. “Bofe of us bets fifty dollars per each.”

“How wus de odds?” Shin asked in a tone trembling with excitement.

“Some of it wus five to one,” Skeeter replied. “All I bet Pap wus at dem odds.”

“Dat’ll bust him in about six minutes,” Shin laughed. “By dark, he’ll be cryin’ in dat lace handkerchief he swiped outen de show-hall an’ beggin’ me to marrify his niece so he won’t hab to suppote her no mo’.”

Shin turned and gazed at the crowd, trying to locate his girl. Failing to find her, he left Skeeter without ceremony.

Nigger Blackie came in front of the grandstand, loping along as sedately as a man might walk across a drawing-room. Little Bit, sitting on his back without a saddle was as nervous as a cat in the midst of a pack of popping fire-crackers.

“I bet ten to one dat Little Bit falls offen dat pony befo’ he gits to de quarter pole,” Pap proclaimed with a loud laugh.

“Ef Nigger Blackie runs in form, he ain’t gwine git to no quarter pole onless Little Bit hauls him dar in a wheel-barrer,” Hitch Diamond grinned.

“Dar’s Doodlebug!” Pap proclaimed, in the tone of a parent speaking of a noble son.

Doodlebug was a Tuckapoo mustang. To those acquainted with the breed, enough said. It means that Doodlebug was a mean, tricky, biting, kicking, balky Indian pony. He came up the track sideways, backwards, on his hind feet, on his fore feet. Twice he lay down and rolled over, and once he balked, spending two minutes in a vain effort to bite off his jockey’s leg.

“Dat hoss ain’t got but one good p’int, Hitchie,” Pap declared. “He kin run like a bullet shot outen a gun!”

A few minutes later five horses swept down the track in an even line.

“Go!” yelled Vinegar Atts, up in the judges’ stand.

In the momentary silence following the get-away, there was a scream so loud and ear-splitting that it thrilled every person on the fair-grounds. Then everybody on the grandstand stood up and an astonished exclamation leaped from every lip:

“Look at Nigger Blackie!” “My Lawd, how dat hoss do run!”

Little Bit had a fence picket for a whip. But instead of using it in the ordinary way, he was violating all the customs of race-riding. He sat perfectly straight, his bridle-reins were untouched, lying upon the horse’s neck and flapping loosely around his face, while he waved his fence picket around his head like a club. Nigger Blackie was running like a streak.

As Little Bit passed the half-mile post, once more that thrilling, ear-splitting shriek swept across the intervening space to the people who stood breathless in the grandstand.

“Whut kind of noise is dat Little Bit is makin’ wid his mouf?” Pap Curtain inquired uneasily as he watched Doodlebug a full length behind Nigger Blackie, running his best and unable to gain an inch.

“Dat’s a Indian war-whoop, Pap,” Hitch Diamond said in a voice which choked in his throat. “When I wus jes’ a little shaver, I used to hear de Caddo Indians yelp dat way when dey wus hoss-racin’.”

“My Gawd!” Pap exclaimed, as the horses turned into the home-stretch. “Whut’s done happened to Doodlebug?”

Doodlebug was doing his best, but he was two lengths behind, while Little Bit was riding Nigger Blackie like an Indian, whooping like a calliope, and Nigger Blackie, with the loose bridle-reins flapping around his face, was coming in like a rocket.

Somebody pulled at Pap’s shoulder, and a soft voice spoke pleadingly in his ear. He struck behind him savagely with his clenched fist, and then leaned far over the fence.

Suddenly the grandstand broke out into a prayer, a wailing cry which urged, pleaded, implored!

“_Come_ on, Doodlebug! _Come on, Doodlebug!_ Come _on_, Doodlebug!”

“COME on, _Doodlebug_!” Pap shrieked, with tears in his eyes, and agony in his voice, and tragedy in his heart. “Oh, fer _Gawd_lemighty’s sake, come on!”

Again some one pulled at Pap’s arm, and a pleading voice spoke to him. Again Pap savagely shook himself loose, struck out blindly and insanely at the person behind him.

Then a mighty moaning sound broke from the grandstand, the lamentation of a crushed, disappointed, bankrupted multitude.

Nigger Blackie was under the wire, a winner by three lengths!

Pap Curtain turned away from the track, dazed, nauseated, his yellow cheeks streaked with white, his sneering lips hanging loosely and quivering, his mouth as dry as sawdust, his tongue feeling like it was as big and rough as a door-mat.

Once more some one pulled at Pap’s shoulder, and a pleading voice spoke tearfully:

“Oh, Pap! I been lookin’ fer you eve’ywhar! I was tryin’ to kotch you an’ tip you off!”

“Whut’s dat?” Pap asked, turning his dazed, unseeing eyes upon the girl.

Whiffle Boone began to cry.

“I couldn’t find you till atter de race begun, Pap,” she sobbed. “I wanted to tell you dat Skeeter Butts an’ Shin Bone swapped hosses on you.”

“How’s dat?” Pap asked, stupidly.

“Skeeter bought two black hosses yistiddy, Pap,” Whiffle Boone said impatiently, mopping the tears from her face. “He got one from Tax Sambola at Shongaloon, but de hoss whut winned de race wus dat black hoss whut Indian Turtle owned--dat ole Indian whut lives on de Coolie bayo. Dat’s how come Little Bit rid him jes’ like a Indian!”

Pap leaned weakly against the fence and a deep moan issued from his stiff, parched lips.

“It’s too late now, Whiffle,” he sighed. “I done loss eve’y dollar I owns. I bet dat fifty dollars whut you gib me to keep fer you, an’ I done lost dat. I done bet Doodlebug, an’ lost him! I would hab loss Skipper, too, only but he b’longed to yo’ maw instid of me!”

Whiffle suddenly broke out into a happy laugh.

“When do Skipper run again, Pap?” she inquired.

“He starts in de fifth race,” Pap sighed.

“All right, Pap, don’t cry!” Whiffle giggled. “Skipper will win in de fifth race--you leave dat to me!”

“’Twon’t do no good, Whiffle,” Pap moaned despairingly. “Us ain’t got no money to bet.”

“You leave dat to me, too,” Whiffle replied confidently. “You set down somewheres an’ rest yo’ mind an’ pick up a brave heart. I’ll git some money fer you to bet, an’ I’ll fry Skeeter Butts an’ Shin Bone in deir own grease!”

VII

DOPE.

In the rear of the grandstand Skeeter Butts and Shin Bone were holding a jubilee. They were in possession of more money than they had ever imagined was in the world. Silver and currency caused every pocket to bulge, and for the first time in their lives they felt the need of police protection.

“I’s skeart dese niggers will stick me up an’ rob me of dis money, Skeeter,” Shin said uneasily. “Wut is us gwine do wid it?”

“Bet it agin!” Skeeter exclaimed exultantly. “Pap Curtain is gwine run Skipper in de las’ race. Dat means dat you an’ me will go home wid all de money on de fairground.”

“We ain’t gwine git many bets,” Shin grinned. “Dese here niggers ain’t got much mo’ money. Us is copped it all.”

“Only three hosses starts in de fifth race, Shin,” Skeeter remarked. “One is Prince Total’s plow-hoss; one is Pap’s Skipper, an’ de yuther is a good runner called Peedee. Us bets on Peedee.”

“All right,” Shin agreed. “Less git busy. Nothin’ don’t bother me but my money.”

“Less go somewhar an’ ’vide up our money even!” Skeeter suggested. “Over by de pond would be a good hidin’ place!”

As they started around the grandstand they met Pap and Whiffle Boone. Pap was walking with bent shoulders, and seemed to have aged forty years in a few minutes. Whiffle was leading him by the hand, and the dazed and broken negro was mumbling incoherently to himself. Whiffle looked straight at Shin Bone without a sign of recognition, and her eyes were like icicles.

“Dar now, Shin!” Skeeter exclaimed tragically. “You done busted Pap an’ yo’ love scrape, bofe at de same time.”

“I ain’t cryin’,” Shin grinned easily. “Whiffle knows whar de money is at, an’ she’ll come back to little Shinny.”

They watched Pap and the girl until they were swallowed up by the crowd, then Skeeter and Shin crossed the track and walked over to a pond in the rear of the judges’ stand. They sat down on the edge of the water, divided their fortune, and happily planned their final raid on the money of their friends.

In the meantime Pap and Whiffle were standing at a stall looking into the face of a sleepy-eyed horse named Skipper.

“How much would you bet on Skipper, ef you had some money, Pap?” Whiffle wanted to know.

“Nothin’,” Pap replied disgustedly.

Whiffle turned and caught Pap by the lapel of his coat. She looked straight into his eyes and said:

“Pap, you listen to me: I win one hundred dollars in dat las’ race by bettin’ on Nigger Blackie. Dat shows dat I knows more about hoss-racin’ dan you does. Now, you take dis money an’ bet eve’y cent of it on Skipper, an’ leave de rest to me--will you do dat?”

Pap’s sagging backbone stiffened. His chin came up in the air. His air of disappointment and dejection vanished like magic, and his face assumed a broad smile.

“Gimme dat money, honey,” he exulted. “I ain’t mournin’ de loss of my change. I hates to let Skeeter an’ Shin bust me. Ef I kin jes’ show ’em dat dey didn’t git it all, I’ll shore die happy.”

“All right,” Whiffle smiled. “Go ahead an’ die. You hunt up Skeeter Butts an’ Shin Bone an’ bet ’em dis money--make ’em gib you ten to one on Skipper!”

When Pap departed, Whiffle made a circuit of the stables, eyeing each negro loafer with intense interest.

Finally she stopped and concentrated her attention on one darky who sat on top of the fence beside the track, a negro, the features of whose face seemed to have disintegrated and merged in a shapeless mass, as if the clay of which the face was molded had “run” before it was dry.

The negro saw Whiffle without appearing to look. Whiffle put up her hand and rubbed her nose. Instantly the man ran two fingers into his ragged waistcoat pocket, brought them out, and waved them under his nose with a loud sniff.

Whiffle promptly stepped to the fence beside him, laid a fifty-cent piece upon the top rail, and whispered one word. The man acted as if he did not hear. Whiffle turned her back and looked off across the green surrounded by the race-track, and saw Skeeter Butts and Shin Bone leave the pond in the middle of the green and walk toward the betting-shed.

The negro climbed down from the fence and disappeared in the crowd. Whiffle kept her eyes on Skeeter and Shin until he had entirely disappeared. Then she turned, and where the money had been lying upon the fence there now rested a folded paper. Whiffle palmed this paper and walked slowly back to Skipper’s stall.

Entering the stall, she closed the door, opened the paper and poked at the glistening crystals with the tip of her forefinger.

Skipper drew near and sniffed at her hands, begging for sweetmeats.

“Dis ain’t no sugar, Skipper,” she murmured, catching him by the nose. “Whoa! You’ll make me spill dis med’cine, an’ it costed me fifty cents! Whoa!”

She licked a few remaining crystals off of her trembling fingers, twisted the paper into a tiny wad and walked out of the stall.

“Huh!” she sighed as she wiped the bitter taste from her lips. “Ef Pap seed me lickin’ dat he’d kill me!”

VIII

DISASTER.

Skeeter Butts and Shin Bone stood in the crowd at one of the entrances of the grandstand and frowned and sneered at the importunate negroes who crowded around them.

“Lend us jes’ a dollar or two, Skeeter,” they pleaded. “Ef we could git a leetle start, mebbe we could win some of our money back.”

“I ain’t loantin’ no money,” Skeeter proclaimed. “I’s jes’ bettin’ money, an’ I done bet all I’m got an’ couldn’t loant none ef I wanted to.”

At that moment Pap Curtain joined the group, waving five twenty-dollar bills. He had wasted much time trying to locate Skeeter and Shin.