Part 11

“All right,” Skeeter said ungraciously. “Go down to Button Hook an’ git yo’ coat, yo’ letters, an’ yo’ wrist-watch back--an’ I hopes to Gawd dat Button Hook will chaw you up an’ spit you out!”

“Marse Tom don’t want his pest-house nigger ruint like dat!” Tick protested.

Skeeter pushed him out of the back door and returned to the barroom.

Thus dismissed, Tick went slowly toward the cabin occupied by Button Hook. Then he thought of something which quickened his footsteps and gave him courage.

“I won’t hab no trouble to git my coat back. I jumped through dat winder an’ busted it to smashereens, an’ of co’se it will be open.”

He sneaked up to the house from the side nearest to the woods, and approached the window with the utmost caution. Climbing in over the broken frame, he felt about the room until he located his coat. Thrusting his hand into the inside pocket, he brought it out empty.

“Dey’s gone!” he sighed. “Mo’ an’ mo’ trouble all de time!”

He stood thinking and listening until his attention was attracted by the loud ticking of a clock in the room.

“I gitcher!” he grinned. “Button said she hid de wrist-watch behime de clock.”

He thrust his hand between the wall and the clock, and in a hollow space behind the timepiece, he found the watch and the two envelopes.

“Huh,” he grunted, “dese here is shore my losted letters. De Lawd am shorely wid me.”

Climbing cautiously and noiselessly out of the window, he walked out of the front gate, and, all danger being over, he started jauntily down the street. He felt care-free and happy once more, and he began to sing.

Several hundred yards down the road Button Hook heard him, and concealed herself behind a clump of bushes. She carried a double-barreled, muzzle-loading shotgun, and she had the face and manner of one who was determined to use it.

Button had been hunting through all the negro settlements of the town for the man who was now approaching, singing at the top of his voice. She listened to the song with an ugly smile upon her lips:

“Look on de sunny side, Git on de sunny side, Stay on de sunny side Of life!”

The song ended in a howl of fright.

Tick Hush came to a stand with both hands outstretched to ward off the attack of a girl who stood in the middle of the moonlit road with a shotgun at her shoulder.

“Git ready to die, Ticky!” she snarled. “Dis am de end of you!”

Then both barrels of the gun went off at about the same time.

Tick went off, too.

Fortunately for Tick, Button Hook was not familiar with the use of firearms. She had heard her father say that his old shotgun kicked like a yearling mule. She was afraid of the gun, afraid of the noise it made, and afraid of the kick. She had held it far from her shoulder to avoid the rebound, had shut both her eyes, and pulled both triggers. When the gun went off she dropped it on the ground, and went home at full speed, squalling at every step.

Tick leaped to one side of the road, tore both legs off his pantaloons at the knee clambering over a barbed-wire fence, and went howling through the woods, bumping against nearly every tree in his flight.

Like a crawfish, Tick went forward and looked back.

When at last he felt that he had escaped from danger, he was bleeding from a number of wounds on his head, bleeding at both knees, bleeding where the barbed-wire had cut his lips, and his nose was a spouting fountain of red.

“I’ll go ax Skeeter Butts ’bout dis,” the wretched man moaned.

When he staggered into the Hen-Scratch saloon he made a big sensation. Negroes were standing at the bar, others were playing pool, some were engaged at various games at the table, and a big group was assembled in the center of the room singing, cracking jokes, and laughing as they smoked. The crowd sprang up and rushed forward as Tick stumbled in, sobbing like a little child.

“My Gawd, niggers!” he howled. “Marse Tom is got to git him anodder nigger. Dis’n is plum’ ruint. Send fer de dorctor! I’s been helt up an’ robbed an’ shotted to death!”

X

TICK SEEKS A PLACE TO DIE

Tick flopped over on a battered pool-table, and dyed the green cloth red with his blood.

A bunch of negroes gathered close around the table, cackling their comments like a flock of excited hens.

“I heerd dat gun go off!” Figger Bush squeaked. “Dey shot him twicet. Dat gun went bang! bang!”

“Us heerd it, too,” Hitch Diamond growled. “He shore is bad hurted. Dey shot bofe de legs off his pants. I ’speck he fixin’ to die!”

Skeeter Butts talked excitedly over the telephone and five minutes later a big automobile stopped in front of his place, and Dr. Moseley came in.

“Get all these niggers out of here, Skeeter!” he commanded sharply. “Clear the house!”

The negroes tramped out of the door like a drove of horses going through a gap, and then they scattered to all parts of the town to carry the dreadful news.

Dr. Moseley’s examination failed to find a single gunshot wound.

“You are not shot, Tick,” Moseley said. “You’ve been lying to these friends of yours. Somebody beat you over the head with a club.”

“Naw, suh; dat warn’t it, doc,” Tick insisted. “I wus shotted wid bofe barrels of a shotgun!”

“Tick don’t know whut happened, doc,” Skeeter commented. “He come in here ’bout a hour ago so full of booze dat he sloshed like a water-wagon when he walked.”

Moseley bandaged the cut lips and legs and the bruised head, and left Tick to the care and nursing of Skeeter Butts.

“Yes, suh; I’ll set up wid him all night, doc,” Skeeter said. “He’s a fool frien’ of mine.”

Skeeter was aching to know exactly what had happened to Tick, and as soon as the physician left, Tick was served with a drink which sobered him almost immediately, and then he told Skeeter all about his affair in the road.

When Tick had finished, Skeeter sat for a long time in deep thought, at intervals grunting like a pig when some new idea punched him in a new place.

At last he rose to his feet and got his hat.

“Ticky,” he said, “you stay here till I gits back.”

“Suttinly,” Tick said pitifully. “I’s skeart to go anywhar else; lock all de doors up tight.”

Skeeter ran across lots to his home on the premises of Sheriff John Flournoy.

Flournoy had a little automobile, which he used for fishing and hunting trips, and Skeeter pushed this out of the garage, cranked it, and jumped to the seat. In a few minutes he was back again at the saloon.

“Climb in dis machine, Ticky,” he commanded. “A leetle fresh air will rest yo’ mind an’ do you good. Git in!”

Then Skeeter steered the machine straight toward the home of Button Hook. Tick uttered angry and frightened protests, but in vain. Skeeter persisted in his plan.

“Dis is whar it happened, Skeeter,” Tick said as they passed a place in the road. “Dis is whar I wus shotted!”

“Whoa!” Skeeter said, as he brought the car to a stop. “Look dar--dat is de gun whut Button drapped!”

Placing the gun in the machine, Skeeter hurried on toward Button Hook’s home.

“Dis gun will he’p me a heap!” he exulted.

When they reached the house, Skeeter picked up the shotgun and, leaving Tick in the machine, he walked through the yard, stamped up the steps and onto the little porch, and knocked loudly and authoritatively upon the door. He heard shuffling noises with low talking, and movements which indicated that the occupants of the house were waking from sleep and getting out of bed.

“Who dar?” old man Hook inquired in a frightened voice.

“Open up!” Skeeter yelled. “I got a little word wid you an’ Button Hook from Sheriff John Flournoy an’ Doc Moseley.”

At this there was a frightened squeal from Button Hook, excited voices talking, swift movement of feet, and the door opened a little crack. Old Hook stuck his corkscrew whiskers through the opening and asked:

“Whut word is sont?”

“I’s got Ticky Hush out here in Sheriff John Flournoy’s autermobile,” Skeeter announced in a loud voice. “Ticky is been shot two times wid a double-barrel, muzzle-loadin’ shotgun. Nobody ain’t know who done it, but we done foun’ de shotgun, an’ Marse Tom is tryin’ to find out who owns it.”

Button Hook uttered a frightened whine.

“Doc Moseley say Ticky is gittin’ ready to die befo’ mawnin’,” Skeeter resumed. “Ticky ain’t got no kinnery an’ I knowed he wus gwine marry Button Hook, so I fetch him down here so he could die in yo’-all’s house!”

“Gawda’mighty, naw!” old Hook wailed. “I don’t want no dead nigger in my cabin. Take him somewheres else.”

“It’s Marse John Flournoy’s awders to leave him here wid you-alls!” Skeeter lied.

“Naw!” Daddy Hook squalled. “Dis fambly ain’t gwine be home in de mawnin’--us is gittin’ ready trabble to right now, an’ we’s fixin’ to take a soon start!”

“Does you know who dis shotgun belongs to?” Skeeter asked, producing the gun with a dramatic flourish.

“Naw!” Daddy Hook wailed, motioning Skeeter away. “Ain’t never seed dat gun befo’.”

A frightened wail sounded behind old man Hook, informing Skeeter that Button was being strongly affected by what she heard.

“All right!” Skeeter said, as if in doubt what to do next. “I’ll go tell Marse John Flournoy dat you-all won’t take Tick in. I reckon him an’ Marse Tom Gaitskill will come right down an’ cornverse you-all about it. De Sheriff don’t take no nigger foolishness.”

Skeeter turned and walked away. When he got to the automobile it was empty. Tick had climbed out and had hidden behind the same stump which had served him when he delivered the wrist-watch to Button Hook. As Skeeter cranked the machine, Tick emerged from his hiding-place and climbed back into the car.

“Now, Ticky,” Skeeter said when they were once more in the saloon and had sat down. “A long time befo’ mawnin’, Button Hook an’ all dat crowd will be gittin’ to some place fur away in a mighty big hurry. Dey’ll trabble wid a looseness, an’ dey won’t look back, an’ dey won’t never come back.”

“Dey won’t make me mad ef dey stays away,” Tick spoke, trying to grin through his cut and plaster-covered lips.

“Dat saves yo’ life, an’ it gits you good riddunce of one of yo’ to-be wives!”

“Thank ’e, suh,” Tick said gratefully. “You shore is a noble nigger man!”

“You tole me dat Dazzle promise to marry you--is dat so?”

“Naw, suh. Me an’ Dazzle et a little dinner togedder, but dar ain’t nothin’ to dat.”

“Dat leaves jes’ Limit Lark fer you to marry--ain’t dat so?” Skeeter asked.

“Dat’s all!” Tick said. “Thank de Lawd!”

“You done got yo’ license to marry Limit, Ticky,” Skeeter said. “Now, fer goodness sake don’t ax nobody else!”

“I won’t,” Tick promised. “I’s mighty glad we’s done shaved ’em down to jes’ me an’ one woman.”

There was a loud knock upon the front door, and some one on the outside shook it violently, trying to get in.

“Git over dar an’ crawl under de bar, Ticky,” Skeeter whispered. “Dar ain’t no tellin’ whut is gwine happen now!”

When Tick was hidden, Skeeter tiptoed to the door and opened it very cautiously.

“Dis here is Vakey Vapp,” a woman’s voice announced in high, shrill tones. “Lemme in, I got somepin to say offen my mind!”

“Come in, Vakey,” Skeeter said in propitiating tones. “I’s de onliest one here.”

“Whar is Tick Hush?” Vakey snapped.

“Tick is gittin’ ready to die,” Skeeter answered evasively. “Doc Moseley is he’pin’ him along.”

“I come here to tell Tick dat he better make a good job of dyin’, an’ drap off real soon,” Vakey bellowed. “Ef he don’t, I’s gwine meet him in de big road an’ cyarve his gizzard an’ his backbone out!”

“Whut’s done made you mad?” Skeeter asked in surprised tones.

“Dat nigger is done monkeyed wid my affectations,” Vakey howled.

“Dat’s too bad,” Skeeter sympathized.

“It don’t hurt me none, but it’s shore bad fer Tick!” Vakey said in a deadly tone.

Then they sat for a long time in silence, while Vakey Vapp breathed deeply with a heaving breast, like a motion-picture star. At last she stood up to go.

“I comed here to gib Ticky Hush a dyin’ message, Skeeter,” she announced. “I’s sorry he ain’t here. But ef Doc Moseley makes a mistake an’ cures Tick, well, I’s gwine bestow my dyin’ message wid de edge of a sharp razor. Good-by!”

When the door closed behind her, Tick stood up from his hiding-place, showing a face full of tragedy and despair.

“We forgot all about dat one, Skeeter,” he mourned. “Oh, lawdy! Ef I ever gits outen dis mess, I ain’t gwine mess wid mattermony no more!”

XI

TICK FLIES THE YELLOW FLAG

Early the next morning, Colonel Tom Gaitskill heard from Hitch Diamond, who worked about his place, that Tick Hush had been held up, robbed, and shot to death.

At the bank, where Vinegar Atts worked, Gaitskill heard that a woman named Button Hook had shot Tick Hush, and that Skeeter had nursed him all night.

From Dr. Moseley Gaitskill learned that Tick had not been shot or robbed, but had been beaten over the head with some blunt instrument, and his face had been badly cut with some sharp tool.

All of which was interesting enough to induce Gaitskill to make a personal investigation.

He found Tick Hush lying upon a pallet in the rear of the Hen-Scratch saloon, and from him and Skeeter Butts he heard the whole story.

Being familiar with the details of numberless negro courtships, this lengthy narrative lacked the spice of novelty, and Gaitskill was weary long before it was finished.

At last he looked at his watch and rose to his feet.

“Well, Tick,” he smiled, “I think if I were in your predicament I would go out to the pest-house on my farm and run up the yellow flag.”

Then Gaitskill went back to the bank.

The two negroes sat in perfect silence for a long time. Finally Tick asked:

“Skeeter, whut did Marse Tom mean by dem words?”

“Gawd knows,” Skeeter mumbled.

Skeeter smoked four cigarettes in rapid succession. Then the meaning of Gaitskill’s remark shot through him like an electric current.

Given Gaitskill’s two, he multiplied and made forty-four.

He grabbed his hat and ran up the street at full speed.

He stopped first at the home of Ginny Babe Chew, where he held an excited conversation with Dazzle Zenor, the actress. That young woman laughed and applauded, and promptly left the house after Skeeter’s rapid departure.

After that, he ran to the livery stable and held an excited conversation with the negro owner of that establishment.

The liveryman was not at all disposed to do what Skeeter wanted, but Skeeter had learned certain conjuring tricks to attain his ends, and he now performed these tricks with the influential names of Colonel Tom Gaitskill, Sheriff John Flournoy, and Dr. Moseley.

With these big names thundering in his ears, the liveryman consented.

“Keep dis quiet, Lon!” Skeeter warned. “It’s de white folks’ awders. Don’t speak a word!”

Two hours later, a long, black carriage, known to the negroes of Tickfall as the “pest-wagon,” drawn by two solemn mules and driven by Skeeter Butts, stopped at the rear door of the Hen-Scratch saloon.

Skeeter dismounted from the driver’s seat and opened the door in the rear of the ambulance. Hitch Diamond, Figger Bush, and the Reverend Vinegar Atts climbed out. They pulled a stretcher into view, and Skeeter laid hold upon it.

They tramped into the Hen-Scratch saloon like a quartette of pall-bearers, and walked to the pallet where Dazzle Zenor, the actress, now acting the part of a Red Cross nurse, had just completed a major operation upon the face and hands of Tick Hush. Tick was lifted upon the stretcher, carried to the ambulance and placed inside.

Skeeter tied a piece of yellow cloth a yard wide and two yards long to the door knob of the ambulance, and climbed back to the driver’s seat.

The four stretcher bearers walked solemnly beside the pest-wagon.

Every negro inhabitant of Dirty-Six crowded the sidewalks and watched this dreadful wagon go by. All the older ones recalled that fearful epidemic of yellow fever years before when this wagon had rolled along the streets at midnight, and a driver with muffled mouth, breathing through a cloth saturated with disinfectants, called aloud in sepulchral tones:

“Bring out your dead!”

For the first time in thirty years, the pest-wagon was on the streets of Tickfall again. It was no longer a shiny, black vehicle, but was rusty, dusty, weather-beaten, and time-worn, more than ever suggestive of diseases and pestilence and sudden death.

As the stretcher bearers marched, they sang. The superb baritone of the Reverend Vinegar Atts rolled like an organ:

“Somebody buried in de graveyard, Somebody buried in de sea; Gwine to git up in de mawnin’ Shoutin’ de jubilee. If you git dare befo’ I do, Run an’ tell de Lawd I’m comin’, too. Oh! Somebody dyin’ on de mountain, Somebody dyin’ in de bed, Somebody gwine to rise like a fountain, Gwine to rise from de dead! Oh! If you git dar befo’ I do, Run an’ tell de Lawd I’m comin’, too!”

“Git back, niggers!” Hitch Diamond bellowed to the crowd when he saw they were disposed to follow. “Keep away! I got awders from de white folks!”

In front of the home of Vakey Vapp the ambulance came to a stop.

“Come out here, Vakey!” Skeeter called.

Vakey stepped out into the middle of her yard with plenty of fresh, untainted air around her.

“You tole me las’ night dat you wanted to deliver to Tick Hush a dyin’ message!” Skeeter exclaimed as he opened the door of the ambulance. “Come up close so you kin speak to him!”

Vakey took a half-step forward and stopped.

Skeeter spread wide the doors of the ambulance and exclaimed dramatically:

“Stick out yo’ head, Ticky, an’ git yo’ dyin’ word!”

Ticky stuck out his head.

Dazzle Zenor had done her work well.

The actress had exhausted all her paints and all her mental resources in helping Tick in his theatrical make-up for the part he had to play.

The result was simply horrifying!

Tick’s ears were both a bright green in color, his nose was yellow, his lips were purple, his forehead was a bright red, and his cheeks were as white as milk, while under his chin the natural brown of his skin was striped with orange!

Tick held up both hands with a pitiful gesture, and each finger was a different color!

Vakey Vapp emitted a squall which put her in a class by herself as a maker of strange, loud noises.

“Pore ole Ticky is got some kind of ketchin’ disease, Vakey,” Skeeter exclaimed. “Us is takin’ him out to de pest-house.”

“Whut ails him?” Vakey wailed.

“Doc Moseley specify dat Tick is got scrambaloodums, an’ it’s powerful ketchin’. Is you touched Ticky any time recent?”

“O Lawd yes!” Vakey screamed. “I rush-housed him powerful bad at de Shoofly chu’ch de yuther night!”

“I’s mighty sorry to hear you speak dem words, Vakey,” Skeeter said with a tearful tremolo in his voice. “You’ll kotch de scrambaloodums, too. We’ll come back an’ take you to de pest-house next!”

Skeeter shut the ambulance door and ostentatiously draped the yellow flag over the knob.

“You fergot to deliver yo’ dyin’ message, Vakey,” Skeeter reminded her.

“’Tain’t nothin’,” Vakey howled. “O my lawdymussy!”

“All right,” Skeeter said. “You kin speak yo’ dyin’ words when we takes you out to de pest-house whar Tick is gwine!”

Vakey gave another loud squall and started across the fields toward the woods, going at full speed, and covering a long distance in a very brief time.

“She’ll be mighty fur away pretty soon--ef she keeps up dat gait,” the Reverend Vinegar Atts chuckled. “Dat’s jes’ de way de niggers runned from de pest-house thirty years ago!”

Skeeter clucked to his mules and started off at a brisk trot, leaving the three other stretcher bearers in the middle of the road, looking at the cloud of dust the team raised.

“Come on, niggers,” Vinegar Atts chuckled as he turned back toward the town. “We done runned Vakey off now--less git aroun’ among de niggers an’ succulate de repote dat Skeeter an’ Tick is gittin’ ready to git up a show!”

“Dat’s right!” Figger Bush cackled. “We’ll tell ’em dis ain’t no real disease, but Tick an’ Skeeter is rehearsin’!”

“’Tain’t really needful to do dat,” Hitch Diamond rumbled. “Excusin’ Vakey, all of ’em knows it ’tain’t nothin’ but a joke nohow. Niggers didn’t sing no religium tunes aroun’ dis pest-wagon thuty year ago when de yeller fever kotch us.”

XII

LIMIT GOES THE LIMIT

Two hours later, a wagon drawn by two mules, and occupied by three men and one woman, stopped on top of a hill near the pest-house.

With shouts of laughter the four colored people looked down at the four-room stone house with the metal roof, behind which were many graves and leaning tombstones.

In front of the building was a yellow flag, draped from the limb of a small tree. Skeeter Butts sat in front, his chair-back propped against the stone wall, smoking his cigarette.

They climbed out of the wagon, Limit Lark, the Reverend Vinegar Atts, Figger Bush, and Hitch Diamond.

After consulting with his two male companions, Vinegar Atts conducted Limit Lark to a little knoll about one hundred feet from the pest-house, and told her to stand there until he could complete his arrangements.

Then he took his own stand on another little rise of land, with Figger Bush and Hitch Diamond beside him.

“Hey, Tick Hush!” Vinegar bawled in a voice which could be heard a mile. “Come out to de front of de pest-house a minute!”

Tick had been busy trying to get the make-up off his face, and he emerged from the building and stared about him in surprise.

“Listen, Tick!” Vinegar Atts whooped. “I got somepin to say to you. Will you take Limit Lark to be yo’ wedded wife?”

“Suttinly!” Tick squalled, after a moment of astonished silence and a kick from Skeeter Butts.

“Limit, will you take Tick Hush to be yo’ wedded husbunt?” Vinegar bellowed.

“You bet!” Limit shrieked.

“Jine yo’ right hands!” Vinegar howled.

“Aw, dat won’t do to say,” Hitch Diamond growled. “It cain’t be did.”

Vinegar hesitated a moment, then got his second wind and bawled:

“I now pernounce you husbunt an’ wife, an’ may de good Lawd hab mussy on yo’ souls. Amen!”

“Come away from dis pest-house, Tick!” Skeeter snapped as soon as the ceremony was ended. “I been skeart to death fer eve’y minute I been here, an’ I’s smoked cigareetes to keep de ketchin’ miseries away till I sees double!”

The two men ran up the hill toward Limit Lark.

Limit took one horrified look at her husband’s face and reeled backward.

Dazzle Zenor had failed to tell Tick how to get the make-up off his face, and now he was an awful looking thing.

He had rubbed the various paints with a dry cloth and had made a horrifying smear; he had washed the paints with hot and cold water, and some of the colors had “run,” and the effect was one which would make any alcoholic imagine he had ’em again and mount the water-wagon.

“My Gawd, Ticky!” Limit shrieked. “How come you got yo’ face in such a devilish mess?”

“I’s had bad luck, honey,” Tick said mournfully. “I s’pose I got to wait till dis paint wears off!”

“You ain’t nothin’ but a gorm!” Limit shrieked. “You look like a Whut-is-it in a circus show!”

“Cain’t he’p it, honey,” Tick replied. “It’ll wear off in about six months!”

“Dat’s right!” Vinegar Atts howled. “Marse Tom Gaitskill sent word by me dat you two niggers is in quaremtime fer six months. Ef you or Limit comes to town, he’ll hab you put in de jailhouse.”

“Limit kin wear a blind bridle till you git yo’ nachel-bawn color back, Ticky,” Skeeter snickered. “Good-by!”

The four stretcher bearers left the bride and groom and walked up the hill to where their mules were standing.

When Skeeter picked up his driving lines he broke into a loud cackle of laughter.

“Say, fellers,” he snickered. “Ain’t dat Tick Hush a funny nigger man? Ef you wus to set him in one of dese here revolvin’ chairs, he wouldn’t hab sense enough to turn aroun’.”

A Corner in Pickaninnies

A mocking-bird sang his delirious music unnoticed above the head of Skeeter Butts as he sat beneath a chinaberry tree trying to recover from the shock of the latest negro sensation in Tickfall--the separation of Shin Bone and his wife.