"NIGHT RIDERS"
"A jest and by-word are they grown."
"O Ma! Come here, Ma, quick!"
It was Monday morning, and this peremptory summons for Mrs. Doggett came
from the direction of the tobacco barn, in Joey's voice, hoarse and
unnatural. Mrs. Doggett's hands were in the bread-tray, but she tore the
dough from her fingers, and heedless of the milk pitcher that crashed to
the floor under the impetus of her rush, ran at top speed in the
direction of the call.
"Lord, I jest know some of 'em's killed plumb dead!" she ejaculated as
she ran. "I didn't have bad dreams last night fer nothin'! I been a
lookin' fer them tier-poles to fall on some of 'em at feedin' time! I
told 'em a terbaccer barn wasn't no fitten place to stable hosses! They
ort to 'a' kept 'em a while longer in that old piece o' barn out here,
ef hit did leak!"
Mrs. Doggett was suffering from a corn, which necessitated the use of a
carpet slipper. When she reached the middle of the plowed field, her
slipper came off, throwing her violently. She rose groaning, and with
her mouth full of dirt, but continued her run with unaccelerated speed.
"What is the matter, Joey? Who's killed?"
Mrs. Doggett's throat was dry with apprehension and fear when she
reached the barn, but she managed to gasp out the question.
"Hain't nobody hurt, Ann." Mr. Doggett, pale and dazed, sitting flat on
the dirt floor inside the barn, his back to one of its pillars, answered
her in a voice that was weak and faint. "I bagged Joey not to holler and
skeer you, but he would do hit!"
"Thar's what's the matter, Ma!" Joey, ashy white under his tan, pointed
to the wagon. On the side board was tacked a great sheet of white
wrapping paper covered with writing in big red letters. Against one of
the rear wheels leaned an enormous bundle of ten-foot switches, newly
cut from osage orange trees,--the wicked thorns left on, and the whole
bound with a piece of white cotton rope, ravelled at its end, and
saturated with blood.
From the switches dangled a big bunch of matches, and a necklace made of
a twine string and two dozen loaded cartridges of thirty-eight caliber.
Mrs. Doggett looked at these menacing articles in amazement.
"Whar'd that blood come from?" she gaped, "and who put them thengs
thar?"
"Don't ast me ner Joey who put 'em thar," Mr. Doggett answered her, "all
we know is they're _thar_! When I fust come in, I ketched sight o' them
hedge switches, and them matches and ca'tridges layin' ag'in the waggin.
I says, 'Joey, come here!' Joey, he tuck up the paper and I seed a
change come over him. He turned pale and says, 'Pap, they're a gona git
you!'"
"Hit's got 'Night Riders' signed to hit," Joey informed his mother,
pointing to the big printed words that adorned the lower part of the
paper. "And hit means they're a gona whoop Pap in a inch o' his life fer
a startin' to raise a terbaccer crop this year,--and ef a whoopin' don't
stop him, they're a gona tear up his waggin' and plows, and then burn up
the house! And ef he hain't burnt up, they're a gona shoot him!"
"Man alive! You know that hain't so, Joey!" Mrs. Doggett's face would
have served for a model of unbelieving horror.
"Jes' read the paper and see what hit says!" Joey spoke in the tone of
the convinced.
Mrs. Doggett took a reluctant hold of the paper of warning. "You read
hit, Joey. I hain't got my specs."
Joey obeyed.
"Ephriam Doggett," the paper read, "you are hearbye notifide
not to plant, grow or cut a crop of tobaco this year, 1908. If
you do not obey this notification, you will be ferst,
whipt,--then if this does not convinse you, your tools and
farming impliments will be destroide: then your dwelling will
be burnt even with the grounde, and last, you will be riddeled
with bullits. In proof of your willingness to abide by these
orders, you will have your plant beds destroid by yourse'f or
somebody under your directions before our next vissit, which
will be soone.
"NIGHT RIDERS."
"Holy Powers!" quavered Mrs. Doggett. "Eph, I told you, you wuz a takin'
too much resk a puttin' out them plant beds! I felt like you wouldn't be
'lowed to raise no terbaccer!"
"Why, Ann," Mr. Doggett remonstrated, "I didn't 'low thar'd be no night
ridin' across the River, away over here in the aidge o' the Burley, you
might call hit! Anyway, wouldn't hit be better fer a feller to have his
beds sowed and ready, ef he did git to raise a crop, than not to have no
plants ready?"
"I guess you won't throw off no more now on the Texas kin fer writin'
all skeered up fer fear somepin'd be done to you!" Mrs. Doggett, when
fiercely moved, always maligned Mr. Doggett.
"Eph, you wuz the very gentleman that said Uncle Josh had been a readin'
the papers, and a swallerin' all that wuz in 'em, like a duck a
swallerin' down dough!"
"Well, a body wouldn't 'a' never thought hit!" Mr. Doggett rose weakly,
as unsteady on his feet, as a day old calf, and rubbed his forehead.
"We'd jest as well as go on and feed the hosses, Joey. Big Money's been
a nickerin' fer his breakfast fer an hour, and I'll need him to go to
town and see what Mr. Castle says. Mr. Castle told me a while back I
needn't to plant no terbaccer: he wuz afeerd I wouldn't git to raise
hit, and I ort to 'a' listened."
At this moment there were four bursts of laughter from the roof of the
barn. The three on the floor looked up to see Jappy and Marshall, who
had not come home the evening before,--Dock, who was supposed to be yet
in bed, and Bunch Trisler, sitting in acrobatic fashion across the tier
poles, in a high state of glee.
"Pap, who's a gona git you?" called out Dock, giving vent to a howl that
endangered the safety of his position.
"'Some people swaller down ever' theng they see on a paper, like a duck
does dough,'" quoted Marshall, facetiously, as the four clambered down
from their perch. "We 'lowed they would when we fixed up that notus."
Mr. Doggett and Joey grinned feebly as the perpetrators of the joke,
still laughing, swung themselves to the ground. But Mrs. Doggett was
full of reproach.
"Whar'd that blood come from, I'd like to know?" she asked angrily.
"That's my old Dominecker hin's blood, Ma," Dock informed her. "Me and
Bunch jeet killed her about a hour ago."
Mrs. Doggett turned on Bunch. "You're a nice un, Bunch Trisler," she
inveighed. "You, a married man, with chillern, a puttin' up them boys to
play off sech a caper on their parents! Here I am, wore to a plumb
frazzle, a pullin' through that plowed ground, a runnin', thenkin' Eph,
er one the boys, wuz shore killed! You outdacious scamp, somepin will be
sent on you fer that!"
"Don't be too hard on the boys, Ann," interposed Mr. Doggett, who had
partially regained his spirits: "they didn't mean no great harm,--jest
wanted to have a leetle fun, you might say."
"Fun!" mimicked Mrs. Doggett. "I don't see no fun in no sich jokes, Eph
Doggett, ner nobody else would, with a quarter of a pint o' brains! A
little taste o' jail boardin'd improve the quality o' the little
spoonful you've got in your head, Bunch Trisler! Your recollection
shorely hain't good, er you'd remember about Jake Wilson a bein' give
nine months in jail fer playin' a night rider joke, er two, in _this_
County!"
"But, Ma," argued Dock, "this hain't like sendin' letters through the
Nuniter State's mail! And Jake wouldn't a never been done nothin' to, ef
he hadn't 'a' writ that letter fer that feller that 'tended like he
couldn't write,--that thar Gover'ment 'Tecter that wuz out a runnin'
down the feller that sent them night rider letters to the big men. This
hain't no sendin' through the mail!"
"Hit's the same principle anyhow!" Mrs. Doggett contended, as she
started off, her progress somewhat impeded by the lack of one shoe, "and
hit ort to be paid with some them bread and water rations I've heerd
they have at the jail-houses! Joey and Eph can come to the house
d'reckly, when I ring the bell fer breakfas', but as fer the rest of
you, you c'n fill up on matches and ca'tridges and hedge tree bark fer
all I keer! Thar'll be nothin' on _my_ table for you!"
"The old lady is some mad," apologized Mr. Doggett, "though a body
couldn't scurcely blame her, considerin'. I wuz myse'f ondoubtedly
skeered: hit sorter wilted me down. But, sence hit wuzn't nothin', I
don't see no use in takin' hit to heart. Hit makes a feller feel
powerful good to thenk thar hain't no night riders over here, though. A
body has a heap to be thankful fer, now, don't they?"
"I declar!" said Mr. Doggett, that afternoon, "I thenk I'll go a
feeshin' this evenin': I believe I'll jest step down to the creek thar,
and try to pull me out a sucker! I've been feelin' so unnarved sence
this mornin' I hain't done no good at plowin'. Bein' pestered p'intedly
will cut a feller down!"
"Yes, hit will," agreed Mrs. Doggett, "but I've got to hunt my old gray
turkey hin, I can't holp how bad I feel. She's plumb gone off, the pesky
theng! She's got hit in her mind not to lemme know whar she lays. You
jest keep one eye on the house while I'm gone, will you?"
Miss Nancy James' largest yellow turkey hen, suffering from the same
mental aberration as the gray hen of Mrs. Doggett, held to her
determination to withhold a knowledge of the vicinity of her nest from
her mistress, with a tenacity worthy of a better cause: thus it happened
that Mrs. Doggett and Miss Nancy, in their search for their feathered
properties, met in the Castle pasture field, back of the Doggett house.
"Actually and candidly, thar's more torment than profit in turkey
raisin', hain't thar?" Mrs. Doggett mopped her warm face with her
checked apron, and sank down beside Miss Nancy on the log which lay in
convenient nearness to the spot of their meeting. "I believe I'll jest
quit the turkeys and raise mostly chickens. Miss Nancy, do you reckon
you could swap me some settin's o' hin aigs,--some your black 'Nockers?
My aigs is good as any to sell, but Eph says I've kept my chickens so
long without no change of blood, they've got to be jest pincushions
trimmed in feathers, with darnin' needles stuck in 'em fer legs,--no
chickens at all!"
Miss Nancy, who was wearing an unusual expression of satisfaction,
fanned herself with her faded sun-bonnet, and remarked that she would
have plenty of eggs by the end of the week. Mrs. Doggett made a
surreptitious four seconds study of Miss Nancy's contented countenance.
"Mr. Lindsay," she remarked at the expiration of her scrutiny, "he's
tuck his thengs away from your house."
"Yes, he has," said Miss Nancy in a noncommittal tone as she turned her
head away from Mrs. Doggett and jabbed with the dead iron-weed stalk she
had in her hand at an unoffending chickweed by her ragged shoe.
"He talked like he'd been treated outdacious mean by you all!"
Miss Nancy's face was still averted, but her ears turned crimson.
"I dunno what we've done to him!" she exclaimed.
"Well, he's a talkin' awful about you and your Pa anyway. He tuck you
and him both up last night, and throwed off on you scandalous. I said to
myse'f when he wuz a rantin', 'pore Miss Nancy, he hates her, the Lord
goodness!' He jest called you ever'theng his tongue could lay to. Says
you are a reg'lar rip-tearer, and fer all your pa jest sets and studies
up meanness, he can't turn a wheel to you, when you git on one them
highs o' your'n. He said ef your Ma'd 'a' saw fit to send you to the
ejut-house when you wuz a child, and 'a' never 'a' brung you away 'tel
you wuz a corpse, the world would 'a' had a little somethin' to be
thankful fer in his opinion.
"I spoke up and says: 'Mr. Lindsay, you know you don't mean them thengs!
And he went on and said: 'Miss Lucy is as harmless as a rabbit, and
she's got the disposition of a forgivin' angel, but that old Nancy is as
bitter as quineirn and as ill as a copperhead! She's the devil's
half-sister, ef not more nigh kin.'
"And he said you jest staid thar all the time, a reg'lar cock o' the
walk, and quarreled at Miss Lucy, and she had to mind you er you'd take
the place! And he said Miss Lucy'd fattened ever' little nigger in town,
tryin' to git a boy to stay to do your all's turns, and the reason none
wouldn't stay, you made the time so hot fer 'em, they couldn't stand
hit!
"And when I wuz a wonderin' how many more mean thengs he wuz goin' to
say, he lit in on your _looks_."
Here there was a complete annihilation of the unoffending chickweed.
"He 'lowed," manufactured Mrs. Doggett, "that you wuz as ugly as the
devil before day, and as old-lookin' as I dunno what: said fer all you
wore big leather gloves night and day, your hands wuz as yaller as old
bacon rind, and your mouth looked like a hollyhock, and your eyes like
they wuz bound 'round with red thread!
"I says, 'Mr. Lindsay, I'd hush!' But he went on: 'She's the tightest
human too, I ever knowed,--one o' them that'd skin a flea fer hit's hide
and taller, and then dry the meat fer the dogs!' Said he happened in at
your Pa's once when he wuz a workin' at Mr. Willises, and you had that
little fool nigger Lish down on the kitchen floor, a lickin' up a little
gob o' molasses he'd spilt, to save it!"
"I never thought of sech a theng!" Miss Nancy burst out.
"Well, that's _his_ tale," pacified Mrs. Doggett: "I know'd hit hadn't
no acquaintance with the truth, but I'm jest a tellin' you. He said Miss
Lucy'd put out nice bought Gran'pa tair soap fer him to wash his hands
with, and you'd hide hit away, and put out a spoonful er two o' lye soap
on a saucer."
Miss Nancy's face was furiously flushed, and her eyes gleamed steely.
"Did he tell any more lies on me?" she demanded, when Mrs. Doggett
paused for breath.
"He said you bought a gobbler last year," went on her informer, in glib
prevarication, "from Miss Maude Floss, on condition ef anytheng happened
to her t'other one, you'd sell hit back to her, and hern died, and when
you let her have hit back, you charged her three cents a week fer all
the time you'd had hit, fer _turkey pasture_.
"And he said after all he'd done fer you all, last winter, when he come
back on a friendly visit, he wuz ordered off the place. Then he lit out
on your Pa, and I never heerd the like in my life.
"'Old Milton Jeemes,' he says, 'sets up to the world to be mighty
religious, but he hain't got no Christianity, jest hypocrites before
company. He's about as contrary and overbearin' as people gits to be in
this world, a hard old party, a kind of a dog-man.'
"'He's a bloomin' fer hell,' he says, 'and hell's a gittin' ready fer
him right _now_!'
"I says, 'Mr. Lindsay, somethin'll be sent on you fer that, and don't
you fergit hit!' And I thought to myse'f ef I hated anybody like that,
I'd have more respect'n to be a tryin' to talk to their daughter!"
"Now wouldn't you?" fleered Miss Nancy: "wouldn't you?"
"And talkin' about the brazen impudence o' men, he said: 'Ef I wuz to
take a notion to Miss Lucy, they wouldn't be nothin' in my way thar--the
old man couldn't keep her from havin' me--but I hain't tuck the notion
yit. As fer old Nance--'" Mrs. Doggett had reached the climax of her
narration, "'she'd jump at the chance o' me! Jest see how she does that
old bachelor cousin of Archy Evans that lives there. He comes to see old
man Jeemes sometimes, and you ort to see her fly about in her Sunday
dress, a sayin', "Now Mr. Whitley," jest as fine as a bird twitterin'.
She thenks he's got money.'"
Miss Nancy could endure no more.
"I've got to go!" she announced in a freezing voice, as she stalked off,
leaving all farewells unsaid.
Mrs. Doggett looked after her with a pleased expression.
"Ef ever Miss Lucy Jeemes gits sight o' Mr. Lindsay ag'in," she said
happily to herself, "hit'll be when Miss Nancy is a corpse, not before!"