Murrell had ridden out of the hills some hours back. He now faced the
flashing splendors of a June sunset, but along the eastern horizon
the mountains rose against a somber sky. Night was creeping into their
fastnesses. Already there was twilight in those cool valleys lying
within the shadow of mighty hills. A month and more had elapsed since
Bob Yancy's trial. Just two days later man and boy disappeared from
Scratch Hill. This had served to rouse Murrell to the need of immediate
action, but he found, where Yancy was concerned, Scratch Hill could keep
a secret, while Crenshaw's mouth was closed on any word that might throw
light on the plans of his friend.
“It's plain to my mind, Captain, that Bladen will never get the boy.
I reckon Bob's gone into hiding with him,” said the merchant, with
spacious candor.
The fugitives had not gone into hiding, however; they had traversed
the state from east to west, and Murrell was soon on their trail and
pressing forward in pursuit. Reaching the mountains, he heard of them
first as ten days ahead of him and bound for west Tennessee, the ten
days dwindled to a week, the week became five days, the five days three;
and now as he emerged from the last range of hills he caught sight of
them. They were half a mile distant perhaps, but he was certain that the
man and boy he saw pass about a turn in the road were the man and boy he
had been following for a month.
He was not mistaken. The man was Bob Yancy and the boy was Hannibal.
Yancy had acted with extraordinary decision. He had sold his few acres
at Scratch Hill for a lump sum to Crenshaw--it was to the latter's
credit that the transaction was one in which he could feel no real pride
as a man of business--and just a day later Yancy and the boy had
quitted Scratch Hill in the gray dawn, and turned their faces westward.
Tennessee had become their objective point, since here was a region to
which they could fix a name, while the rest of the world was strange to
them. As they passed the turn in the road where Murrell had caught
his first sight of them, Yancy glanced back at the blue wall of the
mountains where it lay along the horizon.
“Well, Nevvy,” he said, “we've put a heap of distance between us and old
Scratch Hill; all I can say is, if there's as much the other side of
the Hill as there is this side, the world's a monstrous big place fo' to
ramble about in.” He carried his rifle and a heavy pack. Hannibal had a
much smaller pack and his old sporting rifle, burdens of which his Uncle
Bob relieved him at brief intervals.
For the past ten days their journey had been conducted in a leisurely
fashion. As Yancy said, they were seeing the world, and it was well to
take a good look at it while they had a chance. He was no longer fearful
of pursuit and his temperament asserted itself--the minimum of activity
sufficed. Usually they camped just where the night overtook them; now
and then they varied this by lodging at some tavern, for since there
was money in his pocket, Yancy was disposed to spend it. He could not
conceive that it had any other possible use.
Suddenly out of the silence came the regular beat of hoofs. These grew
nearer and nearer, and at last when they were quite close, Yancy faced
about. He instantly recognized Murrell and dropped his rifle into the
crook of his arm. The act was instinctive, since there was no reason to
believe that the captain had the least interest in the boy. Smilingly
Murrell reined in his horse.
“Why--Bob Yancy!” he cried, in apparent astonishment.
“Yes, sir--Bob Yancy. Does it happen you are looking fo' him, Captain?”
inquired Yancy.
“No--no, Bob. I'm on my way West. Shake hands.” His manner was frank and
winning, and Yancy met it with an equal frankness.
“Well, sir, me and my nevvy are glad to meet some one we've knowed
afore. The world are a lonesome place once you get shut of yo'r own
dooryard,” he said. Murrell slipped from his saddle and fell into step
at Yancy's side as they moved forward.
“They were mightily stirred up at the Cross Roads when I left, wondering
what had come of you,” he observed.
“When did you quit there?” asked Yancy.
“About a fortnight ago,” said Murrell. “Every one approves of your
action in this matter, Yancy,” he went on.
“That's kind of them,” responded Yancy, a little dryly. There was no
reason for it, but he was becoming distrustful of Murrell, and uneasy.
“Bladen's hurt himself by the stand he's taken it this matter,” Murrell
added.
They went forward in silence, Yancy brooding and suspicious. For the
last mile or so their way had led through an unbroken forest, but
a sudden turn in the road brought them to the edge of an extensive
clearing. Close to the road were several buildings, but not a tree had
been spared to shelter them and they stood forth starkly, the completing
touch to a civilization that was still in its youth, unkempt, rather
savage, and ruthlessly utilitarian. A sign, the work of inexpert hands,
announced the somewhat dingy structure of hewn logs that stood nearest
the roadside a tavern. There was a horse rack in front of it and a
trampled space. It was flanked by its several sheds and barns on one
hand and a woodpile on the other. Beyond the woodpile a rail fence
inclosed a corn-field, and beyond the barns and sheds a similar fence
defined the bounds of a stumpy pasture-lot.
From the door of the tavern the figure of a man emerged. Pausing by the
horse rack he surveyed the two men and boy, if not with indifference, at
least with apathy. Just above his head swung the sign with its legend,
“Slosson--Entertainment”; but if he were Slosson, one could take the last
half of the sign either as a poetic rhapsody on the part of the painter,
or the yielding to some meaningless convention, for in his person,
Mr. Slosson suggested none of those qualities of brain or heart that
trenched upon the lighter amenities of life. He was black-haired and
bull-necked, and there was about him a certain shagginess which a recent
toilet performed at the horse trough had not served to mitigate.
“Howdy?” he drawled.
“Howdy?” responded Mr. Yancy.
“Shall you stop here?” asked Murrell, sinking his voice. Yancy nodded.
“Can you put us up?” inquired Murrell, turning to the tavern-keeper.
“I reckon that's what I'm here for,” said Slosson. Murrell glanced about
the empty yard. “Slack,” observed Slosson languidly. “Yes, sir, slack's
the only name for it.” It was understood he referred to the state of
trade. He looked from one to the other of the two men. As his eyes
rested on Murrell, that gentleman raised the first three fingers of
his right hand. The gesture was ever so little, yet it seemed to have a
tonic effect on Mr. Slosson. What might have developed into a smile had
he not immediately suppressed it, twisted his bearded lips as he made
an answering movement. “Eph, come here, you!” Slosson raised his voice.
This call brought a half-grown black boy from about a corner of the
tavern, to whom Murrell relinquished his horse.
“Let's liquor,” said the captain over his shoulder, moving off in the
direction of the bar.
“Come on, Nevvy!” said Yancy following, and they all entered the tavern.
“Well, here's to the best of good luck!” said Murrell, as he raised his
glass to his lips.
“Same here,” responded Yancy. Murrell pulled out a roll of bills, one of
which he tossed on the bar. Then after a moment's hesitation he detached
a second bill from the roll and turned to Hannibal.
“Here, youngster--a present for you;” he said good-naturedly. Hannibal,
embarrassed by the unexpected gift, edged to his Uncle Bob's side.
“Ain't you-all got nothing to say to the gentleman?” asked Yancy.
“Thank you, sir,” said the boy.
“That sounds a heap better. Let's see--why, if it ain't ten
dollars--think of that!” said Yancy, in surprise.
“Let's have another drink,” suggested Murrell.
Presently Hannibal stole out into the yard. He still held the bill in
his hand, for he did not quite know how to dispose of his great wealth.
After debating this matter for a moment he knotted it carefully in one
corner of his handkerchief. But this did not quite suit him, for he
untied the knot and looked at the bill again, turning it over and over
in his hand. Then he folded it carefully into the smallest possible
compass and once more tied a corner of his handkerchief about it, this
time with two knots instead of one; these he afterward tested with his
teeth.
“I 'low she won't come undone now!” he said, with satisfaction. He
stowed the handkerchief away in his trousers pocket, ramming it very
tight with his fist. He was much relieved when this was done, for
wearing a care-free air he sauntered across the yard and established
himself on the top rail of the corn-field fence.
The colored boy, armed with an ax, appeared at the woodpile and began to
chop in the desultory fashion of his race, pausing every few seconds to
stare in the direction of his white compatriot, who met his glance
with reserve. Whereupon Mr. Slosson's male domestic indulged in certain
strange antics that were not rightly any part of woodchopping. This yet
further repelled Hannibal.
“The disgustin' chattel!” he muttered under his breath, quoting his
Uncle Bob, with whom, in theory at least, race feeling was strong. Yancy
appeared at the door of the bar and called to him, and as the boy slid
from the fence and ran toward him across the yard, the Scratch Hiller
sauntered forth to meet him.
“I reckon it's all right, Nevvy,” he said, “but we don't know nothing
about this here Captain Murrell--as he calls himself--though he seems a
right clever sort of gentleman; but we won't mention Belle Plain.” With
this caution he led the way into the tavern and back through the bar to
a low-ceilinged room where Murrell and Slosson were already at table. It
was intolerably hot, and there lingered in the heavy atmosphere of the
place stale and unappetizing odors. Only Murrell attempted conversation
and he was not encouraged; and presently silence fell on the room
except for the rattle of dishes and the buzzing of flies. When they had
finished, the stale odors and the heat drove them quickly into the bar
again, where for a little time Hannibal sat on Yancy's knee, by the
door. Presently he slipped down and stole out into the yard.
The June night was pulsing with life. Above him bats darted in short
circling flights. In the corn-field and pasture-lot the fireflies lifted
from their day-long sleep, showing pale points of light in the half
darkness, while from some distant pond or stagnant watercourse came the
booming of frogs, presently to swell into a resonant chorus. These were
the summer night sounds he had known as far back as his memory went.
In the tavern the three men were drinking--Murrell with the idea that
the more Yancy came under the influence of Slosson's corn whisky the
easier his speculation would be managed. Mr. Yancy on his part believed
that if Murrell went to bed reasonably drunk he would sleep late and
give him the opportunity he coveted, to quit the tavern unobserved at
break of day. Gradually the ice of silence which had held them mute at
supper, thawed. At first it was the broken lazy speech of men who were
disposed to quiet, then the talk became brisk--a steady stream of rather
dreary gossip of horses and lands and negroes, of speculations past and
gone in these great staples.
Hannibal crossed to the corn-field. There, in the friendly gloom, he
examined his handkerchief and felt of the rolled-up bill. Then he made
count of certain silver and copper coins which he had in his other
pocket. Satisfied that he had sustained no loss, he again climbed to the
top rail of the fence where he seated himself with an elbow resting on
one knee and his chin in the palm of his hand.
“I got ten dollars and seventy cents--yes, sir--and the clostest
shooting rifle I ever tossed to my shoulder.” He seemed but small to
have accomplished such a feat. He meditated for a little space. “I
reckon when we strike the settlements again I should like to buy my
Uncle Bob a present.” With knitted brows he considered what this should
be, canvassing Yancy's needs. He had about decided on a ring such as
Captain Murrell was wearing, when he heard the shuffling of bare feet
over the ground and a voice spoke out of the darkness.
“When yo' get to feelin' like sleep, young boss, Mas'r Slosson he says I
show yo' to yo' chamber.” It was Slosson's boy Eph.
“Did you-all happen to notice what they're doing in the tavern now?”
asked Hannibal.
“I low they're makin' a regular hog-killin' of it,” said Eph smartly.
Hannibal descended from the fence.
“Yes, you can show me my chamber,” he said, and his tone was severe.
What a white man did was not a matter for a black man to criticize. They
went toward the open door of the tavern. Mr. Slosson's corn whisky had
already wrought a marked transformation in the case of Slosson himself.
His usually terse speech was becoming diffuse and irrelevant, while
vacant laughter issued from his lips. Yancy was apparently unaffected
by the good cheer of which he had partaken, but Murrell's dark face
was flushed. The Scratch Hiller's ability to carry his liquor exceeded
anything he had anticipated.
“You-all run along to bed, Nevvy,” said Yancy, as Hannibal entered the
room. “I'll mighty soon follow you.”
Eph secured a tin candle-stick with a half-burnt candle in it and led
the way into the passage back of the bar.
“Mas'r Slosson's jus' mo' than layin' back!” he said, as he closed the
door after them.
“I reckon you-all will lay back, too, when you get growed up,” retorted
Hannibal.
“No, sir, I won't. White folks won't let a nigger lay back. Onliest time
a nigger sees co'n whisky's when he's totin' it fo' some one else.”
“I reckon a nigger's fool enough without corn whisky,” said Hannibal.
They mounted a flight of stairs and passed down a narrow hall. This
brought them to the back of the building, and Eph pushed open the door
on his right.
“This heah's yo' chamber,” he said, and preceding his companion into the
room, placed the candle on a chair.
“Well--I low I clean forgot something!” cried Hannibal.
“If it's yo' bundle and yo' gun, I done fotched 'em up heah and laid 'em
on yo' bed,” said Eph, preparing' to withdraw.
“I certainly am obliged to you,” said Hannibal, and with a good night,
Eph retired, closing the door after him, and the boy heard the patter of
his bare feet as he scuttled down the hall.
The moon was rising and Hannibal went to the open window and glanced
out. His room overlooked the back yard of the inn and a neglected truck
patch. Starting from a point beyond the truck patch and leading straight
away to the woodland beyond was a fenced lane, with the corn-field and
the pasture-lot on either hand. Immediately below his window was the
steeply slanting roof of a shed. For a moment he considered the night,
not unaffected by its beauty, then, turning from the window, he moved
his bundle and rifle to the foot of the bed, where they would be out of
his way, kicked off his trousers, blew out the candle and lay down. The
gossip of the men in the bar ran like a whisper through the house, and
with it came frequent bursts of noisy laughter. Listening for these
sounds the boy dozed off.
Yancy had become more and more convinced as the evening passed that
Murrell was bent on getting him drunk, and suspicion mounted darkly to
his brain. He felt certain that he was Bladen's agent. Now, Mr. Yancy
took an innocent pride in his ability to “cool off liquor.” Perhaps it
was some heritage from a well living ancestry that had hardened its head
with Port and Madeira in the days when the Yancys owned their acres and
their slaves. Be that as it may, he was equal to the task he had set
himself. He saw with satisfaction the flush mount to Murrell's swarthy
cheeks, and felt that the limit of his capacity was being reached.
Mr. Slosson had become a sort of Greek chorus. He anticipated all the
possible phases of drunkenness that awaited his companions. He went from
silence to noisy mirth, when his unmeaning laughter rang through the
house; he told long witless stories as he leaned against the bar; he
became melancholy and described the loss of his wife five years before.
From melancholy he passed to sullenness and seemed ready to fasten a
quarrel on Yancy, but the latter deftly evaded any such issue.
“What you-all want is another drink,” he said affably. “With all you
been through you need a tonic, so shove along that extract of cornshucks
and molasses!”
“I'm a rip-staver,” said Slosson thickly. “But I've knowed enough sorrow
to kill a horse.”
“You have that look. Captain, will you join us?” asked Yancy. Murrell
shook his head, but he made a significant gesture to Slosson as Yancy
drained his glass.
“Have a drink with me!” cried Slosson, giving way to drunken laughter.
“Don't you reckon you'll spite yo' appetite fo' breakfast, neighbor?”
suggested Yancy.
“Do you mean you won't drink with me?” roared Slosson.
“The captain's dropped out and I 'low it's about time fo' these here
festivities to come to an end. I'm thinking some of going to bed
myself,” said Yancy. He kept his eyes fixed on Murrell. He realized
that if the latter could prevent it he was not to leave the bar. Murrell
stood between him and the door; more than this, he stood between him and
his rifle, which leaned against the wall in the far corner of the room.
Slosson roared out a protest to his words. “That's all right, neighbor,”
retorted Yancy over his shoulder, “but I'm going to bed.” He never
shifted his glance from Murrell's face. Scowling now, the captain's eyes
blazed back their challenge as he thrust his right hand under his coat.
“Fair play--I don't know who you are, but I know what you want!” said
Yancy, the light in his frank gray eyes deepening. Murrell laughed and
took a forward step. At the same moment Slosson snatched up a heavy club
from back of the bar and dealt Yancy a murderous blow. A single startled
cry escaped the Scratch Hitler; he struck out wildly as he lurched
toward Murrell, who drew his knife and drove it into his shoulder.
Groping wildly, Yancy reached his rifle and faced about. His scalp
lay open where Slosson's treacherous blow had fallen and his face was
covered with blood; even as his fingers stiffened they found the hammer,
but Murrell, springing forward, kicked the gun out of his hands. Dashing
the blood from his eyes, Yancy threw himself on Murrell. Then, as
they staggered to and fro, Yancy dully bent on strangling his enemy,
Slosson--whom the sight of blood had wonderfully sobered--rushed out
from the bar and let loose a perfect torrent of blows with his club.
Murrell felt the fingers that gripped him grow weak, and Yancy dropped
heavily to the floor.
How long the boy slept he never knew, but he awoke with a start and a
confused sense of things. He seemed to have heard a cry for help. But
the tavern was very silent now. The distant murmur of voices and the
shouts of laughter had ceased. He lifted himself up on his elbow
and glanced from the window. The heavens were pale and gray. It was
evidently very late, probably long after midnight but where was his
Uncle Bob?
He sank back on his pillow intent and listening. What he had heard, what
he still expected to hear, he could not have told, but he was sure he
had been roused by a cry of some sort. A chilling terror that gripped
him fast and would not let him go, mounted to his brain. Once he thought
he heard cautious steps beyond his door. He could not be certain, yet
he imagined the bull-necked landlord standing with his ear to some crack
seeking to determine whether or not he slept. His thin little body grew
rigid and a cold sweat started from him. He momentarily expected the
latch to be lifted, then in the heavy silence he caught the sound of
some stealthy movement beyond the lath and plaster partition, and an
instant later an audible footfall. He heard the boards creak and give,
as the person who had been standing before his door passed down the
hall, down the stairs, and to the floor below.
Limp and shivering, he drew his scanty covering tight about him. In the
silence that succeeded, he once more became aware of the tireless
chorus of the frogs, the hooting of the owls, and the melancholy and
oft-repeated call of the whippoorwill. But where was his Uncle Bob? Why
didn't he come to bed? And whose was that cry for help he had heard?
Memories of idle tales of men foully dealt with in these lonely taverns,
of murderous landlords, and mysterious guests who were in league with
them, flashed through his mind.
Murrell had followed them for this--and had killed his Uncle Bob, and
he would be sent back to Bladen! The law had said that Bladen could
have him and that his Uncle Bob must give him up. The law put men in
prison--it hanged them sometimes--his Uncle Bob had told him all about
it--by the neck with ropes until they were dead! Maybe they wouldn't
send him back; maybe they would do with him what they had already done
with his Uncle Bob; he wanted the open air, the earth under his feet,
and the sky over his head. The four walls stifled him. He was not afraid
of the night, he could run and hide in it--there were the woods and
fields where he would be safe.
He slid from the bed, and for a long moment stood cold and shaking, his
every sense on the alert. With infinite caution he got into his trousers
and again paused to listen, since he feared his least movement might
betray him. Reassured, he picked up his battered hat from the floor and
inch by inch crept across the squeaking boards to the window. When the
window was reached he paused once more to listen, but the quiet that was
everywhere throughout the house gave him confidence. He straddled the
low sill, and putting out his hand gripped the stock of his rifle and
drew that ancient weapon toward him. Next he secured his pack, and was
ready for flight.
Encumbered by his belongings, but with no mind to sacrifice them, he
stepped out upon the shed and made his way down the slant of the roof
to the eaves. He tossed his bundle to the ground and going down on his
knees lowered his rifle, letting the muzzle fall lightly against the
side of the shed as it left his hand, then he lay flat on his stomach
and, feet first, wriggled out into space. When he could no longer
preserve his balance, he gave himself a shove away from the eaves and
dropped clear of the building.
As he recovered himself he was sure he heard a door open and close, and
threw himself prone on the ground, where the black shadow cast by the
tavern hid him. At the same moment two dark figures came from about a
corner of the building. He could just distinguish that they carried
some heavy burden between them and that they staggered as they moved.
He heard Slosson curse drunkenly, and a whispered word from Murrell. The
two men slowly crossed the truck patch, and the boy's glance followed
them, his eyes starting from his head. Just at the mouth of the lane
they paused and put down their burden; a few words spoken in a whisper
passed between them and they began to drag some dark thing down the
lane, their backs bent, their heads bowed and the thing they dragged
bumping over the uneven ground.
They passed out of sight, and breathless and palsied, Hannibal crept
about a corner of the tavern. He must be sure! The door of the bar stood
open; the lamps were still burning, and the upturned chairs and a broken
table told of the struggle that had taken place there. The boy rested
his hand on the top step as he stared fearfully into the room. His palm
came away with a great crimson splotch. But he was not satisfied yet.
He must be sure--sure! He passed around the building as the men had
done and crossed the truck patch to the mouth of the lane. Here he slid
through the fence into the corn-field, and, well sheltered, worked his
way down the rows. Presently he heard a distant sound--a splash--surely
it was a splash--.
A little later the men came up the lane, to disappear in the direction
of the tavern. Hannibal peered after them. His very terrors, while they
wrenched and tortured him, gave him a desperate kind of courage. As
the gloom hid the two men, he started forward again; he must know the
meaning of that sound--that splash, if it was a splash. He reached the
end of the cornfield, climbed the fence, and entered a deadening of
slashed and mutilated timber. In the long wet grass he found where the
men had dragged their burden. He reached down and swept his hand to
and fro--once--twice--the third time his little palm came away red and
discolored.
There was the first pale premonition of dawn in the sky, and as he
hurried on the light grew, and the black trunks of trees detached
themselves from the white mist that filled the woods and which the
dawn made visible. There was light enough for him to see that he was
following the trail left by the men; he could distinguish where the dew
had been brushed from the long grass. Advancing still farther, he heard
the clear splash of running water, an audible ripple that mounted into
a silver cadence. Day was breaking now. The lifeless gray along the
eastern horizon had changed to orange. Still following the trail, he
emerged upon the bank of the Elk River, white like the woods with its
ghostly night sweat.
The dull beat of the child's heart quickened as he gazed out on the
swift current that was hurrying on with its dreadful secret. Then
the full comprehension of his loss seemed to overwhelm him and he was
utterly desolate. Sobs shook him, and he dropped on his knees, holding
fast to the stock of his rifle.
“Uncle Bob--Uncle Bob, come back! Can't you come back!” he wailed
miserably. Presently he staggered to his feet. Convulsive sobs still
wrenched his little body. What was he to do? Those men--his Uncle Bob's
murderers--would go to his room; they would find his empty bed and their
search for him would begin! Not for anything would he have gone back
through the corn-field or the lane to the road. He had the courage to
go forward, but not to retrace his steps; and the river, deep and
swift, barred his path. As he glanced about, he saw almost at his feet a
dug-out, made from a single poplar log. It was secured to an overhanging
branch by a length of wild grape-vine. With one last fearful look off
across the deadening in the direction of the tavern, he crept down to
the water's edge and entered the canoe. In a moment, he had it free from
its lashing and the rude craft was bumping along the bank in spite of
his best efforts with the paddle. Then a favoring current caught it and
swept it out toward the center of the stream.
It was much too big and clumsy for him to control without the stream's
help, though he labored doggedly with his paddle. Now he was broadside
to the current, now he was being spun round and round, but always he
was carried farther and farther from the spot where he had embarked. He
passed about a bend; and a hundred yards beyond, about a second bend;
then the stream opened up straight before him a half-mile of smooth
running water. Far down it, at the point where the trees met in the
unbroken line of the forest and the water seemed to vanish mysteriously,
he could distinguish a black moving object; some ark or raft, doubtless.
In the smoother water of the long reach, Hannibal began to make head
against the flood. The farther shore became the nearer, and finally he
drove the bow of his canoe up on a bit of shelving bank, and seizing
his pack and rifle, sprang ashore. Panting and exhausted, he paused just
long enough to push the canoe out into the stream again, and then, with
his rifle and pack in his hands, turned his small tear-stained face
toward the wooded slope beyond. As he toiled up it in the wide silence
of the dawn, a mournful wind burst out of the north, filling the air
about him with withered leaves and the dead branches of trees.