A SHORT NATURAL HISTORY
If ever a person might be said to have dedicated his being to the
pursuit of leisure, that selfsame was Red Hoss Shackleford, of color,
and highly so. He was one who specialized in the deft and fine high art
of doing nothing at all. With him leisure was at once a calling to be
followed regularly and an ideal to be fostered. But also he loved to
eat, and he had a fancy for wearing gladsome gearings, and these
cravings occasionally interfered with the practice of his favorite
vocation. In order that he might enjoy long periods of manual inactivity
it devolved upon him at intervals to devote his reluctant energies to
gainful labor. When driven to it by necessity, which is said to be the
mother of invention and which certainly is the full sister to appetite,
Red Hoss worked. He just naturally had to--sometimes.
You see, in the matter of being maintained vicariously he was less
fortunately circumstanced than so many of his fellows in our town were,
and still are. He had no ministering parent doing cookery for the white
folks, and by night, in accordance with a time-hallowed custom with
which no sane housekeeper dared meddle, bringing home under a dolman
cape loaded tin buckets and filled wicker baskets. Ginger Dismukes,
now--to cite a conspicuous example--was one thus favored by the
indulgent fates.
Aunt Ca'line Dismukes, mother of the above, was as honest as the day was
long; but when the evening of that day came, such trifles, say, as part
of a ham or a few left-over slices of cake fell to her as a legitimate
if unadvertised salvage. Every time the quality in the big house had
white meat for their dinner, Ginger, down the alley, enjoyed drumsticks
and warmed-up stuffing for his late supper. He might be like the
tapeworm in that he rarely knew in advance what he would have to eat,
but still, like the tapeworm, he gratefully absorbed what was put before
him and asked no questions of the benefactor. Without prior effort on
his part he was fed even as the Prophet Elijah was fed by the ravens of
old. This simile would acquire added strength if you'd ever seen Aunt
Ca'line, her complexion being a crow's-wing sable.
Red Hoss had no dependable helpmate, such as Luther Maydew had, with a
neatly lettered sign in her front window: GOING-OUT WASHING TAKEN IN
HERE. Luther's wife was Luther's only visible means of support, yet
Luther waxed fat and shiny and larded the earth when he walked abroad.
Neither had Red Hoss an indulgent and generous patron such as Judge
Priest's Jeff--Jeff Poindexter--boasted in the person of his master.
Neither was he gifted in the manipulation of the freckled bones as the
late Smooth Crumbaugh had been; nor yet possessed he the skill of shadow
boxing as that semiprofessional pugilist, Con Lake, possessed it. Con
could lick any shadow that ever lived, and the punching bag that could
stand up before his onslaughts was not manufactured yet; wherefore he
figured in exhibition bouts and boxing benefits, and between these lived
soft and easy. He enjoyed no such sinecure as fell to the lot of Uncle
Zack Matthews, who waited on the white gentlemen's poker game at the
Richland House, thereby harvesting many tips and whose otherwise nimble
mind became a perfect blank twice a year when he was summoned before the
grand jury.
Red Hoss did, indeed, have a sister, but the relations between them were
strained since the day when Red Hoss' funeral obsequies had been
inopportunely interrupted by the sudden advent among the mourners of the
supposedly deceased, returning drippingly from the river which
presumably had engulfed him. His unexpected and embarrassing
reappearance had practically spoiled the service for his chief relative.
She never had forgiven Red Hoss for his failure to stay dead, and he
long since had ceased to look for free pone bread and poke chops in that
quarter.
So when he had need to eat, or when his wardrobe required replenishing,
he worked at odd jobs; but not oftener. Ordinarily speaking, his heart
was not in it at all. But at the time when this narrative begins his
heart was in it. One speaks figuratively here in order likewise to speak
literally. A romantic enterprise carried on by Red Hoss Shackleford
through a period of months promised now a delectable climax. As between
him and one Melissa Grider an engagement to join themselves together in
the bonds of matrimony had been arranged.
Before he fell under Melissa's spell Red Hoss had been regarded as one
of the confirmed bachelors of the Plunkett's Hill younger set. He had
never noticeably favored marriage and giving in marriage--especially
giving himself in marriage. It may have been--indeed the forked tongue
of gossip so had it--that the fervor of Red Hoss' courting, when once he
did turn suitor, had been influenced by the fortuitous fact that Melissa
ran as chambermaid on the steamboat _Jessie B._ The fact outstanding,
though, was that Red Hoss, having ardently wooed, seemed now about to
win.
But Melissa, that comely and comfortable person, remained practical even
when most loving. The grandeur of Red Hoss' dress-up clothes may have
entranced her, and certainly his conversational brilliancy was
altogether in his favor, but beyond the glamour of the present, Melissa
had the vision to appraise the possibilities of the future. Before
finally committing herself to the hymeneal venture she required it of
her swain that he produce and place in her capable hands for
safe-keeping, first, the money required to purchase the license; second,
the amount of the fee for the officiating clergyman; and third, cash
sufficient to pay the expenses of a joint wedding journey to St. Louis
and return. It was specified that the traveling must be conducted on a
mutual basis, which would require round-trip tickets for both of them.
Melissa, before now, had heard of these one-sided bridal tours. If Red
Hoss went anywhere to celebrate being married she meant to go along with
him.
Altogether, under these headings, a computed aggregate of at least
eighty dollars was needed. With his eyes set then on this financial
goal, Red Hoss sought service in the marts of trade. Perhaps the
unwonted eagerness he displayed in this regard may have been quickened
by the prospect that the irksomeness of employment before marriage would
be made up to him after the event in a vacation more prolonged than any
his free spirit had ever known. Still, that part of it is none of our
affair. For our purposes it is sufficient to record that the campaign
for funds had progressed to a point where practically fifty per cent of
the total specified by his prudent inamorata already had been earned,
collected and, in accordance with the compact, intrusted to the
custodianship of one who was at once fiancee and trustee.
On a fine autumnal day Red Hoss made a beginning at the task of amassing
the remaining half of the prenuptial sinking fund by accepting an
assignment to deliver a milch cow, newly purchased by Mr. Dick Bell, to
Mr. Bell's dairy farm three miles from town on the Blandsville Road.
This was a form of toil all the more agreeable to Red Hoss--that is to
say, if any form of toil whatsoever could be deemed agreeable to
him--since cows when traveling from place to place are accustomed to
move languidly. By reason of this common sharing of an antipathy against
undue haste, it was late afternoon before the herder and the herded
reached the latter's future place of residence; and it was almost dusk
when Red Hoss, returning alone, came along past Lone Oak Cemetery. Just
ahead of him, from out of the weed tangle hedging a gap in the cemetery
fence, a half-grown rabbit hopped abroad. The cottontail rambled a few
yards down the road, then erected itself on its rear quarters and with
adolescent foolhardiness contemplated the scenery. In his hand Red Hoss
still carried the long hickory stick with which he had guided the steps
of Mr. Bell's new cow. He flung his staff at the inviting mark now
presented to him. Whirling in its flight, it caught its target squarely
across the neck, and the rabbit died so quickly it did not have time to
squeak, and barely time to kick.
Now it is known of all men that luck of two widely different kinds
resides in the left hind foot of a graveyard rabbit. There is bad luck
in it for the rabbit itself, seeing that the circumstance of its having
a left hind foot, to begin with, renders life for that rabbit more
perilous even than is the life of a commonplace rabbit. But there is
abiding good luck in it for the human who falls heir to the foot after
the original possessor has passed away. To insure the maximum of fair
fortune for the legatee, the rabbit while in the act of jumping over a
sunken grave in the dark of the moon should be killed with a crooked
stick which a dead man has carried; but since there is no known record
of a colored person hanging round sunken graves in the dark of the moon,
the left hind foot of an authentic graveyard rabbit slain under any
circumstances is a charm of rare preciousness.
With murky twilight impending, it was not for Red Hoss Shackleford to
linger for long in the vicinity of a burying ground. Already, in the
gloaming, the white fence palings gleamed spectrally and the shadows
were thickening in the honeysuckle jungles beyond them. Nor was it for
him to think of eating the flesh of a graveyard rabbit, even though it
be plump and youthful, as this one was.
Graveyard rabbits, when indubitably known to be such, decorate no
Afro-American skillet. Destiny has called them higher than frying pans.
Almost before the victim of his aim had twitched its valedictory twitch
he was upon it. In his hand, ready for use, was his razor; not his
shaving razor, but the razor he carried for social purposes. He bent
down, and with the blade made swift slashes right and left at a limber
ankle joint, then rose again and was briskly upon his homeward way,
leaving behind him the maimed carcass, a rumpled little heap, lying in
the dust. A dozen times before he reached his boarding house he fingered
the furry talisman where it rested in the bottom of his hip pocket, and
each touching of it conveyed to him added confidences in propitious
auguries.
Surely enough, on the very next day but one, events seemed organizing
themselves with a view to justifying his anticipations. As a consequence
of the illness of Tom Montjoy he was offered and accepted what promised
to be for the time being a lucrative position as Tom Montjoy's
substitute on the back end of one of Fowler & Givens' ice wagons. The
Eighteenth Amendment was not as yet an accomplished fact, though the
dread menace of it hung over that commonwealth which had within its
confines the largest total number of distilleries and bonded warehouses
to be found in any state of this union. Observing no hope of legislative
relief, sundry local saloon keepers had failed to renew their licenses
as these expired. But for every saloon which closed its doors it seemed
there was a soda fountain set up to fizz and to spout; and the books of
Fowler & Givens showed the name of a new customer to replace each
vanished old one. So trade ran its even course, and Red Hoss was
retained temporarily to understudy, as it were, the invalid Montjoy.
In an afternoon lull following the earlier rush of deliveries Mr. Ham
Givens came out to where Tallow Dick Evans, Bill Tilghman and Red Hoss
reclined at ease in the lee of the ice factory's blank north wall and
bade Red Hoss hook up one of the mules to the light single wagon and
carry three of the hundred-pound blocks out to Biederman's ex-corner
saloon, now Biederman's soft-drink and ice-cream emporium, at Ninth and
Washington.
"Better let him take Blue Wing," said Mr. Givens, addressing Bill
Tilghman, who by virtue of priority of service and a natural affinity
for draft stock was stable boss for the firm.
It was Bill Tilghman who once had delivered himself of the sage remark
that "A mule an' a nigger is 'zackly alike--'specially de mule."
"Can't tek Blue Wing, Mist' Givens," answered Bill. "She done went up to
Mist' Gallowayses' blacksmith shop to git herse'f some new shoes."
This pluralization of a familiar name was evidence on Bill Tilghman's
part of the estimation in which he held our leading farrier, Mr. P. J.
Galloway.
"All right, take one of the other mules then. But get a hustle on,"
ordered Mr. Givens as he reentered his office.
"Dat bein' de case, I reckin I'll tek dat white Frank mule," said Red
Hoss. "'Tain't no use of him standin' in de stall eatin' his ole fool
haid off jes' 'cause Tom Montjoy is laid up."
"Boy," said Bill Tilghman, "lissen! You 'cept a word of frien'ship an'
warnin' f'um somebody dat's been kicked by more mules 'en whut you ever
seen in yore whole life, an' you let dat Frank mule stay right whar he
is. You kin have yore choice of de Maud mule or de Maggie mule or Friday
or January Thaw; but my edvice to you is, jes' leave dat Frank mule be
an' don't pester him none."
"How come?" demanded Red Hoss. "I reckin I got de strength to drive ary
mule dey is."
"I ain't sayin' you ain't," stated Bill Tilghman. "A born ijiot could
drive dat mule, so I jedge you mout mek out to qualify. 'Tain't de
drivin' of him--hit's de hitchin' up of him which I speaks of."
Tallow Dick put in, "Hit's dis way wid dat Frank: In his early chilehood
somebody muster done somethin' painful to dat mule's haid, an' it seem
lak it lef' one ondurin' scar in his mind. Anyway, f'um dat day
hencefor'ard he ain't let nobody a-tall, let alone hit's a plum'
stranger to him lak you is, go prankin' round his haid. Ef you think a
mule's back end is his dangersome end you jes' try to walk up to ole
Frank face to face, ez nigger to mule, an' try to hang de mule jewelry
over his years. Da's all, jes' try it! Tom Montjoy is de onliest one
which kin slip de bit in dat mule's mouf, an' de way he do it is to go
into de nex' stall an' keep speakin' soothin' words to him, an' put de
bridle on him f'um behinehand of his shoulder lak. But when Tom Montjoy
ain't wukkin', de Frank mule he ain't wukkin' neither any. Yessuh, Tom
Montjoy is de sole one which dat Frank mule gives his confidences to,
sech as dey is."
Red Hoss snorted his contempt for his warning.
"Huh, de trouble wid dat mule is he's pampered! You niggers done pamper
him twell he think he owns dese whole ice-factory premises. Whut he need
fur whut ails him is somebody which ain't skeered of him. Me, I aims to
go 'crost to dat stable barn over yonder 'crost de street an' walk right
in de same stall wid dat Frank same ez whut I would wid ary other mule,
an' ef he mek jes' one pass at me I'm gwine up wid my fistes an' give
him somethin' to brood over."
Bill Tilghman looked at Tallow Dick, looking at him sorrowfully, as
though haunted by forebodings of an impending tragedy, and shook his
head slowly from side to side. Tallow Dick returned the glance in kind,
and then both of them gazed steadfastly at the vainglorious new hand.
"Son, boy," inquired old Bill softly, "whut is de name of yore mos'
favorite hymn?"
"Whut my favorite hymn got to do wid it?"
"Oh, nothin', only I wuz jes' studyin'. Settin' yere, I got to thinkin'
dat mebbe dey wuz some purticular tune you might lak sung at de grave."
"An' whilst you's tellin' Unc' Bill dat much, you mout also tell us whar
'bouts in dis town you lives at?" added Tallow Dick.
"You knows good an' well whar I lives at," snapped Red Hoss.
"I thought mebbe you mout 'a' moved," said Tallow Dick mildly.
"'Twouldn't never do fur me an' Bill yere to be totin' de remains to de
wrong address. Been my experience dat nothin' ain't mo' onwelcome at a
strange house 'en a daid nigger, especially one dat's about six feet two
inches long an' all mussed up wid fresh mule tracks."
"Huh! You two ole fools is jes' talkin' to hear yo'se'fs talk," quoth
Red Hoss. "All I axes you to do is jes' set quiet yere, an' in 'bout six
minutes f'um now you'll see me leadin' a tamed-down white mule wid de
britchin' all on him outen through dem stable barn do's."
"All right, honey, have it yo' own way. Ef you won't hearken an' you
won't heed, go ahaid!" stated Uncle Bill, with a wave of his hand. "You
ain't too young to die, even ef you is too ole to learn. Only I trust
an' prays dat you won't be blamin' nobody but yo'se'f 'bout this time
day after to-mor' evenin' w'en de sexton of Mount Zion Cullud Cemetery
starts pattin' you in de face wid a spade."
"Unc' Bill, you said a moufful den," added Tallow Dick. "De way I looks
at it, dey ain't no use handin' out sense to a nigger ef he ain't got no
place to put it. 'Sides, dese things offen-times turns out fur de best;
orphants leaves de fewest mourners. Good-by, Red Hoss, an' kindly give
my reguards to any frien's of mine dat you meets up wid on 'yother side
of Jordan."
With another derisive grunt, Red Hoss rose from where he had been
resting, angled to the opposite side of the street and disappeared
within the stable. For perhaps ninety seconds after he was gone the
remaining two sat in an attitude of silent waiting. Their air was that
of a pair of black seers who likewise happen to be fatalists, and who
having conscientiously discharged a duty of prophecy now await with
calmness the fulfillment of what had been foretold. Then they heard,
over there where Red Hoss had vanished, a curious muffled outcry. As
they subsequently described it, this sound was neither shriek nor moan,
neither oath nor prayer. They united in the declaration that it was more
in the nature of a strangled squeak, as though a very large rat had
suddenly been trodden beneath an even larger foot. However, for all its
strangeness, they rightfully interpreted it to be an appeal for succor.
Together they rose and ran across Water Street and into the stable.
The Frank mule had snapped his tether and, freed, was backing himself
out into the open. If a mule might be said to pick his teeth, here was a
mule doing that very thing. Crumpled under the manger of the stall he
just had quitted was a huddled shape. The rescuers drew it forth, and in
the clear upon the earthen stable floor they stretched it. It was
recognizable as the form of Red Hoss Shackleford.
Red Hoss seemed numbed rather than unconscious. Afterward Bill Tilghman
in recounting the affair claimed that Red Hoss, when discovered, was
practically nude clear down to his shoes, which being of the variety
known as congress gaiters had elastic uppers to hug the ankles. This
snugness of fit, he thought, undoubtedly explained why they had stayed
on when all the rest of the victim's costume came off. In his version,
Tallow Dick averred he took advantage of the circumstance of Red Hoss'
being almost totally undressed to tally up bruise marks as
counter-distinguished from tooth marks, and found one of the former for
every two sets of the latter. From this disparity in the count, and
lacking other evidence, he was bound to conclude that considerable
butting had been done before the biting started.
However, these conclusions were to be arrived at later. For the moment
the older men busied themselves with fanning Red Hoss and with sluicing
a bucket of water over him. His first intelligible words upon partially
reviving seemed at the moment of their utterance to have no direct
bearing upon that which had just occurred. It was what he said next
which, in the minds of the hearers, established the proper connection.
"White folks suttinly is curious." Such was his opening remark,
following the water application. "An' also, dey suttinly do git up some
mouty curious laws." He paused a moment as though in a still slightly
dazed contemplation of the statutory idiosyncrasies of the Caucasian,
and then added the key words: "F'rinstance, now, dey got a law dat you
got to keep lions an' tigers in a cage. Yassuh, da's de law. Can't no
circus go 'bout de country widout de lions an' de tigers an' de
highyenas is lock' up hard an' fas' in a cage." Querulously his voice
rose in a tone of wondering complaintfulness: "An' yit dey delibert'ly
lets a man-eatin' mule go ramblin' round loose, wid nothin' on him but a
rope halter."
Across the prostrate form of the speaker Bill Tilghman eyed Tallow Dick
in the reminiscent manner of one striving to recall the exact words of a
certain quotation and murmured, "De trouble wid dat Frank mule is dat
he's pampered."
"Br'er Tilghman," answered back Tallow Dick solemnly, "you done said
it--de mule is been pampered!"
The sufferer stirred and blinked and sat up dizzily.
"Uh-huh," he assented. "An' jes' ez soon ez I gits some of my strength
back ag'in, an' some mo' clothes on, I'm gwine tek de longes', sharpes'
pitchfork dey is in dis yere stable an' I'm gwine pamper dat devilish
mule wid it fur 'bout three-quarters of an hour stiddy."
But he didn't. If he really cherished any such disciplinary designs he
abandoned them next morning at sunup, when, limping slightly, he propped
open the stable doors preparatory to invading its interior. The white
demon, which appeared to have the facility of snapping his bonds
whenever so inclined, came sliding out of the darkness toward him, a
malignant and menacing apparition, with a glow of animosity in two
deep-set eyes and with a pair of prehensile lips curled back to display
more teeth than by rights an alligator should have. It was immediately
evident to Red Hoss that in the Frank mule's mind a deep-seated aversion
for him had been engendered. He had the feeling that potential ill
health lurked in that neighborhood; that death and destruction, riding
on a pale mule, might canter up at any moment. Personally, he decided to
let bygones be bygones. He dropped the grudge as he tumbled backward
through the stable doors and slammed them behind him. That same day he
went to Mr. Ham Givens and announced his intention of immediately
breaking off his present associations with the firm.
"Me, I is done quit foolin' wid ole ice waggins," he announced airily
after Mr. Givens had given him his time. "Hit seems lak my gift is fur
machinery."
"A pusson which wuz keerful wouldn't trust you wid a shoe
buttoner--dat's how high I reguards yore gift fur machinery," commented
Bill Tilghman acidly. Red Hoss chose to ignore the slur. Anyhow, at the
moment he could put his tongue to no appropriate sentence of counter
repartee. He continued as though there had been no interruption:
"Yassuh, de nex' time you two pore ole foot-an'-mouth teamsters sees me
I'll come tearin' by yere settin' up on de boiler deck of a taxiscab.
You better step lively to git out of de way fur me den."
"I 'lows to do so," assented Bill. "I ain't aimin' to git shot wid no
stray bullets."
"How come stray bullets?"
"Anytime I sees you runnin' a taxiscab I'll know by dat sign alone dat
de sheriff an' de man which owns de taxiscab will be right behine
you--da's whut I means."
"Don't pay no 'tention to Unc' Bill," put in Tallow Dick. "Whar you aim
to git dis yere taxiscab, Red Hoss?"
"Mist' Lee Farrell he's done start up a regular taxiscab line,"
expounded Red Hoss. "He's lookin' fur some smart, spry cullid men ez
drivers. Dat natchelly bars you two out, but it lets me in. Mist' Lee
Farrell he teach you de trade fust, an' den he gives you three dollars a
day, an' you keeps all de tips you teks in. So it's so long and fare you
well to you mule lovers, 'ca'se Ise on my way to pick myse' out my
taxiscab."
"Be sure to pick yo'se'f out one which ain't been pampered," was Bill
Tilghman's parting shot.
"Nummine dat part," retorted Red Hoss. "You jes' remember dis after I'm
gone: Mules' niggers an' niggers' mules is 'bout to go out of style in
dis man's town."
In a way of speaking, Red Hoss in his final taunt had the rights of it.
Lumbering drays no longer runneled with their broad iron tires the
red-graveled flanks of the levee leading down to the wharf boats. They
had given way almost altogether to bulksome motor trucks. Closed hacks
still found places in funeral processions, but black chaser craft,
gasoline driven and snorting furiously, met all incoming trains and sped
to all outgoing ones. Betimes, beholding as it were the handwriting on
the wall, that enterprising liveryman, Mr. Lee Farrell, had set up a
garage and a service station on the site of his demolished stable, and
now was the fleet commander of a whole squadron of these tin-armored
destroyers.
Under his tutelage Red Hoss proved a reasonably apt pupil. At the end of
an apprenticeship covering a fortnight he matriculated into a regular
driver, with a badge and a cap to prove it and a place on the night
shift. Red Hoss felt impressive, and bore himself accordingly. He began
taking sharp turns on two wheels. He took one such turn too many. On
Friday night of his first week as a graduate chauffeur he steered his
car headlong into a smash-up from which she emerged with a dished front
wheel and a permanent marcel wave in one fender. As he nursed the
cripple back to the garage Red Hoss exercised an imagination which never
yet had failed him, and fabricated an explanation so plausibly shaped
and phrased as to absolve him of all blameful responsibility for the
mishap.
Mr. Farrell listened to and accepted this account of the accident with
no more than a passing exhibition of natural irritation; but next
morning when Attorney Sublette called, accompanied by an irate client
with a claim for damages sustained to a market wagon, and bringing with
him also the testimony of at least two disinterested eye-witnesses to
prove upon whose shoulders the fault must rest, Mr. Farrell somewhat
lost his customary air of sustained calm. Cursing softly under his
breath, he settled on the spot with a cash compromise; and then calling
the offender to his presence, he used strong and bitter words.
"Look here, boy," he proclaimed, "I've let you off this time with a
cussing, but next time anything happens to a car that you are driving
you've got to come clean with me. It ain't to be expected that a lot of
crazy darkies can go sky-hooting round this town driving pot-metal
omnibuses for me without one of them getting in a smash-up about every
so often, and I'm carrying accident insurance and liability insurance to
cover my risks; but next time you get into a jam I want you to come
through with the absolute facts in the case, so's I'll know where I
stand and how to protect myself in court or out of it. I don't care two
bits whose fault it is--your fault or some other lunatic's fault. The
truth is what I want--the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the
truth, so help you God. And He'll need to help you if I catch you lying
again! Get me?"
"Boss," said Red Hoss fervently, "I gits you."
Two nights later the greater disaster befell. It was a thick, drizzly,
muggy night, when the foreground of one's perspective was blurred by the
murk and when there just naturally was not any background at all. Down
by the Richland House a strange white man wearing a hand-colored
mustache and a tiger-claw watch charm hailed Red Hoss. This person
desired to be carried entirely out of town, to the south yards of the P.
T. & A. Railroad, where Powers Brothers' Carnival Company was detraining
from its cars with intent to pitch camp in the suburb of Mechanicsville
hard by and furnish the chief attractions for a three days' street fair
to be given under the auspices of the Mechanicsville lodge of Knights of
Damon.
After they had quit the paved streets, Red Hoss drove a bumpy course
diagonally across many switch spurs, and obeying instructions from his
fare brought safely up alongside a red-painted sleeping car which formed
the head end of the show train where it stood on a siding. But starting
back he decided to skirt alongside the track, where he hoped the going
might be easier. As he backed round and started off, directly in front
of him he made out through the encompassing mists the dim flare of a
gasoline torch, and he heard a voice uplifted in pleading:
"Come on, Lena! Come on, Baby Doll! Come on out of that, you Queenie!"
Seemingly an unseen white man was urging certain of his lady friends to
quit some mysterious inner retreat and join him where he stood; all of
which, as Red Hoss figured it, was none of his affair. Had he known more
he might have moved more slowly; indeed might have stopped moving
altogether. But--I ask you--how was Red Hoss to know that the chief bull
handler for Powers Brothers was engaged in superintending the unloading
of his large living charges from their traveling accommodations in the
bull car?
There were three of these bulls, all of them being of the gentler sex.
Perhaps it might be well to explain here that the word "bull," in the
language of the white tops, means elephant. To a showman all cow
elephants are bulls just as in a mid-Victorian day, more refined than
this one, all authentic bulls were, to cultured people, cows.
Obeying the insistent request of their master, forth now and down a
wooden runway filed the members of Powers Brothers' World Famous Troupe
of Ponderous Pachydermic Performers. First came Lena, then Baby Doll and
last of all the mighty Queenie; and in this order they lumberingly
proceeded, upon huge but silent feet, to follow him alongside the
cindered right of way, feeling their way through the fog.
Now it is a fact well established in natural history--and in this
instance was to prove a lamentable one--that elephants, unlike lightning
bugs, carry no tail lamps. Of a sudden Red Hoss was aware of a vast,
indefinite, mouse-colored bulk looming directly in the path before him.
He braked hard and tried to swing out, but he was too close upon the
obstacle to avoid a collision.
With a loud metallic smack the bow of the swerving taxicab, coming up
from the rear, treacherously smote the mastodonic Queenie right where
her wrinkles were thickest. Her knees bent forward, and involuntarily
she squatted. She squatted, as one might say, on all points south.
Simultaneously there was an agonized squeal from Queenie and a crunching
sound from behind and somewhat under her, and the tragic deed was done.
The radiator of Red Hoss' car looked something like a concertina which
had seen hard usage and something like a folded-in crush hat, but very
little, if any, like a radiator.
At seven o'clock next morning, when Mr. Farrell arrived at his
establishment, his stricken gaze fastened upon a new car of his which
had become to all intents and purposes practically two-thirds of a car.
The remnant stood at the curbing, where his service car, having towed it
in, had left it as though the night foreman had been unwilling to give
so complete a ruin storage space within the garage. Alongside the
wreckage was Red Hoss, endeavoring more or less unsuccessfully to make
himself small and inconspicuous. Upon him menacingly advanced his
employer.
"The second time in forty-eight hours for you, eh?" said Mr. Farrell.
"Well, boy, you do work fast! Come on now, and give me the cold facts.
How did the whole front end of this car come to get mashed off?"
Tone and mien alike were threatening. Red Hoss realized there was no
time for extended preliminary remarks. From him the truth came
trippingly on the tongue.
"Boss, man, I ain't aimin' to tell you no lies dis time. I comes clean."
"Come clean and come fast."
"A elephint set down on it."
"What!"
"I sez, suh, a elephint set down on it."
In moments of stress, when tempted beyond his powers of self-control,
Mr. Farrell was accustomed to punctuate physically, as it were, the
spoken word. What he said--all he said--before emotion choked him was:
"Why--you--you--" What he did was this: His right arm crooked upward
like a question mark; it straightened downward like an exclamation
point; his fist made a period, or, as the term goes, a full stop on the
point of Red Hoss Shackleford's jaw. What Red Hoss saw resembled this:
* * * * * * *
Only they were all printed flashingly in bright primary colors, reds and
greens predominating.
As the last gay asterisk faded from before his blinking eyes Red Hoss
found himself sitting down on a hard concrete sidewalk. Coincidentally
other discoveries made themselves manifest to his understanding. One was
that the truth which often is stranger than fiction may also on occasion
be a more dangerous commodity to handle. Another was that abruptly he
had severed all business connections with Mr. Lee Farrell's industry.
His resignation had been accepted on the spot, and the spot was the
bulge of his left jaw.
Somewhat dazed, filled with an inarticulate but none the less sincere
conviction that there was neither right nor justice left in a misshapen
world, Red Hoss got up and went away from there. He deemed it the part
of prudence to go utterly and swiftly away from there. It seemed
probable that at any moment Mr. Farrell might emerge from his inner
office, whither, as might be noted through an open window, he had
retired to pour cold water on his bruised knuckles, and get violent
again. The language he was using so indicated.
Presently Red Hoss, with one side of his face slightly swollen and a
curious taste in his mouth, might have been seen boarding a Locust
Street car southbound. He was on his way to Mechanicsville. In the back
part of his brain lurked vaguely a project to seek out the man who owned
those elephants and plead for some fashion of redress for painful
injuries innocently sustained. Perhaps the show gentleman might incline
a charitable ear upon hearing Red Hoss' story. Just how the sufferer
would go about the formality of presenting himself to the consideration
of the visiting dignitary he did not yet know. It was all nebulous and
cloudy; a contingency to be shaped by circumstances as they might
develop. Really sympathy was the balm Red Hoss craved most.
He quit the car when the car quit him--at the end of the line where the
iron bridge across Island Creek marked the boundary between the
municipality and its principal suburb. Even at this hour
Mechanicsville's broadest highway abounded in fascinating sights and
alluring zoological aromas. The carnival formally would not open till
the afternoon, but by Powers Brothers' crews things already had been
prepared against the coming of that time. In all available open spaces,
such as vacant lots abutting upon the sidewalks and the junctions of
cross streets, booths and tents and canvas-walled arenas had been set
up. Boys of assorted sizes and colors hung in expectant clumps about
marquees and show fronts. Also a numerous assemblage of adults of the
resident leisure class, a majority of these being members of Red Hoss'
own race, moved back and forth through the line of fairings, inspired by
the prospect of seeing something interesting without having to pay for
it.
Red Hoss forgot temporarily the more-or-less indefinite purpose which
had brought him hither. He joined a cluster of watchful persons who
hopefully had collected before the scrolled and ornamented wooden
entrance of a tarpaulin structure larger than any of the rest. From
beneath the red-and-gold portico of this edifice there issued a blocky
man in a checkered suit, with a hard hat draped precariously over one
ear and with a magnificent jewel gleaming out of the bosom of a
collarless shirt. All things about this man stamped him as one having
authority over the housed mysteries roundabout. Visibly he rayed that
aura of proprietorship common to some monarchs and to practically all
owners of traveling caravansaries. Seeing him, Red Hoss promptly
detached himself from the group he had just joined, and advanced, having
it in mind to seek speech with this superior-appearing personage. The
white man beat him to it.
"Say, boy, that's right, keep a-coming," he called. His experienced eye
appraised Red Hoss' muscular proportions. "Do you want a job?"
"Whut kinder job, boss?"
"Best job you ever had in your life," declared the white man. "You get
fourteen a week and cakes. Get me? Fourteen dollars just as regular as
Saturday night comes, and your scoffing free--all the chow you can eat
thrown in. Then you hear the band play absolutely free of charge, and
you see the big show six times a day without having to pay for it, and
you travel round and see the country. Don't that sound good to you? Oh,
yes, there's one thing else!" He dangled a yet more alluring temptation.
"And you wear a red coat with brass buttons on it and a cap with a plume
in it."
"Sho' does sound good," said Red Hoss, warming. "Whut else I got to do,
cunnel?"
"Oh, just odd jobs round this pitch here--this animal show."
"Hole on, please, boss! I don't have no truck wid elephints, does I?"
"Nope. The elephants are down the line in a separate outfit of their
own. You work with this show--clean out the cages and little things like
that. Don't get worried," he added quickly, interpreting aright a look
of sudden concern upon Red Hoss' face. "You don't have to go inside the
cages to clean 'em out. You stay outside and do it with a long-handled
tool. I had a good man on this job, but he quit on me unexpectedly night
before last."
The speaker failed to explain that the recent incumbent had quit thus
abruptly as a result of having a forearm clawed by a lady leopard named
Violet.
"'Bout how long is dis yere job liable to last?" inquired Red Hoss. "You
see, cunnel, Ise 'spectin' to have some right important private business
in dis town 'fore so very long."
"Then this is the very job you want. After we leave here to-morrow night
we strike down across the state line and play three more stands, and
then we wind up with a week in Memphis. We close up the season there and
go into winter quarters, and you come on back home. What's your name?"
"My full entitled name is Roscoe Conklin' Shackleford, but 'count of my
havin' a kinder brightish complexion dey mos' gin'rally calls me Red
Hoss. I reckin mebbe dey's Injun blood flowin' in me."
"All right, Red Hoss, let it flow. You just come on with me and I'll
show you what you'll have to do. My name is Powers--Captain Powers."
Proudly sensing that already he was an envied figure in the eyes of the
group behind him, Red Hoss followed the commanding Powers back through a
canvas-sided marquee into a circular two-poled tent. There were no
seats. The middle spaces were empty. Against the side walls were ranged
four cages. One housed a pair of black bears of a rather weather-beaten
and travel-worn aspect. Next to the bears, the lady leopard, Violet,
through the bars contemplated space, meanwhile wearing that air of
intense boredom peculiar to most caged animals. A painted inscription
above the front of the third cage identified its occupant as none other
than The Educated Ostrich; the Bird That Thinks.
Red Hoss' conductor indicated these possessions with a lordly wave of
his arm, then led the way to the fourth cage. It was the largest cage of
all; it was painted a bright and passionate red. It had gilded
scrollings on it. Upon the ornamented facade which crossed its front
from side to side a lettered legend ran. Red Hoss spelled out the
pronouncement:
Chieftain, King of Feline Acrobats! The Largest Black-maned Nubian Lion
in Captivity! Danger!
The face of the cage was boarded halfway up, but above the top line of
the planked cross panel Red Hoss could make out in the foreground of the
dimmed interior a great tawny shape, and at the back, in one corner, an
orderly clutter of objects painted a uniform circus blue. There was a
barrel or two, an enormous wooden ball, a collapsible fold-up seesaw and
other impedimenta of a trained-animal act. Red Hoss had heard that the
lion was a noble brute--in short, was the king of beasts. He now was
prepared to swear it had a noble smell. Beneath the cage a white man in
overalls slumbered audibly upon a tarpaulin folded into a pallet.
"There's the man you take your orders from if you join us," explained
Powers, flirting a thumb toward the sleeper. "Name of Riley, he is. But
you draw your pay from me." With his arm he described a circle. "And
here's the stock you help take care of. The only one you need to be
careful about is that leopard over yonder. She gets a little peevish
once in a while. Well, I would sort of keep an eye on the ostrich here
alongside you too. The old bird's liable to cut loose when you ain't
looking and kick the taste out of your mouth. You give them both their
distances. But those bears behind you is just the same as a pair of
puppies, and old Chieftain here--well, he looks pretty fierce and he
acts sort of fierce too when he's called on for it, but it's just acting
with him; he's trained to it. Off watch, he's just as gentle as an
overgrown kitten. Riley handles him and works him, and all you've got to
do when Riley is putting him through his stunts is to stand outside here
and hand him things he wants in through the bars. Well, is it a go?
Going to take the job?"
"Boss," said Red Hoss, "you speaks late--I done already tooken it."
"Good!" said Powers. "That's the way I love to do business--short and
sweet. You hang round for an hour or two and sort of get acquainted with
things until Riley has his nap out. When he wakes up, if I ain't back by
that time, you tell him you're the new helper, and he'll wise you up."
"Yas suh," said Red Hoss. "But say, boss, 'scuse me, but did I
understand you to mention dat eatin' was in de contract?"
"Sure! Hungry already?"
"Well, suh, you see I mos' gin'rally starts de day off wid breakfust,
an' to tell you de truth I ain't had nary grain of breakfust yit!"
"Got the breakfast habit, eh? Well, come on with me to the cook house
and I'll see if there ain't something left over."
Despite the nature of his calling as a tamer of ferocious denizens of
the tropic jungle, Mr. Riley, upon wakening, proved to be a person of a
fairly amiable disposition. He made it snappy but not unduly burdensome
as he initiated Red Hoss into the rudimentary phases of the new
employment. As the forenoon wore on the conviction became fixed in Red
Hoss' mind that for an overlord he had a white man who would be apt to
listen to reason touching on any proposition promising personal profits
with no personal risks.
Sharp upon this diagnosis of his new master's character, a magnificent
idea, descending without warning like a bolt from the blue, struck Red
Hoss on top of his head and bored in through his skull and took prompt
root in his entranced and dazzled brain. It was a gorgeous conception;
one which promised opulent returns for comparatively minor exertions. To
carry it out, though, required cooperation, and in Riley he saw with a
divining glance--or thought he saw--the hope of that cooperation.
In paving the way for confidential relations he put to Riley certain
leading questions artfully disguised, and at the beginning seemingly
artlessly presented. By the very nature of Riley's answers he was
further assured of the safety of the ground on which he trod, whereupon
Red Hoss cautiously broached the project, going on to amplify it in
glowing colors the while Riley hearkened attentively.
It was a sheer pleasure to outline a proposition to a white gentleman
who received it so agreeably. Fifteen minutes after the first tentative
overtures had been thrown out feeler-wise, Red Hoss found that he and
Riley were in complete accord on all salient points. Indeed they already
were as partners jointly committed to a joint undertaking.
After the third and last afternoon performance, in which Red Hoss,
wearing a proud mien and a somewhat spotty uniform coat, had acquitted
himself in all regards creditably, Riley gave him a leave of absence of
two hours, ostensibly for the purpose of quitting his boarding house and
collecting his traveling wardrobe. As a matter of fact, these details
really required but a few minutes, and it had been privily agreed
between them that the rest of the time should be devoted by Red Hoss to
setting in motion the actual preliminaries of their scheme.
This involved a personal call upon Mr. Moe Rosen, who conducted a hide,
pelt, rag, junk, empty-bottle and old-iron emporium on lower Court
Street, just off the Market Square. September's hurried twilight had
descended upon the town when the scouting conspirator tapped for
admission at the alley entrance to the back room of Mr. Rosen's
establishment, where the owner sat amid a variegated assortment of
choicer specimens culled from his collected wares. Mr. Rosen needed no
sign above his door to inform the passing public of the nature of his
business. When the wind was right you could stand two blocks away and
know it without being told. Here at Mr. Rosen's side door Red Hoss
smacked his nostrils appreciatively. Even to one newly come from a
wild-animal show, and even when smelled through a brick wall, Mr.
Rosen's place had a graphic and striking atmosphere which was all its
own.
As one well acquainted with the undercurrents of community life, Red
Hoss shared, with many others, the knowledge that Mr. Rosen, while
ostensibly engaged in one industry, carried on another as a sort of
clandestine by-product. Now this side line, though surreptitiously
conducted and perilous in certain of its aspects, was believed by the
initiated to be really more lucrative than his legitimatized and avowed
calling. Mr. Rosen was by way of being--by a roundabout way of
being--what technically is known as a bootlegger. He bootlegged upon a
larger scale than do most of those pursuing this precarious avocation.
It was stated in an earlier paragraph that national prohibition had not
yet come to pass. But already local option held the adjoining
commonwealth of Tennessee in a firm and arid grasp; wherefore Mr.
Rosen's private dealings largely had to do with discreet clients
thirstily residing below the state line. It was common rumor in certain
quarters that lately this traffic had suffered a most disastrous
interruption. Tennessee revenue agents suddenly had evinced an
unfriendly curiosity touching on vehicular movements from the Kentucky
side.
A considerable chunk of Mr. Rosen's profits for the current year had
been irretrievably swallowed up when a squad of these suspicious
excisemen laid their detaining hands upon a sizable order of case stuff
which--disguised and broadly labeled as crated household goods--was
traveling southward by nightfall in a truck, heading toward a
destination in a district which that truck was destined never to reach.
Bottle by bottle the aromatic contents of the packages had been poured
into the wayside ditch to be sucked up by an unappreciative if porous
soil. The truck itself had been confiscated. Its driver barely had
escaped, to return homeward afoot across country bearing dire tidings to
his employer, who was reported, upon hearing the lamentable news,
literally to have scrambled the air with disconsolate flappings of his
hands, meanwhile uttering shrill cries of grief.
Moreover, as though to top this stroke of ill luck, further activities
in the direction of his most profitable market practically had been
brought to a standstill by reason of enhanced vigilance on the part of
the Tennessee authorities along the main highroads running north and
south. Between supply and demand, or perhaps one should say between
purveyor and consumer, the boundary mark dividing the sister
commonwealths stretched its dead line like a narrow river of despair. It
was not to be wondered at, therefore, that the sorely pestered Mr. Rosen
should be at this time a prey to care so carking as to border on
forthright melancholia. Never a particularly cheerful person, at Red
Hoss' soft knock upon his outer door he raised a countenance completely
clothed in moroseness where not clothed in whiskers and grunted
briefly--a sound which might or might not be taken as an invitation to
enter. Nor was his greeting, following upon the caller's soft-footed
entrance, calculated to promote cordial intercourse.
"What you want, nigger?" he demanded, breaking in on Red Hoss' politely
phrased greeting. Then without waiting for a reply, "Well, whatever it
is, you don't get it. Get out!"
Nevertheless, Red Hoss came right on in. Carefully he closed the door
behind him, shutting himself in with Mr. Rosen and privacy and a
symposium of strong, rich smells.
"'Scuse me, Mist' Rosen," he said, "fur bre'kin' in on you lak dis, but
I got a little sumpin' to say to you in mos' strictes' confidence. Seems
lak to me I heard tell lately dat you'd had a little trouble wid some
white folkses down de line. Co'se dat ain't none o' my business. I jes'
mentioned it so's you'd understan' whut it is I wants to talk wid you
about."
He drew up an elbow length away from Mr. Rosen and sank his voice to an
intimate half whisper.
"Mist' Rosen, le's you an' me do a little s'posin'. Le's s'posen' you
has a bar'l of vinegar or molasses or sumpin' which you wants delivered
to a frien' in Memphis, Tennessee. Seems lak I has heared somewhars dat
you already is got a frien' or two in Memphis, Tennessee? All right den!
S'posin', den, dat you wrote to your frien' dat dis yere bar'l would be
comin' along to him inside of a week or ten days f'um now wid me in de
full charge of it. S'posin', den, on top o' dat I could guarantee you to
deliver dat bar'l to your frien' widout nobody botherin' dat bar'l on de
way, and widout nobody 'spectin' whut wuz in dat bar'l, an' widout
nobody axin' no hard questions about dat bar'l. S'posin' all dem things,
ef you please, suh, an' den I axes you dis question: How much would dat
favor be wuth to you in cash money?"
As a careful business man, Mr. Rosen very properly pressed for further
particulars before in any way committing himself in the matter of the
amount of remuneration to be paid for the accommodation proposed. At
this evidence of interest on the other's part Red Hoss grinned in happy
optimism.
"Mist' Rosen, 'twon't hardly be no trouble a-tall," he stated. "In de
fust place, you teks a pot o' blue paint an' you paints dat bar'l blue
f'um head to foot. De bluer dat bar'l is de more safer she'll be. An' to
mek sure dat de color will be right yere's a sample fur you to go by."
With that, Red Hoss produced from a hip pocket a sliver of plank
painted on both sides in the cerulean hue universally favored by circus
folk for covering seat boards, tent poles and such paraphernalia of a
portable caravansary as is subject to rough treatment and frequent
handling. At this the shock of surprise was such as almost to lift Mr.
Rosen up on top of the cluttered desk which separated him from his
visitor. It did lift him halfway out of his chair.
"Nigger," he declared incredulously, "you talk foolishness! A mile away
those dam Tennessee constables would be able to see a plain barrel which
ain't got no paint on it at all, and now you tell me I should paint a
barrel so blue as the sky, and yet it should get through from here to
Memphis. Are you crazy in the head or something, or do you maybe think I
am?"
"Nummine dat," went on Red Hoss. "You do lak I tells you, an' you paints
de bar'l right away so de paint'll git good an' dry twixt now an'
We'n'sday night. Come We'n'sday night, you loads dat blue bar'l in a
waggin an' covers it up an' you fetches it to me at de back do' of de
main wild animal tent of dat carnival show which is now gwine on up yere
in Mechanicsville. Don't go to de tent whar de elephints is. Go to de
tent whar de educated ostrich is. Dar you'll fin' me. I done tuk a job
as de fust chief 'sistant wild-animal trainer, an' right dar I'll be
waitin'. So den you turns de bar'l over to me an' you goes on back home
an' you furgits all 'bout it. Den in 'bout two weeks mo' when I gits
back yere I brings you a piece o' writin' f'um de gen'elman in Memphis
sayin' dat de bar'l has been delivered to him in good awder, an' den you
pays me de rest o' de money dat's comin' to me." He had a canny second
thought. "Mebbe," he added, "mebbe it would be better for all concern'
ef you wrote to yore frien' in Memphis to hand me over de rest of de
money when I delivers de bar'l. Yassuh, I reckins dat would be de best."
"The rest of what money?" demanded Mr. Rosen sharply. "I ain't said
nothing about giving no money to nobody. What do you mean--money?"
"I mean de rest of de money which'll be comin' to me ez my share,"
explained Red Hoss patiently. "De white man dat's goin' to he'p me wid
dis yere job, he 'sists p'intedly dat he must have his share paid down
cash in advance 'count of him not bein' able to come back yere an'
collek it fur hisse'f, an' likewise 'count of him not keerin' to have no
truck wid de gen'elman at de other end of de line. De way he put it, he
wants all of his'n 'fore he starts. But me, Ise willin' to wait fur de
bes' part of mine anyhow. So dat's how it stands, Mist' Rosen, an'
'scusin' you an' me an' dis yere white man an' your frien' in Memphis,
dey ain't nary pusson gwine know nothin' 'bout it a-tall, 'ceptin' mebbe
hit's de lion. An' ez fur dat, w'y de lion don't count noways, 'count
of him not talkin' no language 'ceptin' 'tis his own language."
"The lion?" echoed Mr. Rosen blankly. "What lion? First you tell me blue
barrel and then you tell me lion."
"I means Chieftain--de larges' black-mangy Nubbin lion in captivation,"
stated Red Hoss grandly, quoting from memory his own recollection of an
inscription he but lately had read for the first time. "Mist' Rosen,
twixt you an' me, I reckins dey ain't no revenue officer in de whole
state of Tennessee which is gwine go projeckin' round a lion cage
lookin' fur evidence."
Disclosing the crux of his plot, his voice took on a jubilant tone.
"Mist' Rosen, please, suh, lissen to me whut Ise revealin' to you. Dat
blue bar'l of yourn is gwine ride f'um yere plum' to Memphis, Tennessee,
in a cage wid a lion ez big ez ary two lions got ary right to be! An'
now den, Mist' Rosen, le's you an' me talk 'bout de money part of it;
'cause when all is said an' done, dat's de principalest part, ain't it?"
The town of Wyattsville was, as the saying goes, all agog. Indeed, as
the editor of the Wyattsville Tri-Weekly Statesman most aptly phrased it
in the introductory sentence of a first-page, full-column article in his
latest issue: "This week all roads run to Wyattsville."
The occasion for all this pleasurable excitement wast the annual fair
and races of the Forked Deer County Jockey Club, and superimposed upon
that the street carnival conducted under the patronage and for the
benefit of Wyattsville Herd Number 1002 of the Beneficent and Patriotic
Order of American Bison. Each day would be a gala day replete with
thrills and abounding in incident; in the forenoons grand free
exhibitions upon the streets, also judgings and awards of prizes in
various classes, such as farm products, livestock, poultry, needlework,
pickles, preserves and art objects; in the afternoons, on the half-mile
track out at the fair grounds, trotting, pacing and running events; in
the evenings the carnival spirit running high and free, with
opportunities for innocent mirth, merriment and entertainment afforded
upon every hand.
This was Monday night, the opening night. The initial performance of the
three on the nightly schedule of Powers Brothers' Trained Wild Animal
Arena approached now its climax, the hour approximately being
eight-forty-five. The ballyhoo upon the elevated platform without had
been completed. Hard upon this an audience of townspeople and visitors
which taxed the standing capacity of the tented enterprise had flowed
in, after first complying with the necessary financial details at the
ticket booth. The Educated Ostrich, the Bird That Thinks, had performed
to the apparent satisfaction of all, though it might as well be
confessed that if one might judge by the intelligent creature's
expression, the things it thought while going through its paces scarcely
would be printable. Violet, the lady leopard, had obliged by yowling in
a spirited and spitty manner when stirred up with a broom handle. The
two bears had given a complete if somewhat lackadaisical rendition of
their act. And now the gentlemanly orator in charge, who, after his
ballyhoos, doubled as master of ceremonies and announcer of events,
directed the attention of the patrons to the largest cage of the four.
As was customary, the culminating feature of the program had been
invested with several touches of skillful stage management, the purpose
being to enhance the thrills provided and send the audience forth
pleased and enthusiastic. In high boots and a tiger-skin tunic, Mr.
Riley, armed with an iron bar held in one hand and a revolver loaded
with blank cartridges in the other, stood poised and prepared to leap
into the den at the ostensible peril of his life and put his ferocious
charge through a repertoire of startling feats. His eye was set, his
face determined; his lower jaw moved slowly. This steel-hearted man was
chewing tobacco to hide any concern he might feel.
Red Hoss Shackleford, resplendent in his official trappings, made an
elaborate ceremonial of undoing the pins and bolts which upheld the
wooden panels across the front elevation of the cage. The announcer took
advantage of the pause thus artfully contrived to urge upon the
spectators the advisability of standing well back from the guard ropes.
Every precaution had been taken, he informed them, every possible
safeguard provided, but for their own sakes it were well to be on the
prudent side in case the dauntless trainer should lose control over his
dangerous pupil. This warning had its usual effect. With a forward rush
everyone instantly pressed as closely as possible into the zone of
supposed menace.
Here a curious psychological fact obtrudes. In each gathering of this
character is at least one parent, generally a father, who habitually
conveys his offsprings of tender years to places where they will be
acutely uncomfortable, and by preference more especially to spots where
there is a strong likelihood that they may meet with a sudden and
violent end. Wyattsville numbered at least one such citizen within her
enrolled midst. He was here now, jammed up against the creaking rope,
holding fast with either clutch to a small and a sorely frightened child
who wept.
Red Hoss finished with the iron catches. Behind the shielding falsework
he heard and felt the rustle and the heave of a great sinewy body
threshing about in a confined space. He turned his head toward the
announcer, awaiting the ordained signal.
"Are you all ready?" clarioned that person. "Then go!"
With a clatter and crash down came the wooden frontage. It was a part
of the mechanics intrusted to the docile and intelligent Chieftain that
so soon as the woodwork had dropped he, counterfeiting an unappeasable
bloodthirstiness, should fling himself headlong against the straining
bars, uttering hair-raising roars. This also was the cue for Riley to
wriggle nimbly through a door set in the end of the cage and slam the
door behind him; then to outface the great beast and by threats, with
bar and pistol both extended, to force him backward step by step, still
snarling but seemingly daunted, round and round the cage. Finally, when
through the demonstrated power of the human eye Chieftain had been
sufficiently cowed, Riley would begin the stirring entertainment for
which all this had been a spectacular overture. Such was the preliminary
formula, but for once in his hitherto blameless life Chieftain failed to
sustain his role.
He did not dash at his prison bars as though to rend them from their
sockets; he did not growl in an amazingly deep bass, as per inculcated
schooling; he did not bare the yellow fang nor yet unsheathe the cruel
claw. With apparent difficulty, rising on his all fours from where he
was crouched in the rear left-hand corner of his den, Chieftain advanced
down stage with what might properly be called a rolling gait. Against
the iron uprights he lurched, literally; then, as though grateful for
their support, remained fixed there at a slanted angle for a brief
space.
A faunal naturalist, versed in the ways of lions, would promptly have
taken cognizance of the fact that Chieftain, upon his face, wore an
expression unnatural for lions to wear. It was an expression which might
be classified as dreamily good-natured. His eyes drooped heavily, his
lips were wreathed in a jovial feline smile. Transfixed as he was by a
shock of astonishment and chagrin, Riley under his breath snapped a word
of command.
In subconscious obedience to his master's voice, Chieftain slowly
straightened himself, came to an about face, and with his massive head
canted far to one side and all adroop as though its weight had become to
him suddenly burdensome, and his legs spraddled widely apart to hold him
upright, he benignantly contemplated the sea of expectant and eager
faces that stretched before him. Slowly he lifted a broad forefoot and
with its padded undersurface made a fumbling gesture which might have
been interpreted as an attempt on his part to wipe his nose.
The effort proved too much for him. Lacking one important prop, he lost
his balance, toppled over and fell heavily upon his side. The fall
jolted his mouth widely ajar, and from the depths of his great throat
was emitted an immense but unmistakable hiccup--a hiccup deep, sincere
and sustained, having a high muzzle velocity and humidly freighted with
an aroma as of a hundred hot mince pies.
From the spellbound crowd rose a concerted gasp of surprise. Chieftain
heeded it not. With the indubitable air of just recalling a pleasant but
novel experience, and filled with a newborn desire to renew the
sensation, he groggily regained his feet and reeled back to the corner
from whence he had come. Here, with the other properties of his act, a
slickly painted blue barrel stood upended. Applying his nose to a spot
at the base of it, he lapped greedily at a darkish aromatic liquid
which, as the entranced watchers now were aware, oozed forth in a stream
upon the cage floor through a cranny treacherously opened between two
sprung staves. And all the while he tongued up the escaping runlet of
fluid he purred and rumbled joyously and his tawny sides heaved and
little tremors of pure ecstasy ran lengthwise through him to expire
diminishingly in lesser wriggles at the tufted tip of his gently
flapping tail.
Then all at once understanding descended upon the audience, and from
them together rose a tremendous whoop. A joyous whoop it was, yet tinged
with a feather edging of jealous regret on the part of certain adult
whoopers there. They had paid their quarters, these worthy folk, to see
a lion perform certain tricks and antics; and lo, they had been
vouchsafed the infinitely more unique spectacle of a lion with a jag
on! It was a boon such as comes but once in many lifetimes, this
opportunity to behold majestic Leo, converted into a confirmed inebriate
by his first indulgence in strong and forbidden waters, returning to his
tippling.
To some perhaps in this land of ours the scene would have served to
point a moral and provide a text--a lamentable picture of the evils of
intemperance as exemplified in its effects upon a mere unreasoning dumb
brute. But in this assemblage were few or none holding the higher view.
Unthoughtedly they yelled their appreciation, yelling all the louder
when Chieftain, having copiously refreshed himself, upreared upon his
hind legs, with both his forepaws winnowing the perfumed air, and after
executing several steps of a patently impromptu dance movement, tumbled
with a happy, intoxicated gurgle flat upon his back and lapsed into a
coma of total insensibility.
But there was one among them who did not cheer. This one was a
square-jawed person who, shoving and scrooging, cleft a passage through
the applauding multitude, and slipped deftly under the ropes and laid a
detaining grasp upon the peltry-clad shoulder of the astonished Riley.
With his free hand he flipped back the lapel of his coat to display a
badge of authority pinned on the breast of his waistcoat.
"What's the main idea?" His tone was rough. "Who's the chief booze
smuggler of this outfit? How'd that barrel yonder come to be traveling
across country with a soused lion?"
"You can search me!" lied Riley glibly. "So help me, Mike, all I know is
that that barrel was slipped over on me by a big nigger that joined out
with us up here in Kentucky a week ago! I told him to get me a barrel,
meaning to teach the lion a new trick, and he stuck that one in there.
But I hadn't never got round to using it yet, and I didn't know it was
loaded--I'll swear to that!"
Cast in another environment, Mr. Riley might have made a good actor.
Even here, in an embarrassing situation calling for lines spoken ad lib.
and without prior rehearsals, he had what the critics term sincerity.
His fine dissembling deceived the revenue man.
"Well, that being the case, where is this here nigger, then?" demanded
the officer.
Riley looked about him.
"I don't see him," he said. "He was right alongside just a moment ago
too. I guess he's gone."
This, in a sense, was the truth, and in still another sense an
exaggeration. Red Hoss was not exactly gone, but he certainly was going.
A man on horseback might have overtaken him, but with the handicap of
Red Hoss' flying start against the pursuing forces no number of men
afoot possibly could hope to do so.
At the end of the second mile, and still going strong, the fugitive
bethought him to part with his red coat. He already had run out from
under his uniform cap, but a red coat with a double row of brass buttons
and brass-topped epaulettes on it flashing next morning across a bland
autumnal landscape would be calculated to attract undesired attention.
So without slackening speed he took it off and cast it behind him into
the darkness. Figuratively speaking, he breathed easier when he crossed
the state line at or about five A.M. As a matter of fact, though, he was
breathing harder. Some hours elapsed before he caught up with his
panting.
Traveling in his shirt sleeves, he reached home too late for the
wedding. Still, considering everything, he hardly would have cared to
attend anyhow. Either he would have felt embarrassed to be present or
else the couple would, or perhaps all three. On such occasions nothing
is more superfluous than an extra bridegroom. The wedding in question
was the one uniting Melissa Grider and Homer Holmes. It was generally
unexpected--in fact, sudden.
The marriage took place on a Wednesday at high noon in the office of
Justice of the Peace Dycus. Red Hoss arrived the same afternoon, shortly
after the departure of the happy pair for Cairo, Illinois, on a
honeymoon tour. All along, Melissa had had her heart set on going to
St. Louis; but after the license had been paid for and the magistrate
had been remunerated there remained but thirty-four dollars of the fund
she had been safeguarding, dollar by dollar, as her other, or regular,
fiance earned it. So she and Homer compromised on Cairo, and by their
forethought in taking advantage of a popular excursion rate they had, on
their return, enough cash left over to buy a hanging lamp with which to
start up housekeeping.
Late that evening, while Red Hoss still wrestled mentally with the
confusing problem of being engaged to a girl who just had been married
to another, a disquieting thought came abruptly to him, jolting him like
a blow. Looking back on events, he was reminded that the sequence of
painful misadventures which had befallen him recently dated, all and
sundry, from that time when he was coming back down the Blandsville Road
after delivering Mr. Dick Bell's new cow and acquired a fresh hind foot
of a graveyard rabbit. He had been religiously toting that presumably
infallible charm against disaster ever since--and yet just see what had
happened to him! Surely here was a situation calling for interpretive
treatment by one having the higher authority. In the person of the
venerable Daddy Hannah--root, herb and conjure doctor--he found such a
one.
Before going into consultation the patriarch forethoughtedly collected a
fee of seventy-five cents from Red Hoss. At the outset he demanded two
dollars, but accepted the six bits, because that happened to be all the
money the client had. This formality concluded, he required it of Red
Hoss that he recount in their proper chronological order those various
strokes of ill fortune which lately had plagued him; after which Daddy
Hannah asked to see the talisman which coincidentally had been in the
victim's ownership from beginning to culmination of the enumerated
catastrophes. He took it in his wrinkled hand and studied it, sides, top
and bottom, the while Red Hoss detailed the exact circumstances
attending the death of the bunny. Then slowly the ancient delivered his
findings.
"In de fust an' fo'mos' place," stated Daddy Hannah, "dis yere warn't no
reg'lar graveyard rabbit to start off wid. See dis li'l' teeny black
spot on de und'neath part? Well, dat's a sho' sign of a witch rabbit. A
witch rabbit he hang round a buryin' ground, but he don't go inside of
one--naw, suh, not never nur nary. He ain't dare to. He stay outside an'
frolic wid de ha'nts w'en dey comes fo'th, but da's all. De onliest
thing which dey is to do when you kills a witch rabbit is to cut off de
haid f'um de body an' bury de haid on de north side of a log, an' den
bury de body on de south side so's dey can't jine together ag'in an'
resume witchin'. So you havin' failed to do so, 'tain't no wonder you
been havin' sech a powerful sorry time." He started to return the foot
to its owner, but snatched it back.
"Hole on yere a minute, boy! Lemme tek' nuther look at dat thing." He
took it, then burst forth with a volley of derisive chuckling. "Huh,
huh, well ef dat ain't de beatenes' part of it all!" wheezed Daddy
Hannah. "Red Hoss, you sho' muster been in one big hurry to git away
f'um dat spot whar you kilt your rabbit and ketched your charm. Looky
yere at dis yere shank j'int! Don't you see nothin' curious about de
side of de leg whar de hock sticks out? Well den, cullid boy, ef you
don't, all I got to say is you mus' be total blind ez well ez monst'ous
ignunt. Dis ain't no lef' hind foot of no rabbit."
"Whut is it den?"
"It's de right hind foot, dat's whut 'tis!" He tossed it away
contemptuously.
After a long minute Red Hoss, standing at Daddy Hannah's doorstep with
his hands rammed deep in pockets, which were both empty, spoke in tones
of profound bitterness. He addressed his remarks to space, but Daddy
Hannah couldn't help overhearing.
"Fust off, I gits fooled by de right laig of de wrong rabbit. Den a
man-eatin' mule come a-browsin' on me an' gnaw a suit of close right
offen my back. Den I runs into a elephint in a fog an' busts one of
Mist' Lee Farrell's taxiscabs fur him an' he busts my jaw fur me. Den I
gits tuk advantage of by a fool lion dat can't chamber his licker lak a
gen'l'man, in consequence of which I loses me a fancy job an' a chunk of
money. Den Melissa, she up an'--well, suh, I merely wishes to say dat
f'um now on, so fur ez I is concerned, natchel history is a utter
failure."