begin what he had to say. Then he asked:
“Marse John, whut is de white folks gwine do wid Hitch Diamond?”
“Hang him!” Flournoy said bluntly, merely for the purpose of seeing
what Skeeter would say next.
The colored man said nothing for five minutes. He sank down weakly upon
the bottom step of the porch, his shoulders pathetically hunched, and
his head resting upon his hands. At last he mumbled:
“Marse John, I don’t b’lieve Hitch kilt anybody. He never done it.”
“Have you any proof of his innocence, Skeeter?” Flournoy asked.
“Naw, suh.”
“It’s hard for me to believe, Skeeter,” Flournoy continued quietly.
“Hitch Diamond was born on my plantation, and ever since I have
known him he has been a big, good-natured, bone-headed, peaceable,
law-abiding negro. Robbery and murder are not in his line.”
“Dat’s right, Marse John--Hitch never done it.”
There was a little silence, after which Flournoy said:
“I think they’ve got Hitch, Skeeter. Some of the white people in this
town have always been very fond of Hitch. They ought to come to his aid
at once--he’s their nigger. But all the white folks have kept away.”
“Dat’s a bad sign, Marse John,” Skeeter agreed mournfully.
“Yes. It means that Hitch is up against it.”
“Whut proofs is dey got, Marse John?” Skeeter asked.
Replying, Flournoy spoke slowly and painfully, as if the narration was
repugnant to him:
“Hitch Diamond got off the train at Sawtown about three o’clock on
Monday afternoon. A grocer saw him dressed in a stove-pipe hat, a
Prince Albert coat, and a yellow waistcoat. A little later he was seen
by two small white boys without his hat, coat, or vest, sitting on the
wharf-boat. A watchman on the wharf-boat says that Hitch attempted to
run when he came near, and in the effort to arrest Hitch his shirt
was torn off his back. Dainty Blackum says that Hitch came to her
home, barefooted, bareheaded, with no outer shirt, but wearing a red
undershirt.
“Hitch Diamond and Dude Blackum had a drink together, and then both men
left Blackum’s cabin about dark and went toward the sawmill. Five hours
later the commissary store was robbed and the watchman was killed.
“The mill employees organized a search-party and had a hand to hand
battle with Hitch Diamond inside the lumber yard, and Hitch escaped.
The flash-lights were playing on Hitch, and everybody saw him and
recognized him.
“After Hitch escaped, Dude Blackum was caught inside the lumber yard,
and in attempting to escape by swimming the Mississippi River, Dude was
drowned.”
“My Lawd!” Skeeter shuddered.
“Now, here is the worst part of it,” Flournoy continued. “A stove-pipe
hat, a Prince Albert coat, and a yellow waistcoat were found under
the steps of the commissary store, and these garments fit Hitch
Diamond perfectly, and Hitch admits that they are his. A pair of black
trousers, torn at the seat and with one leg split up the front from the
bottom almost to the waistband, was found near the scene of the fight
in the lumber yard, and this pair of trousers fits Hitch and he admits
that the garment is his.”
“Oh, Lawdy!” Skeeter shuddered.
“Hitch can give no reason for his visit to Sawtown except that he had
never been there and wanted to see the place. He explains the loss
of his hat and coat and vest by saying that he surrendered them to a
negro whom he had never seen before and whose name he did not know to
be hung up in the Sawtown barracks where the homeless workmen sleep.
He confesses that he abandoned his trousers in the lumber yard for the
purpose of fighting his way through the mob of searchers and escaping.
“Hitch declares that he did not know a human being in Sawtown. Dainty
Blackum says that Hitch told her that he had known Dude Blackum for
many years. Hitch says he went to Dude Blackum’s cabin to get a drink
of liquor. Dainty says he pretended to be a negro preacher, and claimed
to be much hurt because Dude had not secured him to marry them.
“Hitch admits that he traveled from Sawtown to the Gaitskill hog-camp
wearing no garments except his underclothes, and going by night. Old
Isaiah Gaitskill says that Hitch came to his cabin in that undressed
condition, sick with hunger and exhaustion, and would not permit him to
send for a doctor, to inform his wife, or let any of his friends know
where he was!”
“My lawdymussy!” Skeeter chattered. The little barkeeper felt as though
cold snakes were crawling up and down his spine, and he sat for ten
minutes without saying a word. At last Flournoy asked:
“What do you make of it, Skeeter?”
“Marse John,” Skeeter protested in a wailing tone, “Hitch Diamond is
done cornfessed too much!”
Flournoy understood exactly what he meant.
“Certainly,” he said. “Hitch has talked too freely to be guilty--his
statements have been too frank. A guilty negro never does that; if he
commits a crime, he denies everything to the very last, and offers no
explanation for anything.”
“Dat’s right,” Skeeter sighed. “Dat’s how he do.”
“But you’d have a happy time convincing a jury of Hitch’s innocence on
the ground that he had talked too much!”
After a long silence, Skeeter asked:
“Whut does you think about dis case, Marse John?”
“I think Hitch was drunk,” Flournoy answered. “I doubt if Hitch himself
knows whether he committed that crime or not. He talks a lot of stuff
about meeting a man on the train, about losing some money, about giving
his clothes away, about being stepped on by some man while he was lying
asleep in a gulley--all of it a perfect mess. I hate to admit it, but I
really believe that Hitch committed the crime while in an intoxicated
condition. Dainty Blackum says that he took fourteen swallows of
bust-head, pine-top, nigger whisky in her cabin, and that he and Dude
took the jug with them when they left.”
“My gosh!” Skeeter sighed. “When did de white folks ’terrogate Dainty
Blackum?”
“They questioned her in Sawtown the day after Dude was killed by the
mob,” Flournoy replied. “Dainty is here now--in Ginny Babe Chew’s
house. I’m keeping watch on her, because she’s a material witness.”
“When am Hitch’s trial gwine be, Marse John?” Skeeter asked.
“It begins a month from next Tuesday,” the sheriff said.
“Pore old Hitchy!” Skeeter mourned.
Two big tears rolled down his cheeks and dropped upon his brown hands.
His lips began to tremble, and he hid his face with his hat and sat
with his shoulders shaking with grief. Finally he said in a mournful
voice:
“Hitch is always been de bes’ nigger frien’ I’m had, Marse John--him
an’ Vinegar Atts. I wus always a little runt nigger an’ I didn’t had no
kinnery, an’ Hitch an’ Vinegar, dey always deefended me when de yuther
nigger-boys pecked on me----”
Skeeter began to sob and sat mourning for his friend as though he were
already dead.
Flournoy endured the racket as long as he cared to, then tossed his
cigar-stub into a rose-bush, walked down the steps, and climbed into
his automobile.
Without a word to Skeeter, he shot down the runway into the street and
turned toward the courthouse. In a moment he was swallowed up in a
cloud of dust.
XII
HITCH’S MOTHER.
Skeeter sat for two hours turning over the appalling array of facts
which the sheriff had set before him for the condemnation of his
friend. Nothing seemed to be lacking except Hitch’s confession that he
had robbed the store and killed the watchman.
“Dis here is awful!” he sighed. “I’s gwine over an’ git some religium
advices from de Revun Vinegar Atts.”
He found Vinegar occupying his customary seat under a chinaberry tree
in front of the Shoofly Church. Vinegar moved his chair only when the
shadow of the tree shifted and the sun shone upon his head. He called
this diversion “settin’ de sun aroun’ de tree.”
“Revun,” Skeeter began, “I been cornversin’ Marse John Flournoy about
our chu’ch an’ lodge brudder, Hitch Diamond.”
“No hope!” Vinegar grumbled. “Hitch is done flirted wid a hearse one
time too many. He’s as good as dead.”
“Cain’t we do nothin’ fer him?” Skeeter asked.
“We kin save up money in de chu’ch an’ de lodge fer a real nice
funeral,” Vinegar said. “Atter de white folks is done deir wuck,
Hitch’ll furnish de corp’.”
“Is you interrogated any of de white folks?” Skeeter inquired.
“Yes, suh. Marse Tom Gaitskill tole me all I knows. Hitch wucked fer
de kunnel, an’ kunnel say he’s got to git him anodder nigger--de
cote-house is gwine spile Hitch!”
“Ain’t de kunnel tryin’ to he’p Hitch none?” Skeeter asked.
“Naw. What kin be did fer a nigger whut is kotch his tail in a
cuttin’-box like Hitch done?”
“I feels sorry fer Hitch, Revun,” Skeeter mumbled piteously. “Gawd,
I’d do anything fer him dat I could!”
“Not me!” Vinegar bellowed. “When de white folks backs off, dat’s de
sign fer Revun Atts to git away befo’ de bust-up comes. Naw, suh, Hitch
ain’t got no hope!”
Vinegar’s voice was a bellow which could be heard a block away. He
stood up, took off his stove-pipe preaching hat, and mopped the sweat
from the top of his bald head with a big, red handkerchief.
“Naw, suh!” he howled. “You oughter had been to chu’ch dis mawnin’
an’ heered me orate ’bout Hitch Diamond. I shore preached his funeral
good! I tole dem niggers how Hitch went to N’Awleens an’ fit in a
sinful prize-fight an’ got on a big, bust-head drunk an’ vamoosed up to
Sawtown an’ robbed an’ kilt, an’ is fotch back here now to dis town to
show whut happens to de members of de Shoo-fly Chu’ch when dey rambles
away from de highways of holiness--whoosh!”
Vinegar broke off with a snort and a flourish, seizing the chair in
which he had sat and thrust it up so close to Skeeter’s chair that he
pinched Skeeter’s fingers.
Then he sat down with his thick lips not two inches from Skeeter’s ear.
“Listen, Skeeter,” he whispered. “Marse Tom Gaitskill an’ Sheriff John
Flournoy don’t think dat Hitch is guilty--dey’s bellerin’ it aroun’
town that Hitch is shore a deader so dey kin hunt fer de real guilty
man on de sly!”
“Bless Gawd!” Skeeter grinned.
“I been buttlin’ fer Marse Tom ever since Hitch went to N’Awleens,
an’ I been snoopin’ aroun’ an’ listenin’ to deir talk. Marse Tom an’
Marse John sot up mighty nigh all night las’ Friday talkin’ an’ smokin’
an’ cussin’ in Marse Tom’s dinin’-room. I sot up out on de porch an’
listened to ’em. Dey done agree dat de bes’ thing fer Hitch is fer
eve’ybody not to hab no hope. I agrees wid de white folks.”
“Bless Gawd!” Skeeter Butts cackled.
“Git yo’ nose on de trail an’ sot yo’ mouth to howlin’ like a
houn’-dog, Skeeter,” Vinegar grinned. Then, in a bellow which echoed
back from the woods in the rear of the church, he howled: “No hope!”
“Dem is de best religium advices you ever orated, Revun,” Skeeter
cackled as he rose to his feet. “I’s gwine turn detecative right dis
minute an’ snoop aroun’ seein’ how much I kin find out!”
He walked straight to the courthouse and entered the sheriff’s office.
“Could I be allowed to see Hitch, Marse John?” he asked.
“Certainly. Any of his colored friends may see him if they come at a
reasonable time. I’ll admit you to the jail.”
When Skeeter was admitted and locked behind the bars of the jail, and
saw Hitch Diamond pacing up and down the corridor in the second story,
the only occupant of the prison, he found to his annoyance that he
could not begin a word of conversation with his lifelong friend. When
talking to others, he could speak about Hitch and his misfortune with
great volubility, but face to face with Hitch, what was there to say?
The two sat down, Skeeter laid a package of cigarettes upon the seat
of a chair beside them, and after that for twenty minutes there was
perfect silence. Not a word had been spoken except their first brief
and embarrassed greetings. Each sat, smoking furiously, and lighting a
fresh cigarette upon the stub of the old one.
At last Skeeter managed to speak, and made the one request which opened
the floodgates of Hitch Diamond’s talk:
“Tell me all about it, Hitchy. Don’t leave out no little thing.”
Hitch dropped his cigarette at his feet and began.
For two hours his low voice rumbled on, the narrative beginning from
the moment he left Tickfall to go to New Orleans to the prize-fight and
progressing with minute particularity to the moment when he sat in the
jail beside Skeeter Butts.
Skeeter listened with a heart as heavy as lead. It seemed to him that
Hitch had confessed everything except the actual commission of the
crime of murder and robbery. The array of proof which Flournoy had was
sustained and established in every particular by Hitch’s story. Vinegar
had fired his hopes for a moment by betraying the secret that the
white folks were unconvinced of Hitch’s guilt and were hunting for the
perpetrator of the deed. But Skeeter knew when Hitch had finished his
story that Hitch would pay the penalty for his crime.
Not a word did Skeeter utter until the narrative was ended. Then he
arose and held out his hand.
“Good-by, Hitch,” he said, with a catch in his voice. He walked down
the steps, and the jailer opened the door and let him out.
Passing across the courthouse yard he met Sheriff Flournoy.
“Marse John,” he said, “you tole me dat Hitch wus borned on yo’
plantation. Does you know who his maw is?”
“Certainly.”
“Is his maw livin’ yit?”
“Yes.”
“I ain’t never heerd Hitch say nothin’ ’bout his maw,” Skeeter remarked.
“Hitch don’t know who his mother is,” Flournoy smiled. “I doubt if she
knows that Hitch is her son.”
“How come?” Skeeter asked.
“Hitch’s mother committed a little crime the year before I was elected
sheriff. Hitch was then one year old. His mother abandoned him--ran off
and stayed away for thirty years. Hitch was taken care of by the other
negroes on the plantation, and all who once knew who Hitch’s mother is
are now either dead or have gone away from here.”
“Fer Gawd’s sake, Marse John!” Skeeter wailed. “Why don’t you tell
Hitch who his maw am? Who is she?”
Flournoy considered this question while he took the time to light a
fresh cigar. Then he asked:
“If I tell you who Hitch’s mother is, will you promise never to reveal
it?”
“I promises!” Skeeter exclaimed.
“His mother is Ginny Babe Chew!” the sheriff told him.
Skeeter reeled back from the shock, and an exclamation shot from his
throat like a bullet.
He turned round and round like a man who was dazed, uttering a series
of highly profane expletives like the crackling of thorns under a pot.
“You asked me why I didn’t tell Hitch who his mother was,” the sheriff
continued, as he started away. “I think you know the answer!”
Ginny Babe Chew!
Like a panorama the events of the Sunday before passed before his dazed
and horrified vision--Ginny Babe Chew, shrieking, cursing, whooping,
thrusting the people aside and pressing up behind the sheriff’s horse,
howling after her son the charge of “Murder! Murder! Murder!” Again
he saw her struck down by the massive fist of Vinegar Atts, the blood
streaming from her lips, the mob splitting into halves as they walked
past her, while she groaned and cursed, groveling in the dust. Again he
saw her staggering down the street, the blood reddening the front of
her dress and making a red froth upon her lips, as she stood in front
of the jail tossing dust into the air, gyrating, shrieking, cursing,
and wailing, “Good-by, Hitch! Good-by, Hitch!”
What a mother for any man to have!
Skeeter staggered across the courthouse yard, wiping the clammy sweat
from his temples.
“Marse John made me promise not to tell nobody who Hitch’s maw is. Ef
I wus to tell dat fack, de white folks would hang Hitch Diamond befo’
night. Dat’s de awfullest fack agin him yit!”
In front of the post-office he met Vinegar Atts.
“Revun Atts,” Skeeter said earnestly, “ef you know any good religium
advices to gib to a nigger whut is about to die, fer de Lawd sake go
preach ’em to Hitch Diamond. De white folks is got him--got him good!”
XIII
THE HOODOO FACE.
The sunshine lay hot upon the sand in the negro settlement called
Dirty-Six when Dainty Blackum arose from her bed, dressed, and walked
out into the yard. In the rear of Ginny Babe Chew’s house was a large
number of fig and pecan-trees, and under the shade of one of these
trees, patiently waiting and smoking a cigarette, was Skeeter Butts.
For a moment Dainty was surprised; then she reflected that she had
expected some man to be there that morning, as some man had been there
every morning, and she would have been disappointed if she had not
found one.
But Skeeter Butts had never been there before. She had heard that he
was very susceptible to the charms of women, but up to this time she
had received the devoted attention of only two men--Dinner Gaze and
Tucky Sugg.
She came over and sat down beside Skeeter.
“Yistiddy wus a busy day fer me, Skeeter,” she began. “Two men tole me
dey loved me an’ axed me to marry ’em. Dat’s a pretty good starter.”
Skeeter had entertained no idea of making love to Dainty when he called
to see her, having had an entirely different purpose. But as he did not
know exactly how to approach the subject which he wished to discuss, he
decided to follow her line of conversation, hoping to direct it at a
later time.
“Yes’m, dat’s so,” Skeeter remarked without enthusiasm. “De fack is, I
wus so busy dat I looked over de chance to ax you to marry me yistiddy,
so I comed early dis mawnin’ to git in a word ’bout dat----”
“I tole de two yuther men dey wus losin’ time, an’ I tells you dat same
word in eggsvance.”
“Of co’se, I don’t expeck you to fall right in wid dat suggestion,”
Skeeter hastened to say. “But I wants you to know whut way I is
leanin’.”
“You done took a notion to lean mighty sudden,” Dainty snapped. “You
better lean de yuther way. You ain’t able to suppote no wife.”
“Whut’s de use of gittin’ able to suppote somepin you ain’t got?”
Skeeter asked absently. “Us owns a hoss befo’ us buys any hoss-feed.”
The girl made no reply.
After a while Skeeter added another remark in an absent-minded way:
“Sometimes niggers buys a hoss an’ depen’s on stealin’ de hoss-feed.
Dey always gits in trouble wid de white folks, too, when dey does dat.”
Instantly the girl’s manner changed completely. She bit her lips and
her hands began to tremble. She looked as if dizziness and weakness
were about to overcome her.
“When a nigger gits in trouble wid de white folks, it’s all off wid
him,” Skeeter blundered on, his mind upon Hitch Diamond, and all
unconscious of the impression he was making upon the girl beside him.
“Sometimes luck is wid him an’ he kin run off, but most often he----”
Suddenly Skeeter broke off and looked at Dainty with popping eyes. For
the moment he had forgotten the tragedy in the girl’s life, and now he
was struck speechless, and merely sat there and stared and gasped. At
last he murmured:
“I done slopped de wrong pig!”
“Dat’s right, Skeeter,” the girl said in a bitter tone. “De best thing
you kin do is to ramble outen dis yard an’ don’t come back no more.”
“I didn’t mean nothin’, Dainty,” Skeeter said humbly. “I’s done had a
heap of trouble, an’ it ’pears like I ain’t got my real good sense.”
“Dat’s a fack,” Dainty said.
“I won’t never do it no mo’,” Skeeter pleaded.
“Dat’s a fack,” Dainty announced. She arose and walked into the house.
Skeeter remained seated upon the bench, trying to think up some way
to square himself with the girl, but his mind would not work with its
usual facility.
Then in the yard on the other side of the house there was a loud, angry
squall, followed by the wild, frightened squawking of a hen, and Ginny
Babe Chew waddled around to where Skeeter was sitting.
At the corner of the house there was a barrel of rain-water setting
under a gutter-spout, and into this water Ginny Babe ducked the hen
viciously a number of times.
She tossed the hen on the ground, where it lay gasping for air and half
drowned.
Skeeter sat and cackled like another hen.
“Shut up, you little devil!” Ginny Babe squalled. “I’ll ketch you an’
do you de same way!”
“Whut ails de hen, Ginny?” Skeeter laughed.
“She wants to sot, an’ I ain’t got no eggs to put under her,” Ginny
whooped. “I locked her up in de wood-house an’ she foun’ a ole china
door-knob an’ sot on dat. I put her in de corn-crib an’ she sot down
on a lot of corn-cobs an’ tried to hatch ’em out. I’s ducked her in
dat barrel of water ’bout fo’teen times, an’ it ain’t done no good
whatsumever. I never _did_ see such a fool!”
“Why don’t you try on somepin else?” Skeeter giggled.
“Whut’s dat?” Ginny whooped.
“Pour a leetle coal-ile on her tail an’ sot it on fire,” Skeeter
snickered. “I figger she won’t sot no more atter dat.”
“By gosh, I’ll do it!” Ginny Babe howled.
She walked over and pushed the hen with her foot.
“You don’t git no coal-ile on yo’ tail yit!” she bellowed. “But as soon
as dem feathers gits dry, I got a good mind to try it!”
Skeeter looked at Ginny Babe Chew, and a cold chill ran down his spine.
She was the one woman in Tickfall of whom every negro was afraid. She
was a wicked, vicious, horrible old woman, whose little, green pig eyes
glowed poisonously through the rolls of facial flesh. She possessed an
ugly and venomous laugh, and generally ended her profane and vicious
remarks with an irritating chuckle.
Ginny knew the history of all the people in Tickfall parish, both white
and black, and most of her conversation on ordinary occasions was a
discussion of their characters. She especially loved to drive nails in
the coffins of moribund reputations.
Now she sat down heavily and began a conversation upon her favorite
theme.
“I done wucked in de house of eve’y white man in dis parish whut is
able to hire he’p,” she bawled. “I knows all de fambly secrets, an’ I
done got my little, bullet eye on all de fambly skelingtons. I’s made
acquaintance wid all de niggers in dis parish, too, an’ I tells you
dis--some niggers is bad, an’ yuther niggers is wusser; but dar ain’t
no good niggers, livin’ or dead! I knows ’em! So I spends my happy old
age findin’ out all de bad I kin about ’em!”
“Yes’m,” Skeeter gasped, looking at her with frightened eyes.
“All you niggers in Tickfall--whoof!” the old woman exploded.
“I hopes we is as good as most niggers,” Skeeter said timidly.
“Whoof!” the old woman exploded again. “Does you want me to tell you
whut I knows about _you_, Skeeter Butts?”
“Fer Gawd’s sake, no’m!” Skeeter quavered. “My memory is powerful good.”
The woman’s fat body shook with silent laughter and her little pig eyes
glowed like emeralds. She laid a heavy, fat hand on Skeeter’s knee.
“I’s got a hoodoo face, Skeeter!” she bawled. “When a nigger looks at
my fat mug, all de meanness in him comes right out on his face so I
kin read it like de white folks reads a book. Yes, suh, I got a hoodoo
face!”
While Skeeter Butts sat beside her and trembled, wondering what to say,
and very much wishing himself somewhere else, Dinner Gaze and Tucky
Sugg came around to the side of the house where they were sitting.
“You want me to cornfess yo’ sins fer you, Dinner Gaze?” Ginny Babe
howled, turning her green eyes upon him.
“You don’t know nothin’.” Dinner asserted, gazing at her with his
beady eyes without a trace of fear, his black, dough-like face as
expressionless as when Hitch Diamond had first seen it.
“Whoof!” the old woman exploded the third time. Shifting her
mountainous fat to her feet and standing up, she glared at Dinner Gaze
in a perfect fury; then, to Skeeter’s surprise, her voice changed
completely from its bellowing tone to an intonation as soft as Dinner’s
own. She muttered aloud, looking at Dinner with intent gaze as if she
were seeing him for the first time:
“Naw, suh, I don’t know nothin’ agin you!”
“I gambles fer a livin’,” Dinner grinned. “Dat ain’t no highbrow job. I
follers de races an’ hangs aroun’ prize-fighters, an’ drinks a little
booze an’ plays a little craps an’ coon-can, but I ain’t got nothin’ to
hide from nobody.”
“Dar now!” Ginny whooped in a triumphant voice. “Didn’t I jes’ tole you
dat I had a hoodoo face? Nobody kin look at me an’ hide deir sins!”
“I ain’t allowin’ nobody to low-rate me, neither,” Tucky Sugg
proclaimed. “You wanter cornfess my sins, Sister Ginny?”
Ginny broke out into a loud, whooping laugh. “You ain’t got no sins,
Tucky,” she guffawed. “You ain’t nothin’ but a idjut--an’ no limb
didn’t fall on you, neither. You was nachel-bawned dat way. Idjuts
ain’t responsible!”