One Sunday morning, not long after Joe's adventure with Mink, Harbert
came to him with a serious face.
“Marse Joe,” he said, “dey er gwine ter ketch Mink dis time.”
“How do you know?”
“Kaze, soon dis mornin' whiles I wuz a-feed-in' de hogs, I seed one er
dem Gaither boys cornin' down de road under whip an' spur, an' I ax 'im
wharbouts he gwine, an' he say he gwine atter Bill Locke an' his nigger
dogs. He 'low dat he know whar Mink bin las' Friday night, an' dey gwine
ter put de dogs on his track an' ketch 'im. Dey'll be'long back dis a way
terreckly.”
The lad had witnessed many a fox-chase and had hunted rabbits hundreds
of times, not only with the plantation harriers but with hounds; but he
had never seen a runaway negro hunted down, and he had a boy's curiosity
in the matter, as well as a personal interest in the fate of Mink. So he
mounted his horse and waited for Mr. Locke and young Gaither to return.
He knew Bill Locke well, having seen him often in Hillsborough. Mr.
Locke had been an overseer, but he saved money, bought two or three
negroes, and had a little farm of his own. He had a great reputation as
a negro-hunter, mainly because the hunting of runaways was a part of
his business. His two dogs, Music and Sound, were known all over the
country, and they were the terror of the negroes, not because they were
fierce or dangerous, but because of their sagacity. Sound was a small
brown hound, not larger than a beagle, but he had such powers of scent
that the negroes regarded him with superstitious awe. He had what is
called a “cold nose,” which is a short way of saying that he
could follow a scent thirty-six hours old, and yet he was a very
shabby-looking dog.
When Locke and young Gaither rode by they were joined by Joe Maxwell,
and his company seemed to be very welcome, especially to the Gaither
boy, who regarded the affair as a frolic. Mr. Locke was a man of very
few words. His face was dark and sallow and his eyes sunken. His
neck was long and thin, and Joe observed that his “Adam's apple” was
unusually large. As the negroes said, Mr. Locke and his dogs “favored”
each other. He was small and puny, and his dogs were small and scrawny.
“Do you think you'll catch Mink?” asked Joe. Mr Locke looked at the lad
almost pityingly, and smiled.
“We'll git the nigger,” he replied, “if he's been seed sence Friday
noon. We'll git him if he ain't took wings. All I ast of him is to stay
somewheres on top of the ground, and he's mine.”
“Why did the negro run away?” said Joe to young Gaither.
“Oh, he can't get along with the overseer. And I don't blame him much.
I told pap this morning that if I had to choose between Mink and Bill
Davidson I'd take Mink every time. But the trouble with pap is he's
getting old, and thinks he can't get along without an overseer, and
overseers are mighty hard to get now. I tell you right now that when I
get grown I'm not going to let any overseer bang my niggers around.”
Mr. Locke said nothing, but Joe heartily indorsed young Gaither's
sentiments.
When they arrived at the Gaither place, Mr. Locke asked to be shown the
house that Mink had occupied. Then he asked for the blankets on which
the negro had slept. These could not be found. Well, an old coat would
do--anything that the negro had worn or touched. Finally, a dirty,
greasy bag, in which Mink had carried his dinner to the field, was
found. This would do, Mr. Locke said, and, taking it in his hand, he
called his dogs and held it toward them. Sound smelled it more carefully
than Music.
“Now, then,” said Mr. Locke, “where'bouts was he seed? At the hog-pen
last Friday night? All right, we'll ride around there and kinder send
him a message.”
Joe was very much interested in all this, and he watched Mr. Locke
and his dogs very closely. When they arrived at the hog-pen, the negro
hunter dismounted and examined the ground. Then he spoke to his dogs.
“Sound!” he exclaimed, sharply, “what are you doing? Look about.--Music!
what are you here for?”
The shabby little dog seemed to be suddenly transformed. He circled
around the hogpen rapidly, getting farther and farther away each time.
Mr. Locke never took his eyes from the dog.
“It's cold--mighty cold,” he said, presently. Then he spoke to the dog
again. “Sound! come here, sir! Now git down to your knitting! Come,
knuckle down! Try 'em, old fellow! try 'em!”
Thus encouraged, the dog, with his nose to the ground, went carefully
around the hog-pen. At one spot he paused, went on, and then came back
to it. This performance he repeated several times, and then began to
work his way toward an old field, going very slowly and carefully.
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Locke, heaving a sigh of relief, “I thought it was
a gone case, but the nigger's been here, and we've got him.”
“May be the dog is trailing somebody else,” Joe Maxwell suggested.
Mr. Locke laughed softly and pityingly. “Why, I tell you what, buddy,”
he exclaimed, “if all the niggers in the country had tramped around here
that dog wouldn't track none of 'em but the special nigger we're after.
Look at that puppy, how he's working!”
And truly it was an interesting if not a beautiful sight to see the
dog untangling the tangle of scent. More than once he seemed to be
dissatisfied with himself and made little excursions in search of a
fresher clew, but he always returned to the point where he had left off,
taking up the faint thread of scent and carrying it farther away from
the hog-pen. The patience and industry of the dog were marvelous. Mr.
Locke himself was patient. He encouraged the hound with his voice, but
made no effort to urge him on.
“It's colder than a gravestone,” said Mr. Locke, finally. “It's been a
long time sence that nigger stepped around here. And the ground's
high and dry. If we can work the trail to the branch yonder, he's our
meat.--Try for 'im, Sound! Try for 'im.”
Gradually the dog worked out the problem of the trail. Across the hill
he went, with many turnings and twistings, until finally he struck
into the path that led from the negro quarters to the spring where the
washing was done. Down this path the hound ran without deigning to put
his nose to the ground. At the branch he lapped his fill of water, and
then took up his problem again. A half-dozen wash-pots were scattered
around, and under the largest a fire was smoldering. On a bench, side
by side, three tubs were sitting, and it was at this bench that Sound
picked up the trail again. Evidently Mink had paused to chat with the
woman who was washing. The ground was moist, and the dog had little
trouble. As he recovered the trail he expressed his gratification by
a little whimper. The trail led down the spring branch and into a
plantation road, then over a fence and across a “new ground” until it
struck a bypath that led to an arbor near a church, where the negroes
had been holding a revival meeting. At this point there was another
problem for the dog. A hundred or two negroes had been gathered here,
and it was evident that Mink had been one of the crowd, mingling with
the others and walking about with them.
Young Gaither called Mr. Locke's attention to this. “You'll never get
the trail away from here in the world,” said he. “Why don't you take the
dog and circle round with him?”
“That dog,” said Mr. Locke, watching the hound anxiously, “has got
notions of his own, and he's bound to carry 'em out. He won't be fooled
with. Don't say nothing. Just stand off and watch him. He's been in
worse places than this here.”
But it was a tedious task the dog had before him. Winding in and out in
the mazes of an invisible labyrinth, turning and twisting, now slowly,
now more rapidly, he pursued with unerring nose the footsteps of the
runaway, and when he had followed the trail away from the church he
was going at a brisk pace, and his whimper had changed to an occasional
yelp. Mr. Locke, who up to this time had been leading his horse, now
took off his coat, folded it carefully, and laid it on his saddle. Then
he remounted his horse, and with Gaither and Joe Maxwell trotted along
after his dog.
Mink must have lingered on the way, for a quarter of a mile farther on
Music joined Sound in his work, and the two dogs footed it along right
merrily, their mellow voices rousing a hundred echoes among the old red
hills.
A mile farther the dogs paused at a tree where there were traces of
fire. Scattered around were scraps of sweet-potato peelings and bread.
“Here is where the gentleman roosted last night,” said Mr. Locke; and
it must have been true, for Sound, with his head in the air, made a half
circle, picked up a warmer trail, and the two dogs were off like the
wind. Joe Maxwell became very much interested. The horse he was riding
was swift and game, and he drew away from the others easily. Neither
ditches nor gullies were in his way, and in the excitement a six-rail
fence seemed to be no obstacle. Mr. Locke shouted something at Joe,
probably some word of warning, but the meaning failed to reach the lad's
ears. Butterfly fought for his head and got it, and in the twinkling of
an eye carried his rider out of hearing of his companions.
The dogs had swerved a little to the left, and were making straight for
the river--the Oconee. Butterfly ran into a plantation road and would
have crossed it, but Joe held him to it, and soon discovered that he was
gaining on the dogs. From slightly different directions the hounds and
the horse seemed to be making for the same point--and this point, as
it turned out, was the plantation ferry, where a bateau was kept. Joe
Maxwell reached the top of the hill overlooking the river just as the
dogs reached the ferry. Here he drew rein and looked about him. The
hounds ran about on the river-bank barking and howling. Sound went
into the water, but, finding that he was drifting down instead of going
across, he made his way out and shook himself, but still continued to
bark. A quarter of a mile away there was a great bend in the river. Far
down this bend Joe could see a bateau drifting. As he watched it the
thought struck him that it did not sit as lightly in the water as an
empty boat should. “Suppose,” he asked himself, with a laugh--“suppose
Mink is in the bottom of that bateau?”
He dismissed the thought as Mr. Locke and young Gaither came up.
“That's a thundering slick hoss you're riding,” said Mr. Locke. “He'd do
fine work in a fox-hunt. Where's the nigger?”
“The dogs can tell you more about it than I can,” said Joe.
“Well,” remarked Mr. Locke, with a sigh,
“I know'd I'd miss him if he ever got to the ferry here and found the
boat on this side. Why, dang his black skin!” exclaimed the negro-hunter
vehemently, as he glanced down the river and saw the bateau floating
away in the distance, “he's gone and turned the boat loose! That shows
we was a-pushin' 'im mighty close. I reckon you could a' seed 'im if
you'd looked clos't when you first come up.”
“No,” replied Joe; “he was out of sight, and the boat was drifting
around the elbow. You were not more than five minutes behind me.”
“Bless your soul, buddy,” exclaimed Mr. Locke, “five minutes is a mighty
long time when you are trying to ketch a runaway.”
So ended the race after Mink. To Joe Maxwell it was both interesting and
instructive. He was a great lover of dogs, and the wonderful performance
of Sound had given him new ideas of their sagacity.
A few mornings after the unsuccessful attempt to catch Mink, a very
queer thing happened. Harbert was sweeping out the printing-office,
picking up the type that had been dropped on the floor, and Joe was
preparing to begin the day's work. Suddenly Harbert spoke:
“Marse Joe,” said he, “when you rid out ter de river Sunday, is you
happen ter see er bateau floatin' 'roun'?”
Joe looked at Harbert for some explanation of the singular question, but
the negro pretended to be very busily engaged in picking up scraps of
paper.
“Yes,” said Joe, after a pause, “I saw a boat drifting down the river.
What about it?”
“Well, suh, I speck ef de trufe waz ter git out, dat dey wuz one er yo'
ole 'quaintance in dat boat, an' I bet a thrip dat ef you'd a-hollered
howdy, dey'd a-hollered howdy back.”
Harbert was still too busy to look up.
“Hit de funniest boat what I yever come 'cross,” he went on, “agwine
floatin' long down by itse'f, an' den, on top er dat, come floatin' long
back agin.”
“How do you know about the bateau?”
“Whiles you bin gwine'long de road, Marse Joe,” said Harbert, still
making a great pretense of gathering up the trash in the room, “ain't
you never is see all dem little birds flyin' 'mongst de bushes an' 'long
de fence? Well, suh, dem little birds kin tell mo' tales ef you listen
at 'em right close dan all deze yer papers what you bin printin'. Dey er
mighty cu'us, an' dey er mighty cunnin'. Dey tole me lots mo' dan
dat. Dey say dat de young Gaither boy took an' sont word ter Marse Tom
Clemmons dat somebody done gone an' stole de bateau at de ferry, but yit
when Marse Tom go out fer ter look atter his boat dar she is right spang
whar he lef' 'er. Now, how you 'count fer dat?”
“Then, Mink--”
“Coon an' 'possum!” interrupted Harbert, as Mr. Snelson appeared in the
doorway.
“'Possum it is!” exclaimed that genial gentleman. “In season or out of
season, I'll never refuse it.”
“Well, suh,” said Harbert, “ef de talk gwine ter fall on 'possum, I'm
bleeds ter go, kase when I hear folks talkin' 'bout'possum hit make me
dribble at de mouf.” The negro went off laughing loudly.