When Shin described to Skeeter Butts the strange man he had seen at the
kitchen door, Skeeter evinced great surprise.
“Dat’s de picture of de man whut borrered some money from me an’ gib me
dem spy-glasses fer s’curity!” Skeeter exclaimed. “You is spyin’ on dat
man wid his own spy-glasses.”
“Ef you’ll borrer dat nigger’s pistol, I’ll shoot him wid his own gun,”
Shin said.
“You git dat shootin’ notion off’n yo’ mind!” Skeeter snapped. “Dar is
bigger fish in de bayou dan you ever fried in yo’ resteraw, an’ dar is
better nigger women in de worl’ dan dat blockhead Whiffle gal you’s got
in yo’ kitchen.”
“She suits me, an’ ef anybody tries to git her dar’s a right smart
chance fer fun’rals!”
“Mebbe so,” Skeeter said; “but she ain’t wuth fightin’ fer, especially
when a fight will land you in de jail-house.”
“Mebbe I kin think up some yuther way to chase dat nigger out of town,”
Shin said: “but de best way I knows of now is to shoot at him till he
gits good an’ skeart, an’ den throw rocks.”
“Dat’s de favoryte nigger way of chasin’ coons,” Skeeter agreed; “but
don’t git to shootin’ an’ throwin’ ontil I tells you to. Ef dar ain’t no
better way to disperse dat nigger, mebbe I’ll he’p you wid a few bricks
myself.”
When Shin had gone, Skeeter hastened to the restaurant and called
Whiffle out.
“Shin Bone is got jealous about dat new nigger whut hangs aroun’ yo’
kitchen, Whiffle. I ain’t know his name, but you knows him. Shin has
already cleant and oilt his gun, an’ is warmin’ up fer activations. We
don’t need no fust-class killin’ in dis town, so you better stressify to
dat coon whut is comin’ to him an’ ’suade him to git out.”
“Is Shin a pretty good shooter?” Whiffle asked.
“He is de wuss shooter in dis town,” Skeeter told her. “He cain’t
possibly hit nothin’ but a innercent standbyer, an’ dat would be a luck
shot.”
“Ef dat’s de case, dar ain’t no danger,” Whiffle said easily. “He never
will shoot at nobody.”
“When a nigger gits jealousy, he goes crazy in his head, an’ he’s liable
to do mighty nigh anything,” Skeeter said earnestly.
“I’ll take keer of Shinny,” Whiffle laughed. “I’s mighty glad you tole
me, so I’ll know whut to do.”
Skeeter returned to the saloon, and half an hour later the strange negro
who was owner of the field-glasses came in.
“Skeeter, I wants to gib a free show at de nigger picnic-groun’ on de
Cooley bayou dis afternoon. I invites eve’ybody, but I ’specially wants
you an’ Vinegar Atts, an’ I would like to hab a nigger named Shin Bone.”
“How come you pick out such a crowd as dat fer special eye-witnersers?”
Skeeter asked.
“A preacher, a saloon-keeper, an’ a resteraw man,” the stranger smiled.
“A bunch like dat is able to supply all human needs.”
“It ’pears to me like you also needs a doctor an’ a undertaker,” Skeeter
remarked; “but of co’se you knows yo’ own bizzness best.”
“You’ll know my bizzness better at de picnic-groun’,” the stranger
returned.
“Us will be dar at three o’clock.”
V
A great crowd assembled at the picnic-ground. The three men specially
invited were sitting under a tree, smoking and waiting. The showman came
promptly on time, and shook hands with the three, but did not offer to
tell his name.
“Whut name does dey call you by?” Vinegar asked.
“I ain’t got no name,” the negro grinned.
“Dat’s strange!” Vinegar muttered. “I’ll call you Stranger, fer shawt.”
Stranger carried a heavy sack, and he now untied the top and poured the
contents upon the ground. There were two or three dozen marbles, such as
children use in their games; there were a dozen or more small apples,
about a dozen empty pop-bottles, and several dozen tops of small tin
cans.
“I’s a pistol-shooter,” the stranger announced. “Ef you misdoubts my
confession, jes’ take a look.”
He tossed an apple above his head; quickly he tossed two more, juggling
them in the air. Suddenly from somewhere he drew a big pistol, shot
three times with startling quickness, and the shattered apples dropped
at his feet.
There are men who are born with the strange gift of demonstrating that
the hand is quicker than the eye. In civilized sections of the country
men so gifted are sleight-of-hand performers; in other sections, less
civilized, they become card-sharps, with the ability to “pitch a good
game” and deal themselves cards from the bottom of the deck; in still
other sections, they become expert gunmen whose skill as marksmen is a
wonder to behold.
The Tickfall crowd stood breathlessly watching the juggler of bottles,
apples, marbles. He tossed pop-bottles in the air, and while they were
spinning he shot through the neck of the bottle and broke the bottom to
pieces without injuring the neck. He threw up the tin tops of the
pop-bottles, and unerringly shot through the center of each. He tossed
the apples into the air, and shattered them with bullets. He threw
marbles three at a time above his head, and they came down in dust.
There was one man on whom this exhibition made a deep impression. Shin
Bone had bragged his brags about chasing that very darky out of town by
shooting at him and throwing rocks. He now abandoned his idea. That was
certainly not the way to rid Tickfall of the presence of the dangerous
stranger.
When the exhibition was over, the stranger turned to the three men who
were especially invited and said:
“I’m much obleeged to you niggers fer comin’ out to de show. I would
like to walk back to town wid you-alls, but I ain’t gwine dat way.”
“You shore is a shooter, brudder!” Skeeter exclaimed. “Ef you ain’t
gwine our way, us’ll see you later.”
As the three walked back to town, Shin said thoughtfully:
“Skeeter, I think you wus right when you said not to hab no shootin’
scrape about Whiffle. De way I feels now, ef dat Stranger nigger is
gwine shoot fer my wife, he kin jes’ take her along ’thout no good
objections from me!”