CHAPTER X.
TIED TO A TREE.
The sun was down and the stars were abroad and the young moon looked like a silver bear-claw in the sky when Jasper turned his steers homeward; and all the party broke out in song as down the hill they rattled. The shallows in the river sang too, and high in a tree, a bird too riotous to leave off with the coming of night, was carrolling the tired end of his spree. Suddenly all singing stopped. There was a flutter in the bushes and birds flew away and a rabbit scampered over a log. It was a loud cry of distress and all nature heeds the cry of pain. Laugh and the bird listens; shriek and it flies away.
"Whoa!" shouted Jasper. "What was that yell?"
"Someone in distress," Tom answered. "Seems to be over to the left."
They listened. The cry came again, and upon it was borne the words, distinct now in the stillness: "Fur de Lawd's sake doan kill me."
"Come on!" Jasper shouted, as he leaped out of the wagon; and everyone followed him. "Hold on thar!" the old man cried. "Don't tetch him whoever you air. Do you hear me? It's Jasper Starbuck that's a talkin' to you."
Down a slant and in an open space there was a fire of twigs, and in its light were four men, one a negro bound hand and foot, the others an oldish man and evidently his two sons.
"What's the matter here?" Jasper demanded.
"Wall," replied the oldish man, "whatever it is, it ain't no affair of yourn. Tie him across the log, boys."
The negro implored mercy. "Marster, ez de Lawd is my jedge, I ain't guilty. I ain't been er good man—I 'knowledges dat, but dis time I ain't guilty."
"Hold on," Jasper demanded, and the women, standing behind him, murmured commendation of his course. Tom and Jim stood apart, in positions of advantage in the event that there should be a fight. "Hold on," Starbuck repeated, speaking to the father of the two young men. "You must be a newcomer in these here parts, or you would have held on at the first command. Don't reckon you know me."
"I don't know you, but I know my own business. My name is Sanderson, and I am from North Caroliny, and we air goin' to whup this nigger within a inch of his life or know the reason why."
"All right," said Jasper, taking off his hat and scratching his head. "That is, if I don't give you the reason why. Thar happens to be a reason. But befo' I git down to it, let me ask what this po' devil's done."
The negro broke out with fresh imploration. "Ole marster, save me. I ain't nuthin' on dis big yearth—dar ain't no way fur me ter be no count. De Lawd ain't gib me whut he has you folks. He has put me yeah ter run like er rabbit wheneber I sees er white man er comin', an' I do hopes you take my part. I'll tell you whut he 'cuze me erbout. I wuz er comin' laung de road, an' I yeard a dog yelp, an' I come ter de dog er minit later an' he lay dar in de road wid his head mashed. I wuz er lookin' at de po' thing when up come deze men an' 'cuzed me er killin' him; but old marster, let me tell you suthin': dar's mighty few niggers dat eber kills er dog, caze de dog an' de nigger so close ter de yearth da's friends. I didn't kill de dog."
"Mister," said Sanderson, "I mout come yo' way a thousand times and I never would interfere with you, and my advice to you now is, don't interfere with me. You spoke of me not knowin' you. Wall, you don't know me, nuther."
"Jasper," Margaret exclaimed, "that's a threat, an' don't you let the fack that us women folks air here stand in yo' way."
"No," cried Mrs. Mayfield, "we will all fight to protect this poor creature."
Something gleamed in Lou's hand. It was a penknife. She said nothing, but she stepped forward, the spirit of vengeance come out of the night; but the old man touched her on the arm and said: "Little sweetheart, you can't find no wild vines to dig up here with yo' knife."
"No," said Tom, "let me take it," and whispering, he added, "One word from you and I will cut his throat. But you must be still."
She smiled at him and replied: "I will, because you say so," and again the shy girl, trembling in the presence of one who loved her, she shrank back and was a graceful shadow in the dusk.
"Mr. Stranger," said Jasper, "I am waitin' fur you ter untie that po' old nigger."
"Thank you, Mr. Stranger," said the North Carolina man, "and I will when we git through with him. He wanted to kill my dog so as he could steal suthin', and a thief ought to be punished. That's a law I take with me wharever I go."
"Good law," Jasper replied. "And thar's a law that's allus in force whar I live and it's this here: when a thief is accused there must be some proof befo' he is punished."
Jim spoke for the first time. He had stood with folded arms, and sometimes his lips moved as if he were muttering a prayer. And now his voice was as solemn as a benediction: "The poor Ethiopian was lead down into the waters of forgiveness and baptized. In the sight of the Savior the color of his skin had not made him a sinner. About the weak and the wretched the gospel threw its protecting arm, and to-night it is here to do the same. I represent the gospel, and as the gospel, I ask you to liberate that man."
"Hah, preacher," replied Sanderson. "And what if I don't pay no attention to the gospel?"
And Jim's voice was deep and solemn when he answered: "Then Jim Starbuck, the man, will mash your head and throw you out into the road where your dog is lying."
Old Jasper slapped himself and laughed, but there were tears in his eyes. "Thar won't be no necessity for that, Jim. You know my appetite ain't been right good lately—I've needed exercise, and the sort of exercise I need, this here man is goin' to help me to take. Mister, once mo' I ask you to untie that po' nigger, and then we will git at the evidence. You hearn what the preacher said, and—"
Through the bushes a man came stalking. He was rugged and brusque, but he bowed to the women and offered to shake hands with the men; but Jasper inquired as to his business upon the scene, and put him back upon formality until this point should be settled.
"Why, it's jest this," said he, looking round at the negro. "I was a drivin' down the hill jest now, and a drivin' peart, when out run a dog and bit at my hosses' feet. One of the hosses knocked him down and befo' he could git up the wheel run over him. It made me mad, come a bitin' at my hosses, an' I driv on, but I got to thinkin' that somebody mout be accused of killin' him, so I come back, an' shore enough here you'd got a nigger tied up. The killin' was a accident."
"All right, gentlemen," said Sanderson. "I'll turn him loose, and it will be a good lesson fur him—it will l'arn him not to kill no dog of mine. Cut the rope, Bob," he added, speaking to one of the boys.
The negro dropped down upon his knees to thank Jasper, but the old man bade him arise and go about his business. "I would have done the same for a dog," said he. "Wait a minit. You don't look like you've had anythin' to eat lately. Here, boys, let's give him a few dimes."
Contributions were quicker and more spontaneous than the pennies that fall in the twilight upon the outstretched banner of the Salvation armyist; the newcomer took a piece of smooth silver out of a yarn sack and handed it over, following the pace which Jasper had set. Tom gave a dollar and Jim contributed enough to buy a hymn-book.
"Gentlemen," said Sanderson, "when I think a man's done wrong I want blood, and sometimes I reckon I'm a little hot-headed about it—my jestice is sorter blind—but when I find he hain't done wrong, w'y I don't love money. Here, nigger, here's fifty cents, and I want you to understand you mustn't kill a dog of mine."
With a broad grin, catching the reflection of the silver in his hand, the negro bowed low. "No, sah, I ain't gwine kill no dog o' yo'n. Ef I wuz ter meet yo' dog, I'd say, 'come yeah,' an' I'd hug him right dar. Huh, I neber seed sich putty women folks in my life, an' I knows da's de cause o' deze white folks gibbin' me all dis money. Huh, I wouldn' mine bein' tied up dar ag'in. Mr. Sanderson, I blebe dat yo' name, I'll go an' bury yo' dog fur you. Ladies an' gennermen, under de moon an' yeah 'neath de trees, I wush you good-night."
"Poetic duck," said Tom, as the darkey turned away.
"Charming in his pleading and in his gallantry," his aunt replied.
"Must have been brought up in the white folks' house," Sanderson remarked, and then, bowing to the company, marshalled his boys and marched off.
"Margaret," said Jasper, when again they were seated in the wagon, "I am proud of you."
"No, you ain't, no sich of a thing, an' you only want a chance to tell me so." He had slipped one arm about her and her head was on his shoulder.
"Beautiful," Mrs. Mayfield whispered to Jim. "Ah, what a day this has been to me. And, Mr. Reverend, I have begun to think that there is something good about nearly every one. Even that man whom we thought was such a brute became gentle."
"That's true, ma'm, but I think that there's one man that is absolutely depraved. Not the murderer, for he might feed the hungry. Not the wife-beater, for afterward he might beg her forgiveness and kiss her. Not the man that would rob the dead, for he might give a penny to a little child. But the man whose soul is in love with money. I don't mean his soul, for he has none, but the man whose every thought is money, money. He is a murderer, a wife-beater, a robber of the dead. He can sleep at night when he knows that by his shrewdness, which has won him friends among the rich, he has stretched out upon the bare floor a starving child. Christ did not die for that man."
"No, Mr. Reverend," she replied, her head hung low; and something dropped upon his hand—a tear.
Like two birds Lou and Tom were twittering. He asked her if she had been happy that day because she did not think, and she answered that she had been happy because she had thought.
Suddenly someone ran out of the woods in front of the steers. The wagon stopped and Jasper shouted: "Whut's the matter here?"
A voice replied: "Wy, sah, atter buryin' de dog I tuck a sho't cut ter head you off. I's de nigger, an' my heart wuz heavy, an' I had ter come an' tell you suthin'. You'se Mr. Starbuck, ain't you?"
"Yes, but what about it?"
"Wall, sah, atter I tell you, w'y you kin tie me ter er tree an' whup me ef you wants ter, but I got ter tell you. Not laung ergo, I stole er chicken from yo' roost. An' now you may punish me."
"Hah? What sort of a chicken?"
"Er rooster, sah."
"What, that old dominecker?"
"Yas, sah, de dominecker."
"Did yon eat him?"
"Yas, sah, I eat him."
"Wall, that was punishment enough. Git up here, boys."
It was the first time that Mrs. Mayfield had ever heard Jim laugh. He roared and he whooped as the wagon rattled along, and she was afraid that he was going to fall off. She asked him a question and he answered with a snort.
When they reached home a man was standing at the gate. Jasper inquired who it was, for in the dark he could not distinguish his visitor, and a voice replied:
"It's me, Gabe Wells—hollered helloa, and you wanted me to fetch you a newsparer an' a can of cove oysters an' about a straw hat full of crackers."
"Why, yes, Gabe, come in. Wondered why you hadn't fotch them oysters over. Next to chitterlin's I reckon they air the best things in the world."
When they were at supper, with Gabe eating as if he had not eaten at home, Jasper related their adventure in the woods, and Gabe declared that he would like to take a hand in such an affair. He swore roundly that Sanderson was a brute, but when he heard that with the rest he had contributed money, he wiped his mouth and said: "You can't allus tell. That feller's a gentleman, an' some time a passel of us must hitch up an' drive over to see him. We can't afford to negleck such neighbors as him."
"What sort of a newspaper did you fetch, Gabe?" Margaret inquired, and he handed her "The Fire-Side Companion."
"Full of news from beginnin' to end," he said. "None of yo' tame stuff about Uncle Billy a comin' to town with a load of wood or Aunt Sally a renewin' of her per-scription."
"Any discussion a goin' on down at town?" Jasper asked, and Gabe began to rack his memory.
"Wall, no, I b'lieve not. Hearn one feller call one man a liar."
"Whut come of it?"
"Oh, nuthin' much. Hauled him home in a wagin. Say, it was the puttiest wagin I ever seen—yaller stripes on the wheels, an' it clucked like a hen with her fust drove of chickens. But I tell you I come mighty nigh a gittin' some money down thar. A feller had three shells an' bet me I couldn't guess which one of 'em he put a pea under. I seed him put it under one—seed him jest as cl'ar as I see you, an' I would have bet him five dollars, but—"
"But what?"
"Didn't have the money. Allus my luck. Ever' time I've come across a chance fur a good speckerlation I ain't got no money. But I must be goin'—I don't know, howsomedever, fur wife must have fed the stock by this time. Lemme see. I reckon I better go."
That night when the romantic woman from the city was asleep, she did not dream that the preacher was on his knees, with clasped hands, gazing up at her window.