The Devil’s Wagon.
It was plain from the old man’s demeanor that he was “up against” something unusual.
“What’s the matter now,” I asked; “did you lose out in the crap game, or has Taylor sent for you?”
Taylor is Judge of the Criminal Court, and, according to Uncle Jake, when any colored citizen is guilty of an offence against the peace and dignity of the State, Taylor very promptly sends for him.
Uncle Jake, however, is a leading member of Bethel church, and prides himself on his ability to keep out of scraps which are likely to involve him in trouble with Taylor.
Ordinarily the old man would have answered my banter good-humoredly; as it was he only shook his head and sighed. It was evident that he had had a very extraordinary experience. I continued, however, in my same tone: “Oh, you’d as well tell me; I haven’t ever refused to go on your bond, have I?”
“Has I ever axed yer ter go on my bon’? Naw, sah, an de nex’ time yer hear frum me I ain’t axin yer nuther, case I ain’t aimin’ ter git inter nothin’ to need no bon’.”
The old man was plainly in no joking humor. So I said, “Well, tell me about it anyway; you surely haven’t got into anything you’re ashamed of, have you?”
“Naw, sah, I ain’t,” he answered, very positively. “Naw, sah, I ain’t, case I’m plum dead shore ef I’der had my sayso erbout hit, hit never der happened. Yer see hit ’us dis er way: De yuther night atter I’d et my supper I saddled up my little ole mule, Jack, and started to de sto’. When I’d got up on de yuther side er de creek, all ’twonst I seed er light flare up ergin de telephone wires, en fore I had time ter think erbout enything tall, dar come ober de rise de awfullest lookin’ thing I eber seed in my life.”
“What did it look like?”
“Well, sah, de best I can tell yer, hit looked like er great, monstros inseck, wid eyes er flah as big as the head uv er sugar bar’l, an’ jest er comin’ er gittin’. I say, ‘Jack, I specks we’d better be goin’ back.’ Well, we started back, Jack er doin’ his levelin bes’, but shucks! t’wawnt narry biter use; that thing jes crope right up on us like we’d er bin stanin’ still. And all de time I could hear it sayin’ right fas’ like hit meant it, ‘Gittin’, gittin’, gittin’, gittin’. Purty quick Jack, he seed ’twant no use ter try ter git erway, en jest stopped an’ turned ’round facin’ the thing. I looked at hit de bes’ I could an’ I’s jes plum shore hit’s de debil’s own wagin. When hit gunter git up purty clost, all ’twonst Jack he ’menced buck-jumpin’ right todes the thing, an’ fore I knowed whut wus er happenin’ he throwed me er plum somerset and sot me down in de thing right side er de man whut wus drivin’. I looked er ’roun’ sorter kurful like, en bless Gracious! hit wan’t no man.”
“Wan’t no man!” I exclaimed in feigned surprise, “what was it?”
“Ay Lawd, don’t ax me, case I don’t know. He had des one big glass eye right in de middle er ’is for’ed, an’ dat thing whut ’es on des er fryin’ an’ er stewin’, en er goin’ right on down de road. I tell yer, I’s sheer fer sho’ nuff; en I say, ‘O please, Mars Debil, hab mussey on me!’ En he sorter ris up, he did, and say, plum savage like, ‘Here, you ole black rascal, you git outen my ’cheen, fore I knocks all de flah outen yer!’ En, sah, I didn’t take time ter say er nother word; I des fell outen de hine een er dat thing right flat er my back in de middle er de big road, en hit like ter busted me wide open. Time I got up an’ sorter scratch de grabel outen my years, I could hear dat thing er spit-spitten, en er git-gitten way on down dar erbout de creek, des clar gone. I gunter sorter look er roun’ fer Jack, en ’ud you bleeve it? dat ole mule wus down dar er grazin’ side de road, des es innercent as er lam’ in de spring er de year. I went on down dar, I did, en tuck hol’ ’im an’ I say, ‘You ole hippercrit, I’ll larn you how ter ’have de nex time we meet de debil an’ hees wagin.’ An’ I gib dat mule de awfulest beaten!”
STERLING C. BREWER.