All of them without exception came to the very edge of the branch where the bridge was broken, looked down at Skeeter and Dazzle, expressed surprise either by grunt or squeal or bellow or bray or neigh or yell or laugh—then turned to one side and went down into the branch and into the woods!
By the time this unique procession had arrived at one end of the broken bridge, a farm-wagon drove up and stopped at the other end. The wagon contained Mustard and Hopey Prophet and Popsy Spout on their way to town from the Nigger-Heel plantation. Popsy was asleep.
About seven hundred people had assembled at that spot, and nearly all the live stock in the Parish was out in the woods!
To Skeeter’s unbounded amazement he found himself a wounded hero instead of a criminal and a captured fugitive.
“Did the stock run you down on the bridge, Skeeter?” Sheriff Flournoy asked; and that gave Skeeter his cue.
“Yes, suh. De bridge is been pretty rickety a long time, an’ dem animiles piled up all aroun’ me an’ we jes’ nachelly all went down.”
“If you want to bring suit against this Parish for injuries to yourself and damage to your automobile, I’ll help you,” Colonel Gaitskill snapped. “I’ve been telling that road commissioner to repair this bridge for the last three years, and now he’ll get what is coming to him, and we’ll make him pay for his neglect of duty.”
That word “damages” sounded good to Skeeter.
“I’s pretty bad hurt, Marse Tom,” he sighed, when he saw a chance to collect money for his injuries. “Bofe ankles is spraint an’ my back is busted, an’ my neck feels kinder stretched and loose, an’ my head——”
“Tell all that to the trial jury,” Gaitskill snapped. “You can ride back in the wagon with Mustard Prophet—I think you had better go on right now!”