Vinegar Atts started toward Tickfall, bellowing like a cow.
Four hundred squalling blacks fell in behind him, fighting for room to run, grabbing at each other’s coat tails to accelerate their speed, taking frightened glances behind them every moment, then adding another octave to the vocalization of their fright.
Out on the highroad they kicked up the dust and sand like a cyclone, but the dust-cloud did not obscure the light-blue dress of Coco Ferret as she trotted down the road behind them.
Skeeter Butts trotted behind Coco, cackling like a hen.
“Keep it up, honey!” he squawked. “You shore is a grand little hoodoo sign buster! Chase ’em plum’ to town! You done saved our money an’ saved my life!”
At the little bridge over the Coolie Creek on the edge of Tickfall, Skeeter Butts tried to stop her.
“Less blow a while an’ rest our foots, Coco,” he snickered. “Lawd, dat shore wus a dandy race!”
“Naw!” Coco declared. “I ain’t gwine rest till I gits home! Dis here mess is hot on my face. It wus cool at fust.”
“Pull down yo’ veil, honey!” Skeeter begged her. “Dis here face juice is too precious fer igernunt niggers to see.”
Coco adjusted her veil, and they lingered a moment at the bridge, cooling off under the shade of the trees. Finally Coco asked: