At last they came to the bridle path which branched from the parish road and followed the Little Moccasin ridge to the Dorfoche bayou.
Up to this point in their flight the negroes had traveled in a bunch, but the narrow path now required that they go in single file?
“Who is gwine take de lead?” Skeeter Butts asked.
“Not me,” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “My ole maw tole me dat I wus borned under de sign of de goat, but I ain’t gwine butt head-fust inter dat swamp. My dream specify fear, trouble, an’ sorrer. I got a plenty now!”
“I ain’t gwine lead,” Figger Bush said positively. “Ef one of dem big swamp jack-rabbits like de one I dreamed ’bout wus to hop acrost my path, I’d straddle eve’y tree in dat swamp!”
“I don’t figger on headin’ de peerade,” Pap Curtain proclaimed. “I got a hunch dat I better take good keer of myse’f. My dream specify serious injury. It don’t take hardly nothin’ to hurt a nigger ef luck’s agin him.”
“I backs out, too,” Prince Total declared. “Dat path ain’t wide enough fer no wagin wheel, but I ain’t sayin’ dat a wheel cain’t run on it!”
“I’s gwine fetch up de rear,” Hitch Diamond boomed in his deep bass. “Misforchine, great loss, an’ death is a plenty fer po’ Hitchey to tote along wid de crowd ’thout gittin’ ahead of de bunch wid his load.”
“Less build us a fire so we kin see!” Skeeter Butts squealed. “I’s gittin’ de jig-jams standin’ here in de dark.”
“Us won’t need dis fire long,” Pap Curtain announced as he pointed to a yellow haze through the tree. “De full moon is comin’ up!”