The dim ridge which their horses trod was the one route of ingress and egress through that obscure, uncharted morass reeking with poison and choked with a growth which seemed coeval with the dawn of creation itself.
Gaitskill, noting the sudden silence of the negroes, became uneasy. He knew that if the darkies were thrown into a panic they would spur their mounts into the jungle to hide, and that would be the end of both the horse and his rider.
“Marse Tom,” old Isaiah said in a trembling tone, “My hoss is a walkin’ lame.”
Gaitskill stopped and stood facing the long line of frightened negroes.
“All you niggers pull to one side and let Isaiah ride back to town!” he called.
“Who? Me?” Isaiah bawled. “Naw, suh! Dis hoss ain’t so powerful lame—not as much as he wus when I fust spoke. An’ even if his behine leg wus twisted plum’ off, I’d shore make him hop along wid you-alls.”
“Any of the rest of you niggers got lame horses?” Gaitskill laughed.
“Naw, suh, kunnel,” Hitch Diamond yelled, the last man in the line. “My hoss is walkin’ so spry I cain’t keep him behine by hisse’f. Lemme ride up dar close to you!”
“Stay where you are, Hitch!” Gaitskill laughed. “You asked me to let you ride behind. Come on, men!”
The path widened and the horses struck into a trot which brought them to the hog-camp in half an hour.