At this juncture Buck's tall form arose from beside the tub, where he had been sitting on a nail keg while a motherly Hebron matron had put balsam to the hurt, and bound it with a white cloth. He came slowly forward, his leathern apron still about him, and pushed his way through the ring.
"Whut yo' mouth'n' 'bout, Bart Crawley?" he demanded. The fire in his eyes had died to a smoldering gleam, but his mood was ugly.
The man addressed looked at him, then immediately shuffled back a little.
"That's th' bes' hoss mule in these parts—"
"Yo' mean he wuz th' bes' hoss mule!" interrupted Buck, in a spirit of reckless deviltry.
Crawley flushed, paled, clenched his fists and glared hate at the speaker.
"Here now, men," spoke up the 'Squire, laying a knotty hand upon the shoulder of the owner. "Leas' said's soones' mended. They's no manner o' ust carry'n' hard feelin's any fu'ther.... Buck, shet up!... Bart, keep yo' trap shet till I git th' straight o' this. Whur's th' witnesses'? Who saw th' killin' o' this here mule?"
His head went up, and his eyes roved over the packed interior of the shop.
Just then I wished myself away. Could I have foreseen the public inquiry now afoot, I certainly would have put myself beyond reach, for Buck was to blame in this affair, and my testimony would necessarily show it. Naturally I did not want to arouse any ill-feeling I could avoid. Perhaps even now I might slip away unobserved. But the thought was doomed even as it flashed into my mind. Bart Crawley promptly made answer.
"Me 'n' th' nigger 'n' Buck—'n' him!" pointing triumphantly at me.