“You don’t mean the horses that you drove up?”
“Yes, I do, and they hadn’t a cussed thing to eat till they got back to Barclay’s!”
“How was it possible for you to drive them back?”
“Why, I don’t suppose I could ha’ done it if I’d had any passengers: (you Suze!) shall lose a mail again to-night, if this mare don’t travel better, (durn ye, yer ugly, I believe). She’s a good mare—a heap of go in her, but it takes right smart of work to get it out. Suze!”
So we toiled on, with incessant shouting, and many strange piny-wood oaths, and horrid belabouring of the poor horses’ backs, with the butt-end of a hickory whip-stalk, till I really thought their spinal-columns must break. The country, the same undulating pine forest, the track tortuous among the trees, which frequently stood so close that it required some care to work between them. Often we made detours from the original road, to avoid a fallen tree, or a mire-hole, and all the time we were bouncing over protruding roots and small stumps. There was but little mud, the soil being sand, but now and then a deep slough. In one of these we found a waggon, heavily laden, stuck fast, and six mules and five negroes tugging at it. With our help it was got out of the way, and we passed on. Soon afterwards we met the return coach, apparently in a similar predicament; but one of the passengers, whom I questioned, replied: “No, not stalled, exactly, but somehow the horses won’t draw. We have been more than three hours coming about four miles.”
“How is it you have so many balky horses?” I asked the driver.
“The old man buys ’em up cheap, ’cause nobody else can do anything with ’em.”
“I should not think you could do much with them, either—except to kill them.”
“Well, that’s what the old man says he buys ’em for. He was blowing me up for losing the mail t’other night; I told him, says I, ‘You have to a’most kill them horses, ’fore you can make ’em draw a bit,’ says I. ‘Kill ’em, damn ’em, kill em, then; that’s what I buy ’em for,’ says he. ‘I buy ’em a purpose to kill; that’s all they are good for, ain’t it?’ says he. ‘Don’t s’pose they’re going to last for ever, do ye?’ says he.”
We stopped once, nearly half an hour, for some unexplained reason, before a house on the road. The door of the house was open, an enormous fire was burning in it, and, at the suggestion of the driver, I went in to warm myself. It was a large log-cabin, of two rooms, with beds in each room, and with an apartment overhead, to which access was had by a ladder. Among the inmates were two women; one of them sat in the chimney-corner smoking a pipe, and rocking a cradle; the other sat directly before the fire, and full ten feet distant. She was apparently young, but her face was as dry and impassive as a dead man’s. She was doing nothing, and said but little; but, once in about a minute, would suddenly throw up her chin, and spit with perfect precision into the hottest embers of the fire. The furniture of the house was more scanty and rude than I ever saw before in any house, with women living in it, in the United States. Yet these people were not so poor but that they had a negro woman cutting and bringing wood for their fire.