“Well, you dream about unhooking Betty and finding her some water and grass.”
“I done dream dat old crazy man yo’ all’s tellin’ ’bout been chasin’ me.”
“Don Quixote?”
“Da’s him. He been ridin’ right hyar wid us in de back seat.” And Amos turned suddenly as if expecting to see the ghost of the old knight sitting in the surrey.
Morey laughed as he forced Betty through the underbrush.
“What did he say?”
“He been shoutin’ ‘Go on, niggah! Go on, white boy! I’s wid you!’ No, sah, I ain’t gwine on, I’s gwine home. Dat ol’ boy sho’ly don’ mean no good. Da’s his ghos’—I seen him. He cain’t conjure me, no, sah. I don’t reckon I’ll go no furder. Marse Morey, dat ol’ hoss done played out a’ready.”
Morey was on the ground limbering his stiffened limbs and laughing.
“If I could just find my knife I lost,” he murmured while he felt in his pockets, “I’d cut a new whip.”
Amos started, opened his mouth and closed it nervously and then climbed from the surrey without further comment.