“He got out!” shouted Elijah Butts in still greater fury. “He got out and set fire to the cotton to spite me! Wait until I catch him! Wait till I get my hands on him!” He stamped up and down, shouting threats against his son, awful to listen to.
“I thought he’d drive that boy to turn against him yet,” said Justice, drawing me away to a quiet spot, and mopping his black forehead with a damp handkerchief. “I can’t say but that it served him right. After all, Absalom is a chip off the old block. That’s his idea of getting even. He didn’t stop to think that it was the government’s loss as well as his father’s. Well, it’s all over but the shouting; we might as well go home.”
We drove home in silence. Justice was tuckered out, I could see that, and I began to worry for fear his strenuous efforts would lay him up. I was still too much excited to feel tired. That would come later. All my energy was concentrated into disappointment over Absalom Butts. I couldn’t believe that he was really as bad as this. I didn’t want to believe he had done it, and yet it seemed all too true. Why had he run away if he hadn’t? I shook my head. It was beyond me.
Silently we drove into the yard and unhitched Sandhelo.
“Good night,” said Justice, starting off in the direction of his cabin.
“Good night,” I replied absently. I did not go right into the house. I was wide awake and knew I could not go to sleep for some time. Instead I sat in the doorway and blinked at the moon, like a touseled-haired owl. It was after midnight and everything was still, even the wind. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Justice wearily plodding along to his sleeping quarters, saw him open the screen door and vanish from sight within. Then, borne clearly on the night air, I heard an exclamation come from his lips, then a frightened cry. I sped down the path like the wind to the little cabin. A lamp flared out in the darkness just as I reached it and by its light I saw Justice bending over something in a corner.
“What’s the matter?” I called through the screen door.
Justice turned around with a start. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said. “Come in here.”
I went in. There, crouched in a corner on the floor, was Absalom Butts, his eyes blinking in the sudden light, his face like a scared rabbit’s. It was he who had cried out, not Justice.
“What’s the trouble, Absalom,” said I, trying to speak in a natural tone of voice, “can’t you find your way home?”