Soon, too, she heard the sharp voice of Mr. Gossett, her master, calling to the hog feeder. And you may be sure the man went as fast as his legs could carry him. Get out of the way, dogs, chickens, wheelbarrows, woodpile, everything, and let the negro run to his master! Had he seen the horses? Oh, yes, Marster, that he had! They were standing at the lot gate, and they whickered and whinnied so that he was obliged to go and see what the trouble was. And there were the horses, Mr. Simmons's among the rest. Yes, Marster, and the hog feeder was just on the point of alarming the neighborhood, thinking something serious had happened, when the thought came to his mind that the horses had grown tired of waiting and had broken loose from their fastenings. Oh, yes, Marster, they would do that way sometimes, because horses have a heap of sense, especially Marster's horses. When one broke loose the others wanted to follow him, and then they broke loose too. And they were fed,—eating right now, and all fixed up. Saddle 'em by sun-up? Yes, Marster, and before that if you want 'em, for they've already had a right smart snack of corn and good clean fodder.
As for Aaron, he had far to go. He had no fear of Mr. Gossett's hounds, but he knew that he would have some difficulty in getting away from those that Mr. Simmons had trained. If he could outmanœuvre them, that would be the best plan. If not,—well, he would make a stand in the swamp. But there was the crop-eared, bob-tailed cur—the catch dog—that was the trouble. Aaron knew, too, that Mr. Simmons was a professional negro hunter, and that he naturally took some degree of pride in it. Being a professional, with a keen desire to be regarded as an expert, it was to be supposed that Mr. Simmons had made a study of the tactics of fugitive negroes.
As a matter of fact, Mr. Simmons was a very shrewd man; he was also, in spite of his calling, a very kind-hearted man. In his soul he despised Mr. Gossett, whose negroes were constantly in the woods, and loved and admired Addison Abercrombie, whose negroes never ran away, and who, if every slave on his plantation were a fugitive, would never call on Mr. Simmons to catch them.
Aaron was far afield when, as the sun rose, Mr. Gossett's hog feeder called the house girl and asked her to tell Mr. Gossett that the horses were saddled and ready at the front gate. Then Mr. Simmons's dogs, which had been shut up in the carriage house, were turned out and fed. The hounds were given half-cooked corn meal, but the catch dog, Pluto, must needs have a piece of raw meat, which he swallowed at one gulp. This done, Mr. Simmons blew one short, sharp note on his horn, and the hunt for Aaron began.
V.
THE HUNT BEGINS.
When Aaron left the negro woman at Gossett's he went rapidly through the woods until he came to the old fields that had once been cultivated, but were now neglected for newer and better soil. These deserted fields had been dismally naked of vegetation for years, and where they undulated into hills the storms had cut deep red gashes. But these wounds were now gradually healing. A few years before a company of travelers had camped out one night at Curtwright's factory, not many miles away, and where they fed their horses a grass new to that region—new, in fact, to this country—made its appearance. It grew and spread for miles around and covered the red hills with the most beautiful mantle that the southern summers had ever seen. It refused to wither and parch under the hot sun, but flourished instead.