“I never is see no mule like dis,” said the negro, indignantly, as he took a soiled letter from his hat and handed it to Joe. “I start from town at two o’tlocks, an’ here ’tis mos’ night. I got me a stick an’ I hit ’er on one side, an’ den she’d shy on t’er side de road, an’ when I hit ’er on dat side, she’d shy on dis side. She been gwine slonchways de whole blessed way.”
Mr. Deomatari’s note had neither address nor signature, and it was very brief. “Come at once,” it said. “You remember the retreat from Laurel Hill and the otter? Come in by the jail and around by the Branham place. If some one cries, ‘Who goes there?’ say, ‘It is the Relief.’”
Joe turned the note over and studied it. “Who gave you this?” he asked the negro.
“Dat chuffy-lookin’ white man what stay dar at de tavern. He say you mustn’t wait for me, but des push on. Dem wuz his ve’y words—des push on.”
Joe had some trouble in getting away. The editor had gone off somewhere in the plantation; and Butterfly, the horse he proposed to ride—the horse he always rode—was in the pasture, and a colt in a plantation pasture is as big a problem as a hard sum in arithmetic. The colt is like the answer. It is there somewhere; but how are you going to get it, and when? Harbert solved the problem after a while by cornering the colt and catching him; but the sun was nearly down when Joe started, and he then had nine miles to ride. Harbert, who was a sort of plantation almanac, said there would be no moon until after midnight, and a mighty small one then; but this made no difference to Joe Maxwell. Every foot of the road was as familiar to him as it was to old Mr. Wall, the hatter, who was in the habit of remarking that, if anybody would bring him a hatful of gravel from the big road that led to Hillsborough, he’d “up an’ tell ’em right whar they scooped it up at.” Joe not only knew the road well, but he was well mounted. Butterfly had all the faults Of a colt except fear. He was high-spirited and nervous, but nothing seemed to frighten him. When the lad started, Harbert ran on ahead to unlatch the big plantation gate that opened on the public-road.
“Good-night, Marse Joe,” said the negro. “I wish you mighty well.”
“Good-night, Harbert,” responded Joe, as he went cantering into the darkness.