“They all. They bin skeered stiff, a’ter them Tribesmen p’raded through town this a’ternoon. Every blessed last one of them damned niggers packed up thayr belongings and skip’d. Wall, good riddance of ’em!”
Other villagers came up excitedly.
“The only wan who misses ’em is the real estater who rented ’em thayr shanties,” someone laughed shrilly.
“They all packed up an’ git.”
“Hurry up, mister, and you all kin see ’em. They’re just adown the road a piece. Reckon they’ll be goin’ to Colby and they’re sneakin’ in a’ night so the whites don’ see ’em.” The crowd laughed.
Robert sounded his siren, the crowd gave way, talking and laughing, and he pushed slowly through the straggling main street into the country again. A mile away, at the top of a crest, he came upon the last of the column—a fleshy, gray-haired mammy with a basket full of household utensils on her head. One arm was raised to support it, while the other held a cane with which she felt her way. Beside her another old woman waddled, an infant in her arms and a pickaninny of perhaps three trailing at her ragged skirt.
They were taking the cross-road and now the whole ragged, pathetic procession could be seen at the top of the crest, from the tall, broad-shouldered bucks guarding the mule carts in the front to the two old women in the rear. The moon, round and bright, fell on their exodus and painted them into a column of shadows, with bowed heads, moving slowly onward. The fence rails of a field were down. Robert dimmed his lights, parked his car beside the road, jumped out and cut across the field to a clump of bushes. The mules thudded slowly, switching their flanks, along the clay. Harness slapped from side to side, wagon wheels creaked. In the wagons were stoves, beds, the heavier articles of furniture and the sick. Everyone carried something—enormous bundles, worn suitcases. A tattered youth in overalls and undershirt, staggered beneath a soldier’s haversack and roll, piled high and strapped to his shoulders, and pulled a toy express wagon filled with rattling kitchenware.
Stolid men with brown faces and fear in their eyes. Weeping women. A ragged preacher moaning at the top of his voice and invoking “De Lor’ Jehovah.” Sorrowful, musical voices responding. Children crying. A woman moaning. A pregnant woman, with set mouth, pulling a mulatto child by the hand. A child with high nose and thin lips, but bearing the brand of Canaan—woolly hair and dark skin. There they marched, black, brown, yellow—negroes and mulattoes—their entire wealth wrapped in these rude bundles.
The mulatto child. It haunted him. Soft, wondering eyes in the moonlight, looking up at its mother. An idea, a grotesque idea, came to Robert. What mob had howled about the faggot pile of the father of this half-breed child? What white-robed knights had paraded before his door in warning? No! He had been white. And, a horrible thought, perhaps some white father, sometime, somewhere, unknowingly, of course, had paraded in warning before the home of his half-breed son or, it was conceivable, had kindled the flames about his brown limbs! Moonlight and the shadows moving on.
A tall, straight-shouldered negro leaned forward against a push cart, overflowing with bedding and on top of which rode a gray-haired, sobbing woman. He was comforting her, crooning to her as one might to a terrified child. His eyes turned toward the row of bushes and a memory burned in Robert’s brain. Who was it? Where had he seen him? Was it? Was it the black who had saved his life? The pale light fell full on his features—the high cheek bones, the slightly thickened lips. No, thank God! No, it was not Williams. No, it was not Williams!