Books: The Law of the Land
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Emerson Hough >> The Law of the Land
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"Ain't yo' fault!"
"No, it ain't my _fault_. Whut am I goin' to do? I kain't get no otheh
cow right now, an' I done tol' you so. You reckon cows grows on
bushes?"
"Grows on bushes!"
"Yes, or that they comes for nuthin'?"
"Comes for nuthin'!"
"Yes, Sar' Ann, that's whut I said. I tell you, it ain't so fur to
come, ain't so fur up heah, if you take it easy; only three mile. An'
Cunnel Blount'll give us melk as long as we want. I reckon he would
give us a cow, too, if I ast him. I s'pose I could pay him out o' the
next crop, if they wasn't so many things that has to be paid out'n
the crop. It's too blame bad 'bout Muley." He scratched his head
thoughtfully.
"Yes," responded his spouse, "Muley was a heap better cow than you'll
ever git ag'in. Why, she give two quo'ts o' melk the very mawnin' she
was kilt--two quo'ts. I reckon we didn't have to walk no three mile
that mawnin', did we? An' she that kin' and gentle-like--oh, we ain't
goin' to git no new cow like Muley, no time right soon, I want to
tell you that, Jim Bowles."
"Well, well, I know all that," said her husband, conciliatingly, a
trifle easier now that the sunbonnet was for the moment turned aside.
"That's all true, mighty true. But what kin you _do_?"
"Do? Why, do _somethin_'! Somebody sho' ought to suffer for this heah.
This new fangled railroad a-comin' through heah, a-killin' things, an'
a-killin' _folks_! Why, Bud Sowers said just the other week he heard
of three darkies gittin' kilt in one bunch down to Allenville. They
standin' on the track, jes' talkin' an' visitin' like. Didn't notice
nuthin'. Didn't notice the train a-comin'. 'Biff!' says Bud; an' thah
was them darkies."
"Yes," said Mr. Bowles, "that's the way it was with Muley. She just
walk up out'n the cane, an' stan' thah in the sun on the track, to
sort o' look aroun' whah she could see free fer a little ways. Then,
'long comes the railroad train, an' biff! Thah's Muley!"
"Plumb daid!"
"Plumb daid!"
"An' she a good cow for us for fo'teen yeahs! It don't look exactly
right, now, does it? It sho' don't"
"It's a outrage, that's whut it is," said Sar' Ann Bowles.
"Well, we got the railroad," said her husband, tentatively.
"Yes, we got the railroad," said Sar' Ann Bowles, savagely, "an' whut
yearthly good is it? Who wants any railroad? Whut use have we-all got
fer it? It comes through ouah farm, an' scares ouah mewel, an' it
kills ouah cow; an' it's got me so's I'm afeared to set foot outsid'n
ouah do', lessen it's goin' to kill me, too. Why, all the way up heah
this mawnin', I was skeered every foot of the way, a-fear-in' that
there ingine was goin' to come along an' kill us both!"
"Sho'! Sar' Ann," said her husband, with superiority. "It ain't time
fer the train yit--leastwise I don't think it is." He looked about
uneasily.
"That's all right, Jim Bowles. One of them ingines might come along
'most any time. It might creep up behin' you, then, biff! Thah's Jim
Bowles! Whut use is the railroad, I'd like to know? I wouldn't be
caught a-climbin' in one o' them thah kyars, not fer big money.
Supposin' it run off the track?"
"Oh, well, now," said her husband, "maybe it don't, always."
"But supposin' it _did_?" The front of the telescope turned toward him
suddenly, and so perfect was the focus this time that Mr. Bowles
shifted his seat and took refuge upon another board at the other end
of the board-pile, out of range, albeit directly in the ardent
sunlight, which, warm as it was, did not seem to him so burning as the
black eyes in the bonnet, or so troublous as the tongue which went on
with its questions.
"Whut made you vote fer this heah railroad?" said Sarah Ann,
following him mercilessly with the bonnet tube. "We didn't want no
railroad. We never did have one, an' we never ought to a-had one. You
listen to me, that railroad is goin' to ruin this country. Thah ain't
a woman in these heah bottoms but would be skeered to have a baby
grow up in her house. Supposin' you got a baby; nice little baby,
never did harm no one. You a-cookin' or somethin'--out to the smoke-
house like enough; baby alone fer about two minutes. Baby crawls out
on to the railroad track. Along comes the ingine, an' biff! Thah's
yo' baby!"
Mrs. Bowles shed tears at this picture which she had conjured up, and
even her less imaginative consort became visibly affected, so that
for a moment he half straightened up.
"Hit don't look quite right," said he, once more. "But, then, whut
you goin' to do? Whut _kin_ we do, woman?" he asked fiercely.
"Why, if the men in these heah parts was half men," said his wife, "I
tell you whut they'd do. They'd git out and tear up every foot of
this heah cussed railroad track, an' throw it back into the cane.
That's whut they'd do."
"Sho' now, would you?" said Jim Bowles.
"Shore I would. You got to do it if things keeps on this-away."
"Well, we couldn't, lessen Cunnel Blount said it was all right, you
know. The Cunnel was the friend of the road through these heah
bottoms. He 'lowed it would help us all."
"Help? Help us? Huh! Like to know how it helps us, killin' ouah cow
an' makin' us walk three mile of a hot mornin' to git a pail o' melk
to make up some co'hn bread. You call that a help, do you, Jim
Bowles? You may, but I don't an' I hain't a-goin' to. I got some
sense, I reckon. Railroad! Help! Huh!"
Jim Bowles crept stealthily a little farther away on his own side of
the board-pile, whither it seemed his wife could not quite so readily
follow him with her transfixing gaze.
"Well, now, Sar' Ann," said he, "the Cunnel done tol' me hit was all
right. He said some of ouah stock like enough git kilt, 'cause you
know these heah bottoms is growed up so close like, with cane an' all
that, that any sort of critters like to git out where it's open, so's
they kin sort o' look around like, you know. Why, I done seen four
deer trails whils' we was a-comin' up this mawnin', and I seen whah a
b'ah had come out an' stood on the track. Now, as fer cows, an' as
fer niggers, why, it stands to reason that some of them is shore
goin' to git kilt, that's all."
"An' you men is goin' to stand that from the railroad? Why don't you
make them pay for whut gits kilt?"
"Well, now, Sar' Ann," said her husband, conciliatorily, "that's just
whut I was goin' to say. The time the fust man come down through heah
to talk about buildin' the railroad, he done said, like I tol' you
Cunnel Blount said, that we might git some stock kilt fer a little
while, till things kind o' got used to it, you know; but he 'lowed
that the railroad would sort o' pay for anything that got kilt like,
you know."
"Pay! The railroad goin' to pay you!" Again the remorseless sunbonnet
followed its victim and fixed him with its focus. "Pay you! I didn't
notice no money layin' on the track where we come along this mawnin',
did you? Yes, I reckon it's goin' to pay you, a whole heap!" The
scorn of this utterance was limitless, and Jim Bowles felt his
insignificance in the untenable position which he had assumed.
"Well, I dunno," said he, vaguely, and sighed softly; all of which
irritated Mrs. Bowles to such an extent that she flounced suddenly
around to get a better gaze upon her master. In this movement, her
foot struck the pail of milk which had been sitting near, and
overturned it.
"Jinny," she called out, "you, Jinny!"
"Yassam," replied Jinny, from some place on the gallery.
"Come heah," said Mrs. Bowles. "Git me another pail o' melk. I done
spilled this one."
"Yassam," replied Jinny, and presently returned with the refilled
vessel.
"Well, anyway," said Jim Bowles at length, rising and standing with
hands in pockets, inside the edge of the shade line of the
evergreens, "I heard that thah was a man come down through heah a few
days ago. He was sort of takin' count o' the critters that done got
kilt by the railroad kyahs."
"That so?" said Sarah Ann, somewhat mollified.
"I reckon so," said Jim Bowles. "I 'lowed I'd ast Cunnel Blount 'bout
that sometime. 0' co'se it don't bring Muley back, but then---"
"No, hit don't," said Sarah Ann, resuming her original position. "And
our little Sim, he just loved that Muley cow, little Sim, he did,"
she mourned.
"Say, Jim Bowles, do you heah me?"--this with a sudden flirt of the
sunbonnet in an agony of actual fear. "Why, Jim Bowles, do you know
that ouah little Sim might be a-playin' out thah in front of ouah
house, on to that railroad track, at this very minute? S'pose,
s'posen--along comes that thah railroad train! Say, man, whut you
standin' there in that thah shade fer? We got to go! We got to git
home! Come right along this minute, er we may be too late."
And so, smitten by this sudden thought, they gathered themselves
together as best they might and started toward the railroad for their
return. Even as they did so there appeared upon the northern horizon
a wreath of smoke rising above the forest. There was the far-off
sound of a whistle, deadened by the heavy intervening vegetation; and
presently, there puffed into view one of the railroad trains still
new upon this region. Iconoclastic, modern, strenuous, it wabbled
unevenly over the new-laid rails up to the station-house, where it
paused for a few moments ere it resumed its wheezing way to the
southward. The two visitors at the Big House gazed at it open-mouthed
for a time, until all at once her former thought crossed the woman's
mind. She turned upon her husband.
"Thah it goes! Thah it goes!" she cried. "Right on straight to ouah
house! It kain't miss it! An' little Sim, he's sho' to be playin' out
thah on the track. Oh, he's daid right this minute, he sho'ly is!"
Her speech exercised a certain force upon Jim Bowles. He stepped on
the faster, tripped upon a clod and stumbled, spilling half the milk
from the pail.
"Thah, now!" said he. "Thah hit goes ag'in. Done spilt the melk.
Well, hit's too far back to the house now fer mo'. But, now, mebbe
Sim wasn't playin' on the track."
"Mebbe he wasn't!" said Sarah Ann, scornfully. "Why, _o' co'se_ he
was."
"Well, if he was," said Jim Bowles, philosophically, "why, Sar' Ann,
from whut I done notice about this yeah railroad train, why--it's
_too late_, now."
He might perhaps have pursued this logical course of thought further,
had not there occurred an incident which brought the conversation to
a close. Looking up, the two saw approaching them across the lawn,
evidently coming from the little railway station, and doubtless
descended from this very train, the alert, quick-stepping figure of a
man evidently a stranger to the place. Jim and Sarah Ann Bowles
stepped to one side as he approached and lifted his hat with a
pleasant smile.
"Good morning," said the stranger. "It's a fine day, isn't it? Can
you tell me whether or not Colonel Blount is at home this morning?"
"Well, suh," said Jim Bowles, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "He ah,
an' he ain't. He's home, o' co'se; that is, he hain't gone away no
whah, to co'te er nothin'. But then ag'in, he's out huntin', gone
afteh b'ah. I reckon he's likely to be in 'most any day now."
"'Most any day?"
"Yessah. You better go on up to the house. The Cunnel will be right
glad to see you. You're a stranger in these parts, I reckon? I'd be
glad to have you stop down to my house, but it's three mile down the
track, an' we hatter walk. You'd be mo' comfo'table heah, I reckon.
Walk on up, and tell 'em to give you a place to set. My woman an'
me, I reckon we got to git home now, suh. It's somethin' might be
mighty serious."
"Yas, indeed," murmured Mrs. Bowles, "we got to git along."
"Thank you," said the stranger. "I am very much obliged to you,
indeed. I believe I will wait here for just a little while, as you
say. Good morning, sir. Good morning, madam."
He turned and walked slowly up the path toward the house, as the
others pursued their way to the railroad track, down which they
presently were plodding on their homeward journey. There was at least
a little milk left in the pail when finally they reached their log
cabin, with its yard full of pigs and chickens. Eagerly they scanned
the sides of the railway embankment as they drew near, looking for
signs of what they feared to see. One need not describe the fierce
joy with which Sarah Ann Bowles fell upon little Sim, who was
presently discovered, safe and dirty, knocking about upon the kitchen
floor in abundant company of puppies, cats and chickens. As to the
reproaches which she heaped upon her husband in her happiness, it is
likewise unnecessary to dwell thereupon.
"I knowed he would be kilt," said Sarah Ann.
"But he _hain't_," said her husband, triumphantly. And for one time in
their married life there seemed to be no possible way in which she
might contradict him, which fact for her constituted a situation
somewhat difficult.
"Well, 'tain't yo' fault ef he hain't," said she at length. The rest
of her revenge she took upon the person of little Sim, whom she
alternately chastened and embraced, to the great and grieved surprise
of the latter, who remained ignorant of any existing or pending
relation upon his part with the methods or the instruments of modern
progress.
CHAPTER III
THE VISITOR
The new-comer at the Big House was a well-looking figure as he
advanced up the path toward the white-pillared galleries. In height
just above middle stature, and of rather spare habit of body, alert,
compact and vigorous, he carried himself with a half-military self-
respect, redeemed from aggressiveness by an open candor of face and
the pleasant, forthright gaze of kindly blue-gray eyes. In spite of a
certain gravity of mien, his eyes seemed wont to smile upon occasion,
as witnessed divers little wrinkles at the corners. He was smooth-
shaven, except for a well-trimmed dark mustache; the latter offering
a distinct contrast to the color of his hair, which, apparently not
in full keeping with his years, was lightly sprinkled with gray. Yet
his carriage was assuredly not that of middle age, and indeed, the
total of his personality, neither young nor old, neither callow nor
acerb, neither lightly unreserved nor too gravely severe, offered
certain problems not capable of instant solution. A hurried observer
might have guessed his age within ten years but might have been wrong
upon either side, and might have had an equal difficulty in
classifying his residence or occupation.
Whatever might be said of this stranger, it was evident that he was
not ill at ease in this environment; for as he met coming around the
corner an old colored man, who, with a rag in one hand and a bottle
in the other, seemed intent upon some errand at the dog kennel
beyond, the visitor paused not in query or salutation, but tossed his
umbrella to the servant and at the same time handed him his
traveling-bag. "Take care of these. Bill," said he.
Bill, for that was indeed his name, placed the bag and umbrella upon
the gallery floor, and with the air of owning the place himself,
invited the visitor to enter the Big House.
"The Cunnel's not to home, suh," said Bill. "But you bettah come in
and seddown. I'll go call the folks."
"Never mind," said the visitor. "I reckon I'll just walk around a
little outside. I hear Colonel Blount is off on a bear hunt."
"Yassah," said Bill. "An' when he goes he mostly gits b'ah. I'se
right 'spondent dis time, though, 'deed I is, suh."
"What's the matter?"
"Why, you see, suh," replied Bill, leaning comfortably back against a
gallery post, "it's dis-away. I'm just goin' out to fix up old Hec's
foot. He's ouah bestest b'ah-dog, but he got so blame biggoty, las'
time he was out, stuck his foot right intoe a b'ah's mouth. Now,
Hec's lef' home, an' me lef home to 'ten' to Hec. How kin Cunnel
Blount git ary b'ah 'dout me and Hec along? I'se right 'spondent,
dat's whut I is."
"Well, now, that's too bad," said the stranger, with a smile.
"Too bad? I reckon it sho' is. Fer, if Cunnel Blount don't git no
b'ah--look out den, _I_ kin tell you."
"Gets his dander up, eh?"
"Dandah--dandah! You know him? Th'ain't no better boss, but ef he
goes out huntin' b'ah an' don't get no _b'ah_--why, then th' ain't no
reason goin' _do_ foh him."
"Is Mrs. Blount at home, Bill?"
"Th'ain't no Mrs. Blount, and I don't reckon they neveh will be.
Cunnel too busy huntin' b'ah to git married. They's two ladies heah,
no relation o' him; they done come heah a yeah er so ago, and they-
all keeps house fer the Cunnel. That's Mrs. Ellison and her dahteh,
Miss Lady. She's a pow'ful fine gal, Miss Lady."
"I don't know them," said the visitor.
"No, sah," said Bill. "They ain't been heah long. Dese heah low-down
niggers liken to steal the Cunnel blin', he away so much. One day, he
gits right mad. 'Lows he goin' to advehtize fer a housekeepah-lady.
Then Mas' Henry 'Cherd--he's gemman been livin' couple o' yeahs 'er
so down to near Vicksburg, some'rs; he's out huntin' now with the
Cunnel--why, Mas' 'Cherd he 'lows he knows whah thah's a lady, jus'
the thing. Law! Cunnel didn't spec' no real lady, you know, jes'
wantin' housekeepah. But long comes this heah lady, Mrs. Ellison, an'
brings this heah young lady, too--real quality. 'Miss Lady' we-all
calls her, right to once. Orto see Cunnel Cal Blount den! 'Now, I
reckon I kin go huntin' peaceful,' says he. So dem two tuk holt. Been
heah ever since. Mas' 'Cherd, he has in min' this heah yallah gal,
Delpheem. Right soon, heah come Delpheem 'long too. Reckon she runs
the kitchen all right. Anyways we's got white folks in the parlah,
whah they allus _orto_ be white folks."
"Well, you ought to thank your friend--what is his name--Ducherd--
Decherd? Seems as though I had heard that name, below somewhere."
"Yas, Mas' Henry 'Cherd. We does thank him. He sut'nly done fix us
all up wid women-folks. We couldn't no _mo'_ git erlong 'dout Miss
Lady now, 'n we could 'dout _me,_ er the Cunnel. But, _law!_ it don't
make no diff'ence to Cunnel Blount who's heah or who ain't heah, he
jest gotter hunt _b'ah._ You come 'long wid me, I could show you b'ah
hides up stairs, b'ah hides on de roof, b'ah hides on de sheds, b'ah
hides on de barn, and a tame b'ah hitched to the cotton-gin ovah
thah."
"He seems to make a sort of specialty of bear, doesn't he? Got a
pretty good pack, eh?"
"Pack? I should say we has! We got the bestest b'ah pack in
Miss'ippi, er in de whole worl'. We sho' is fixed up fer huntin'.
But, now, look heah, two three days ago the railroad kyahs done run
ovah a fine colt whut de Cunnel was raisin' fer a saddle hoss--kilt
it plumb daid. That riled him a heap. 'Damn the railroad kyahs,' sez
he. An' den off he goes huntin', sort o' riled like. Now, ef he comes
back, and ef he don't git no _b'ah,_ why, you won't see old Bill
'round heah fer 'bout fo' days."
"You seem to know him pretty well."
"Know him? I orto. Raised wid him, an' lived heah all my life. Now,
when you see Cunnel Blount come home, he'll come up 'long dat lane,
him an' de dogs, an' dem no 'count niggers he done took 'long wid
him; an' when he gits up to whah de lane crosses de railroad track,
ef he come ridin' 'long easy like, now an' den tootin' his hawn to
so'ht o' let us know he's a-comin'--ef he do dat-away, dat's all
right,--dat's all right." Here the garrulous old servant shook his
head. "But ef he don't--well den--"
"That's bad, if he doesn't, eh?"
"Yassah. Ef he don' come a-blowin' an' ef he _do_ come _a-singin'_,
den look out! I allus did notice, ef Cunnel Blount 'gins to sing
'ligious hymns, somethin's wrong, and somethin' gwine ter drap. He
hain't right easy ter git along wid when he's a-singin'. But if you'll
'scuse me, suh, I gotter take care o' old Hec. Jest make yourself to
home, suh,--anyways you like."
The visitor contented himself with wandering about the yard, until at
length he seated himself on the board-pile beneath the evergreen
trees, and so sank into an idle reverie, his chin in his hand, and
his eyes staring out across the wide field. His face, now in repose,
seemed more meditative; indeed one might have called it almost
mournful. The shoulders drooped a trifle, as though their owner for
the time forgot to pull himself together. He sat thus for some time,
and the sun was beginning to encroach upon his refuge, when suddenly
he was aroused by the faint and far-off sound of a hunting horn. That
the listener distinguished it at such a distance might have argued
that he himself had known hound and saddle in his day; yet he readily
caught the note of the short hunting horn universally used by the
southern hunters, and recognized the assembly call for the hunting
pack. As it came near, all the dogs that remained in the kennel yards
heard it and raged to escape from their confinement. Old Bill came
hobbling around the corner. Steps were heard on the gallery, and the
visitor's face showed a slight uneasiness as he caught a glimpse of a
certain spot now suddenly made alive by the flutter of a soft gown
and the flash of a bunch of scarlet ribbons. Thither he gazed as
directly as he might in these circumstances.
"Dat's her! dat's Miss Lady!" said Bill to his new friend, in a low
voice. "Han'somest young lady in de hull Delta. Dey'll all be right
glad ter see de Cunnel back. He's got a b'ah sho', fer he's comin' a-
blowin'."
Bill's joy was not long-lived, for even as the little cavalcade came
in view, a tall figure on a chestnut hunting horse riding well in
advance, certain colored stragglers following, and the party-colored
pack trotting or limping along on all sides, the music of the
summoning horn suddenly ceased. Looking neither to the right nor to
the left, the leader of the hunt rode on up the lane, sitting loose
and careless in the saddle, his right hand steadying a short rifle
across the saddle front. He rode thus until presently those at the
Big House heard, softly rising on the morning air, the chant of an
old church hymn: "On Jordan's strand I'll _take_ my stand, An-n-n--"
"Oh, Lawd!" exclaimed Bill. "Dat's his very wustest chune." Saying
which he dodged around the corner of the house.
CHAPTER IV
A QUESTION OP VALUATION
Turning in from the lane at the yard gate, Colonel Calvin Blount and
his retinue rode close up to the side door of the plantation house;
but even here the master vouchsafed no salutation to those who
awaited his coming. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, lean and
muscular; yet so far from being thin and dark, he was spare rather
from physical exercise than through gaunt habit of body; his
complexion was ruddy and sun-colored, and the long mustache hanging
across his jaws showed a deep mahogany-red. Western ranchman one
might have called him, rather than southern planter. Scotch-Irish,
generations back, perhaps, yet southern always, and by birth-right
American, he might have been a war-lord of another land and day. No
feudal baron ever dismounted with more assuredness at his own hall,
to toss careless rein to a retainer. He stood now, tall and straight,
a trifle rough-looking in his careless planter's dress, but every
inch the master. A slight frown puckered up his forehead, giving to
his face an added hint of sternness.
Behind this leading figure of the cavalcade came a younger man. In
age perhaps at the mid thirties, tall, slender, with dark hair and
eyes and with a dark mustache shading his upper lip, Henry Decherd,
formerly of New Orleans, for a few years dweller in the Delta,
sometime guest of Colonel Blount at the Big House plantation and
companion of the hunt, made now a figure if not wholly eye-filling,
at least handsome and distinguished. His dress was neat to the verge
of foppishness, nor did it seem much disordered by the hardships of
the chase. Upon his clean-cut face there sat a certain arrogance, as
of one at least desirous of having his own way in his own sphere. Not
an ill-looking man, upon the whole, was Henry Decherd, though his
reddish-yellow eyes, a bit oblique in their setting, gave the
impression alike of a certain touchiness of temper and an
unpleasantly fox-like quality of character. There was an air not
barren of self-consciousness as he threw himself out of the saddle,
for it might have been seen that under his saddle, and not that of
Colonel Blount, there rested the black and glossy hide of the great
bear which had been the object of the chase. Decherd stood with his
hand resting on the hide and gazed somewhat eagerly, one might have
thought, toward the gallery whence came the flash of scarlet ribbons.
Colonel Blount busied himself with directions as to the horses and
dogs. The latter came straggling along in groups or pairs or singles,
some of them hobbling on three legs, many showing bitter wounds. The
chase of the great bear had proved stern pastime for them. Of half a
hundred hounds which had started, not two-thirds were back again, and
many of these would be unfit for days for the resumption of their
savage trade. None the less, as the master sounded again, loud and
clear, the call for the assembly, all the dogs about the place, young
and old, homekeepers and warriors, came pouring in with heads
uplifted, each pealing out his sweet and mournful music. Colonel
Blount spoke to dozens of them, calling each by its proper name.
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