Читать книгу On the Plantation - Joel Chandler Harris - Страница 10

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One Sunday morning, not long after Joe’s adventure with Mink, Harbert came to him with a serious face.

“Marse Joe,” he said, “dey er gwine ter ketch Mink dis time.”

“How do you know?”

“Kaze, soon dis mornin’ whiles I wuz a-feed-in’ de hogs, I seed one er dem Gaither boys cornin’ down de road under whip an’ spur, an’ I ax ’im wharbouts he gwine, an’ he say he gwine atter Bill Locke an’ his nigger dogs. He ’low dat he know whar Mink bin las’ Friday night, an’ dey gwine ter put de dogs on his track an’ ketch ’im. Dey’ll be’long back dis a way terreckly.”

The lad had witnessed many a fox-chase and had hunted rabbits hundreds of times, not only with the plantation harriers but with hounds; but he had never seen a runaway negro hunted down, and he had a boy’s curiosity in the matter, as well as a personal interest in the fate of Mink. So he mounted his horse and waited for Mr. Locke and young Gaither to return. He knew Bill Locke well, having seen him often in Hillsborough. Mr. Locke had been an overseer, but he saved money, bought two or three negroes, and had a little farm of his own. He had a great reputation as a negro-hunter, mainly because the hunting of runaways was a part of his business. His two dogs, Music and Sound, were known all over the country, and they were the terror of the negroes, not because they were fierce or dangerous, but because of their sagacity. Sound was a small brown hound, not larger than a beagle, but he had such powers of scent that the negroes regarded him with superstitious awe. He had what is called a “cold nose,” which is a short way of saying that he could follow a scent thirty-six hours old, and yet he was a very shabby-looking dog.

When Locke and young Gaither rode by they were joined by Joe Maxwell, and his company seemed to be very welcome, especially to the Gaither boy, who regarded the affair as a frolic. Mr. Locke was a man of very few words. His face was dark and sallow and his eyes sunken. His neck was long and thin, and Joe observed that his “Adam’s apple” was unusually large. As the negroes said, Mr. Locke and his dogs “favored” each other. He was small and puny, and his dogs were small and scrawny.

“Do you think you’ll catch Mink?” asked Joe. Mr Locke looked at the lad almost pityingly, and smiled.

“We’ll git the nigger,” he replied, “if he’s been seed sence Friday noon. We’ll git him if he ain’t took wings. All I ast of him is to stay somewheres on top of the ground, and he’s mine.”

“Why did the negro run away?” said Joe to young Gaither.

“Oh, he can’t get along with the overseer. And I don’t blame him much. I told pap this morning that if I had to choose between Mink and Bill Davidson I’d take Mink every time. But the trouble with pap is he’s getting old, and thinks he can’t get along without an overseer, and overseers are mighty hard to get now. I tell you right now that when I get grown I’m not going to let any overseer bang my niggers around.”

Mr. Locke said nothing, but Joe heartily indorsed young Gaither’s sentiments.

When they arrived at the Gaither place, Mr. Locke asked to be shown the house that Mink had occupied. Then he asked for the blankets on which the negro had slept. These could not be found. Well, an old coat would do—anything that the negro had worn or touched. Finally, a dirty, greasy bag, in which Mink had carried his dinner to the field, was found. This would do, Mr. Locke said, and, taking it in his hand, he called his dogs and held it toward them. Sound smelled it more carefully than Music.

“Now, then,” said Mr. Locke, “where’bouts was he seed? At the hog-pen last Friday night? All right, we’ll ride around there and kinder send him a message.”

Joe was very much interested in all this, and he watched Mr. Locke and his dogs very closely. When they arrived at the hog-pen, the negro hunter dismounted and examined the ground. Then he spoke to his dogs.

“Sound!” he exclaimed, sharply, “what are you doing? Look about.—Music! what are you here for?”

The shabby little dog seemed to be suddenly transformed. He circled around the hogpen rapidly, getting farther and farther away each time. Mr. Locke never took his eyes from the dog.

“It’s cold—mighty cold,” he said, presently. Then he spoke to the dog again. “Sound! come here, sir! Now git down to your knitting! Come, knuckle down! Try ’em, old fellow! try ’em!”

Thus encouraged, the dog, with his nose to the ground, went carefully around the hog-pen. At one spot he paused, went on, and then came back to it. This performance he repeated several times, and then began to work his way toward an old field, going very slowly and carefully.

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Locke, heaving a sigh of relief, “I thought it was a gone case, but the nigger’s been here, and we’ve got him.”

“May be the dog is trailing somebody else,” Joe Maxwell suggested.

Mr. Locke laughed softly and pityingly. “Why, I tell you what, buddy,” he exclaimed, “if all the niggers in the country had tramped around here that dog wouldn’t track none of ’em but the special nigger we’re after. Look at that puppy, how he’s working!”

And truly it was an interesting if not a beautiful sight to see the dog untangling the tangle of scent. More than once he seemed to be dissatisfied with himself and made little excursions in search of a fresher clew, but he always returned to the point where he had left off, taking up the faint thread of scent and carrying it farther away from the hog-pen. The patience and industry of the dog were marvelous. Mr. Locke himself was patient. He encouraged the hound with his voice, but made no effort to urge him on.

“It’s colder than a gravestone,” said Mr. Locke, finally. “It’s been a long time sence that nigger stepped around here. And the ground’s high and dry. If we can work the trail to the branch yonder, he’s our meat.—Try for ’im, Sound! Try for ’im.”

Gradually the dog worked out the problem of the trail. Across the hill he went, with many turnings and twistings, until finally he struck into the path that led from the negro quarters to the spring where the washing was done. Down this path the hound ran without deigning to put his nose to the ground. At the branch he lapped his fill of water, and then took up his problem again. A half-dozen wash-pots were scattered around, and under the largest a fire was smoldering. On a bench, side by side, three tubs were sitting, and it was at this bench that Sound picked up the trail again. Evidently Mink had paused to chat with the woman who was washing. The ground was moist, and the dog had little trouble. As he recovered the trail he expressed his gratification by a little whimper. The trail led down the spring branch and into a plantation road, then over a fence and across a “new ground” until it struck a bypath that led to an arbor near a church, where the negroes had been holding a revival meeting. At this point there was another problem for the dog. A hundred or two negroes had been gathered here, and it was evident that Mink had been one of the crowd, mingling with the others and walking about with them.

Young Gaither called Mr. Locke’s attention to this. “You’ll never get the trail away from here in the world,” said he. “Why don’t you take the dog and circle round with him?”

“That dog,” said Mr. Locke, watching the hound anxiously, “has got notions of his own, and he’s bound to carry ’em out. He won’t be fooled with. Don’t say nothing. Just stand off and watch him. He’s been in worse places than this here.”

But it was a tedious task the dog had before him. Winding in and out in the mazes of an invisible labyrinth, turning and twisting, now slowly, now more rapidly, he pursued with unerring nose the footsteps of the runaway, and when he had followed the trail away from the church he was going at a brisk pace, and his whimper had changed to an occasional yelp. Mr. Locke, who up to this time had been leading his horse, now took off his coat, folded it carefully, and laid it on his saddle. Then he remounted his horse, and with Gaither and Joe Maxwell trotted along after his dog.

Mink must have lingered on the way, for a quarter of a mile farther on Music joined Sound in his work, and the two dogs footed it along right merrily, their mellow voices rousing a hundred echoes among the old red hills.

A mile farther the dogs paused at a tree where there were traces of fire. Scattered around were scraps of sweet-potato peelings and bread.

“Here is where the gentleman roosted last night,” said Mr. Locke; and it must have been true, for Sound, with his head in the air, made a half circle, picked up a warmer trail, and the two dogs were off like the wind. Joe Maxwell became very much interested. The horse he was riding was swift and game, and he drew away from the others easily. Neither ditches nor gullies were in his way, and in the excitement a six-rail fence seemed to be no obstacle. Mr. Locke shouted something at Joe, probably some word of warning, but the meaning failed to reach the lad’s ears. Butterfly fought for his head and got it, and in the twinkling of an eye carried his rider out of hearing of his companions.

The dogs had swerved a little to the left, and were making straight for the river—the Oconee. Butterfly ran into a plantation road and would have crossed it, but Joe held him to it, and soon discovered that he was gaining on the dogs. From slightly different directions the hounds and the horse seemed to be making for the same point—and this point, as it turned out, was the plantation ferry, where a bateau was kept. Joe Maxwell reached the top of the hill overlooking the river just as the dogs reached the ferry. Here he drew rein and looked about him. The hounds ran about on the river-bank barking and howling. Sound went into the water, but, finding that he was drifting down instead of going across, he made his way out and shook himself, but still continued to bark. A quarter of a mile away there was a great bend in the river. Far down this bend Joe could see a bateau drifting. As he watched it the thought struck him that it did not sit as lightly in the water as an empty boat should. “Suppose,” he asked himself, with a laugh—“suppose Mink is in the bottom of that bateau?”

He dismissed the thought as Mr. Locke and young Gaither came up.

“That’s a thundering slick hoss you’re riding,” said Mr. Locke. “He’d do fine work in a fox-hunt. Where’s the nigger?”

“The dogs can tell you more about it than I can,” said Joe.

“Well,” remarked Mr. Locke, with a sigh,

“I know’d I’d miss him if he ever got to the ferry here and found the boat on this side. Why, dang his black skin!” exclaimed the negro-hunter vehemently, as he glanced down the river and saw the bateau floating away in the distance, “he’s gone and turned the boat loose! That shows we was a-pushin’ ’im mighty close. I reckon you could a’ seed ’im if you’d looked clos’t when you first come up.”

“No,” replied Joe; “he was out of sight, and the boat was drifting around the elbow. You were not more than five minutes behind me.”

“Bless your soul, buddy,” exclaimed Mr. Locke, “five minutes is a mighty long time when you are trying to ketch a runaway.”

So ended the race after Mink. To Joe Maxwell it was both interesting and instructive. He was a great lover of dogs, and the wonderful performance of Sound had given him new ideas of their sagacity.

A few mornings after the unsuccessful attempt to catch Mink, a very queer thing happened. Harbert was sweeping out the printing-office, picking up the type that had been dropped on the floor, and Joe was preparing to begin the day’s work. Suddenly Harbert spoke:

“Marse Joe,” said he, “when you rid out ter de river Sunday, is you happen ter see er bateau floatin’ ’roun’?”

Joe looked at Harbert for some explanation of the singular question, but the negro pretended to be very busily engaged in picking up scraps of paper.

“Yes,” said Joe, after a pause, “I saw a boat drifting down the river. What about it?”

“Well, suh, I speck ef de trufe waz ter git out, dat dey wuz one er yo’ ole ’quaintance in dat boat, an’ I bet a thrip dat ef you’d a-hollered howdy, dey’d a-hollered howdy back.”

Harbert was still too busy to look up.

“Hit de funniest boat what I yever come ’cross,” he went on, “agwine floatin’ long down by itse’f, an’ den, on top er dat, come floatin’ long back agin.”

“How do you know about the bateau?”

“Whiles you bin gwine’long de road, Marse Joe,” said Harbert, still making a great pretense of gathering up the trash in the room, “ain’t you never is see all dem little birds flyin’ ’mongst de bushes an’ ’long de fence? Well, suh, dem little birds kin tell mo’ tales ef you listen at ’em right close dan all deze yer papers what you bin printin’. Dey er mighty cu’us, an’ dey er mighty cunnin’. Dey tole me lots mo’ dan dat. Dey say dat de young Gaither boy took an’ sont word ter Marse Tom Clemmons dat somebody done gone an’ stole de bateau at de ferry, but yit when Marse Tom go out fer ter look atter his boat dar she is right spang whar he lef’ ’er. Now, how you ’count fer dat?”

“Then, Mink—”

“Coon an’ ’possum!” interrupted Harbert, as Mr. Snelson appeared in the doorway.

“’Possum it is!” exclaimed that genial gentleman. “In season or out of season, I’ll never refuse it.”

“Well, suh,” said Harbert, “ef de talk gwine ter fall on ’possum, I’m bleeds ter go, kase when I hear folks talkin’ ’bout’possum hit make me dribble at de mouf.” The negro went off laughing loudly.