Chapter II: Part 2

The Swamp that Aaron knew was the same that the Indians and Spaniards had known. The loblolly pine had grown, and the big poplars on the knoll had expanded a trifle with the passing centuries, but otherwise the Swamp was the same. And yet how different! The Indians had not found it friendly, and the Spaniards regarded it as an enemy; but to Aaron it gave shelter, and sometimes food, and its mysteries were his companions. Jack-o'-the-Lantern showed him the hidden paths when the mists of night fell darker than usual. He became as much a part of the Swamp as the mysteries were, entering into its life, and becoming native to all its moods and conditions. And his presence there seemed to give the Swamp new responsibilities. Its thousand eyes were always watching for his enemies, and its thousand tongues were always ready to whisper the news of the coming of an alien. The turkey buzzard, soaring thousands of feet above the top of the great pine, the blue falcon, suspended in the air a mile away, the crow, flapping lazily across the fields, stood sentinel during the day, and the Swamp understood the messages they sent. At night the Willis-Whistlers were on guard, and their lines extended for miles in all directions, and the Swamp itself was awake, and needed no warning message. Sometimes at night the sound of Randall's trumpet fell on the ear of the Swamp, or the voice of Uncle Fountain was heard lifted up in song, as he went over the hills to his fish-baskets in the river; and these were restful and pleasing sounds. Sometimes the trailing cry of hounds was heard. If in the day, Rambler, the track dog, would listen until he knew whether the cry came from Jim Simmons's "nigger dogs," from the Gossett hounds, or from some other pack. If at night, the Swamp cared little about it, for it was used to these things after the sun went down.

Mr. Coon insisted on gadding about, and it served him right, the Swamp insisted, when the hounds picked up his drag--as the huntsmen say--and brought him home with a whirl. He was safe when he got there, for let the hounds bay at the door of his house as long as they might, no hunter with torch and axe would venture into the Swamp. They had tried it--oh, many times.

_But the door was locked, and the key
Was safely kid in a hollow tree._

If it was merely Cousin Coon who lived up the river, well and good. It would teach the incurable vagrant a lesson, and the Swamp enjoyed the fun. The Willis-Whistlers stopped to listen, the mysteries hid behind the trees, and Jack-o'-the-Lantern extinguished his torch as the hounds came nearer with their quavering cries. Was it Mr. Coon or Cousin Coon? Why, Cousin Coon, of course. How did the Swamp know? It was the simplest thing in the world. Wasn't there a splash and a splutter as he ran into the quagmire? Wasn't there a snap and a snarl when the partridge-pea vine caught his foot? Did he know the paths? Didn't he double and turn and go back the way he came, to be caught and killed on dry land? Would Mr. Coon of the Swamp ever be caught on dry land? Don't you believe it! If cut off from home, he would run to the nearest pond and plunge in. Once there, was there a hound that would venture to take a bath with him? The Swamp laughed at the thought of such a thing. Aaron smiled, the White Pig grunted, and Rambler grinned. Cousin Coon is no more, but Mr. Coon is safe at home and the Swamp knows it.

_Good luck to all who know the way,
By crooked path and clinging vine!
For them Night's messengers shall stay,
For them the laggard moon shall shine._

But it was not always that aliens and strangers were unwelcome. Occasionally in the still hours between midnight and dawn the Swamp would open its doors to Gossett's Riley. He had no key and he had never come to know and feel that the Swamp was something more than a mixture of mud and water, trees, canes, vines, and all manner of flying, creeping, and crawling things. To him the Swamp was merely a place and not a Thing, but this was ignorance, and the Swamp forgave it for various reasons, forgave it and pitied him as he deserved to be pitied. And yet he had qualities out of the common, and for these the Swamp admired him. He was little more than a dwarf, being "bow-legged and chuckle-headed," as Susy's Sam used to say, and was called Chunky Riley, but he was very much of a man for all that. At a log-rolling there was not a negro for miles around who could pull him down with the handstick. Aaron could do it, but Aaron was not a negro, but an Arab, and that is different. Chunky Riley was even stronger in limb and body than Aaron, but Aaron used his head, as well as body and limb--and that also is different. Riley was not swift of foot, but he could run far, as Gossett's hounds well knew. More than that, he could go on all-fours almost as fast as he could run on two legs, and that was something difficult to do.

The Swamp found Chunky Riley out in a very curious way. The first time he came to bring a message to Aaron he waited for no introduction whatever. The Willis-Whistlers warned him, but he paid no attention to their warning; the mysteries whispered to him, but his ears were closed. He searched for no path, and was blind to all the signals. He blundered into the Swamp and floundered toward the knoll as the Spaniards did. He floundered out of the quagmire near where the White Pig lay. He had the scent and all the signs of an alien, and the White Grunter rushed at him with open mouth. The Swamp was now angry from centre to circumference, and poor Chunky Riley's ending would have been swift and sudden but for the fact that he bore some undeveloped kinship to the elements that surrounded him.

As the White Pig rushed forward with open mouth, Chunky Riley caught a vague glimpse of him in the darkness, gave one wild yell, leaped into the air, and came down a-straddle of the Grunter's back. This was more than the White Pig had bargained for. He answered Riley's yell with a loud squeal, and went tearing through the swamp to the place where Aaron dwelt. The big owl hooted, Rambler howled, and Jack-o'-the-Lantern threw down his torch and fled. The Swamp that had been angry was amazed and frightened. What demon was this that had seized the White Grunter and was carrying him off? What could the rest hope for if so fierce a creature as the White Pig could be disposed of in this fashion? Even Aaron was alarmed at the uproar, for Chunky Riley continued to yell, and the White Pig kept up its squealing.

It was well that the Grunter, when he came to Aaron's place, ran close enough to a tree to rub Chunky Riley off his back, otherwise there is no telling what would have happened. It was well, too, that Chunky Riley called loudly for Aaron when he fell, otherwise he would have been made mincemeat of; for as soon as the White Pig was relieved of his strange burden, his anger rose fiercer than ever, and he came charging at Chunky Riley, who was lying prone on the ground, too frightened to do anything more than try to run to a tree on all-fours. Aaron spoke sharply to the White Pig.

"Shall I use a club on you, White Grunter? Shall I make bacon of you? You heard him call my name."

The White Pig paused. His small eyes glittered in the dark, and Chunky Riley heard his tusks grate ominously. He knew the creature was foaming with rage.

"Ooft! Your name, Son of Ben Ali?" said the White Pig in language that Chunky Riley thought was merely a series of angry grunts and snorts. "Ooft! I heard him call for Aaron, and how long has it been since I heard you say to the Red Chatterer in the hickory-tree that there were a thousand Aarons, but only one Son of Ben Ali? Ooft-Gooft! Am I a horse to be ridden? Humph! No man could ride me--it is what you call a Thing. Umph! let it ride you and then talk about clubs. Ooft!"

"Is dat Aaron?" Chunky Riley ventured to inquire. "Ef 't is, I wish you'd be good enough ter run dat ar creetur 'way fum here, kaze I ain't got no knack fer bein' chaw'd up an' spit out, an' trompled on, an' teetotally ruint right 'fo' my own face."

"What's your name?" inquired Aaron.

"You ought ter know me, but I dunner whedder you does er not. I'm name Riley--dey calls me Chunky Riley fer short."

Aaron was silent for a moment, as if trying to remember the name. Presently he laughed and said: "Why, yes; I know you pretty well. Come, we'll kindle a fire."

"No suh--not me! Not less'n you'll run dat ar wil' hog off. He mo' servigrous dan a pant'er. Ef I hadn't er straddled 'im des now he'd 'a' e't me bodaciously up an' dey wouldn't 'a' been nothin' lef' but de buttons on my cloze, an' nobody in de roun' worl' would 'a' know'd dey wuz buttons."

Aaron laughed while speaking to the White Pig: "Get to bed, Grunter. It is the Lifter--the man that is as strong in the back as a horse."

"Gooft-ooft! Let him ride you out as he rode me in--ooft! He's no man! Gooft! No bed for me. When a horse is ridden, he must eat, as I've heard you say, Son of Ben Ali. Gooft-ooft!"

The White Pig, still grinding his tusks together, turned and trotted off into the darkness, and presently Aaron and Chunky Riley heard him crashing through the canes and reeds. Then Aaron kindled his fire.

"Why did you come?" inquired the Son of Ben Ali when the two had made themselves comfortable.

"Des ter fetch word dat Marster wuz layin' off ter git atter you wid Simmons's nigger-dogs 'fo' long."

"All the way through the dark for that? When did you come to like me so well?"

"Oh, 't ain't 'zackly dat," replied Chunky Riley frankly. "I hear um talkin' 'bout it when marster an' dat ar Mr. Simmons wuz walkin' out in de hoss lot. I wuz in de corn crib, an' dey didn't know it, an' I des sot dar an' lis'n at um. An' den dis mornin' I seed dat ar little Marse Abercrombie, an' he say, 'Go tell Aaron quick ez you kin.'"

"The child with the crutches?" queried Aaron.

"De ve'y same," replied Chunky Riley. He paused awhile and then added: "I'd walk many a long mile fer dat white chil', day er night, rain er shine."

He gazed in the flickering fire a long time, waiting for Aaron to make some comment. Hearing none, he finally turned his eyes on his companion. Aaron was looking skyward, where one small star could be seen twinkling through the ascending smoke from the fire, and his lips were moving, though they framed no words that Chunky Riley could hear. Something in the attitude of the Son of Ben Ali disturbed the negro.

"Well, I done what I come ter do," he said, making a pretense of stretching himself and yawning, "an' I speck I'd better be gwine." The Son of Ben Ali still kept his eye fixed on the twinkling star. "What pesters me," Chunky Riley went on, "is de idee dat dat ar wil' hog went 'zackly de way I got ter go. I don't want ter hatter ride 'im no mo' less'n I got a saddle an' bridle."

"Come!" exclaimed Aaron suddenly, "I'll go with you. I want to see the Little Master."

"De dogs'll fin' yo' track sho, ef dey start out to-morrer," suggested Chunky Riley.

The only response the Son of Ben Ali made to this suggestion was to say: "Take the end of my cane in your hand and follow it. We'll take a short cut."

Chunky Riley had queer thoughts as he followed his tall conductor, being led as if he were a blind man; but he said nothing. Presently (it seemed but a few minutes to Chunky Riley) they stood on the top of a hill.

"Look yonder!" said Aaron. Away to the left a red light glimmered faintly.

"What dat?" asked the superstitious negro.

"The light in the Little Master's window."

"How came it so red, den?" inquired Chunky Riley.

"Red curtain," replied Aaron curtly.

"Well, de Lord he'p us! Is we dat close?" cried Chunky Riley.

"Your way is there," said the Son of Ben Ali; "this is mine."

The negro stood watching Aaron until his tall form was lost in the darkness.

III.

WHAT CHUNKY RILEY SAW AND HEARD

Left alone, Chunky Riley stood still and tried to trace in his mind the route he and Aaron had followed in coming from the Swamp. But he could make no mental map--and he knew every "nigh-cut" and by-path for miles around--that would fit in with the time it had taken them to reach the spot where he now stood. He looked back toward the Swamp, but the night covered it, and he could see nothing. Then he looked around him, to see if he knew his present whereabouts. Oh, yes, that was easy; every foot of ground was familiar.

The hill on which he had stood had been given over to scrub pines. The hill itself sloped away to the Turner old fields. But still he was puzzled, and still he scratched his head, for he knew that the Swamp was a good four miles away--nearly five--and it seemed to him that he and Aaron had been only a few minutes in making the journey. So he scratched his head and wondered to himself whether Aaron was really a "conjur' man."

It was perhaps very lucky for Chunky Riley that he stopped when he did. If he had kept on he would have run into the arms of three men who were going along the plantation path that led from Gossett's negro quarters to the Abercrombie Place. The delay that Chunky Riley made prevented him from meeting them, but it did not prevent him from hearing the murmur of their voices as he struck into the path. They were too far off for Chunky Riley to know whether they were white or black, but just as he turned into the path to go to Gossett's the scent of a cigar floated to his nostrils. He paused and scratched his head again. He knew by the scent of the cigar that the voices he heard belonged to white men: but who were they? If they were the "patterollers" they'd catch Aaron beyond all question; it would be impossible for him to escape.

So thought Chunky Riley, and so thinking, he turned and followed the path towards the Abercrombie Place. He moved rapidly but cautiously. The scent of the cigar grew stronger, the sound of men's voices fell more distinctly on his ear. Chunky Riley left the path and skirted through the low pines until he came to the fence that inclosed the spring lot. He knew that if he was heard, the men would think he was a calf, or, mayhap, a mule; for the hill on which Aaron had left him was now a part of a great pasture, in which the calves and dry cattle and (between seasons) the mules were allowed to roam at will.

Coming to the fence, Chunky Riley would have crossed it, but the voices were louder now, and he caught a glimpse of the red sparks of lighted cigars. Creeping closer and closer, but ever ready to drop on the ground and run away on all-fours, Chunky Riley was soon able to hear what the men were saying. He knew the voices of his master and young master, Mr. Gossett--Old Grizzle, as he was called--and George, and he rightly judged that the strange voice mingling with theirs belonged to Mr. Jim Simmons, who, with a trained pack of hounds,--"nigger dogs" they were called,--held himself at the service of owners of runaway negroes.

Mr. Simmons's average fee was $15--that is to say when he was "called in time." But in special cases his charge was $30. When Chunky Riley arrived within earshot of the group, Mr. Gossett was just concluding a protest that he had made against the charge of $30, which he had reluctantly agreed to pay for the capture of Aaron.

"You stayed at my house to-day, you'll stay there to-night, and maybe you'll come back to dinner to-morrow. There's the feeding of you and your dogs. You don't take any account of that at all."

Mr. Gossett's voice was sharp and emphatic. His stinginess was notorious in that region, and gave rise to the saying that Gossett loved a dollar better than he did his wife. But he was no more ashamed of his stinginess than he was of the shabbiness of his hat.

"But, Colonel," remonstrated Mr. Jim Simmons, "didn't you send for me? Didn't you say, 'Glad to see you, Simmons; walk right in and make yourself at home'? You did, fer a fact." He spoke with a drawl that irritated the snappy and emphatic Mr. Gossett.

"Why, certainly, Simmons; certainly I did. I mentioned the matter to show you that your charges are out of all reason in this case. All you have to do is to come here with your dogs in the morning, skirt around the place, pick up his trail, and there you are."

"But, Colonel!" insisted Mr. Jim Simmons with his careless, irritating drawl, "ain't it a plum' fact that this nigger's been in the woods a month or sech a matter? Ain't it a plum' fact that you've tracked him and trailed him with your own dogs?--and good dogs they are, and I'll tell anybody so. Now what do you pay me fer? Fer catching the nigger? No, sirree! The nigger's as good as caught now--when it comes to that. You pay me fer knowing how to catch him--that's what you pay me fer. You send fer the doctor. He comes and fumbles around a little, and you have to pay the bill whether he kills or cures. You don't pay him fer killing or curing; you pay him fer knowing how to fumble around. It's some different with me. If I don't catch your nigger, you button up your pocket. If I do catch him you pay me $30 down, not fer catching him, but fer knowing how to fumble around and catch him."

The logic of this argument, which was altogether lost on Chunky Riley, silenced Mr. Gossett, but did not convince him. There was a long pause, as if all three of the men were wrestling with peculiar thoughts. Finally Mr. Gossett spoke:--

"It ain't so much the nigger I'm after, but I want to show Abercrombie that I can't be outdone. He's laughing in his sleeve because I can't keep the nigger at home, and I'll be blamed"--here his voice sank to a confidential tone--"I'll be blamed if I don't believe that, between him and that son of his, they are harboring the nigger. Yes, sir, harboring is the word."

Mr. Jim Simmons threw down his lighted cigar with such energy as to cause the sparks to fly in all directions. A cigar was an unfamiliar luxury to Mr. Simmons, and he had had enough of it.

"Addison Abercrombie harboring a nigger!" exclaimed Mr. Simmons. "Why, Colonel, if every man, woman, and child in the United States was to tell me that I wouldn't believe it. Addison Abercrombie! Why, Colonel, though you're his next-door neighbor, as you may say, you don't know him half as well as I do. You ought to get acquainted with that man."

"Humph! I know him well enough, I reckon," responded Mr. Gossett. "I went to school with him. Folks get to know one another at school. He was always stuck up, trying to hold his head higher than anybody else because his daddy had money and a big plantation. I made my prop'ty myself; I earned every dollar; and I know how it came."

"But, Colonel!" Mr. Jim Simmons insisted, "Addison Abercrombie would hold his head high if he never seen a dollar, and he'd have the right to do it. Him harbor niggers? Shucks, Colonel! You might as well tell me that the moon ain't nothing but a tater pudding."

"What do you see in the man?" Mr. Gossett asked with some irritation in the tones of his voice.

There was a pause, as though Mr. Simmons was engaged in getting his thoughts together. Finally he said:--

"Well, Colonel, I don't reckon I can make it plain to you, because when I come to talk about it I can't grab the identical idee that would fit what I've got in my mind. But I'll tell you what's the honest truth, in my opinion--and I'm not by myself, by a long shot--Addison Abercrombie is as fine a man as ever trod shoe leather. That's what."

"Humph!" grunted Mr. Gossett.

"Yes, sirree!" persisted Mr. Simmons, warming up a little. "It makes no difference where you see him, nor when you see him, nor how you see him, you can up and say: 'The Lord has made many men of many minds, and many men of many kinds, but not sence Adam has he made a better man than Addison Abercrombie.' That's the way I look at it, Colonel. I may be wrong, but if I am I'll never find it out in this world."

Plainly, Mr. Gossett was not prepared to hear such a tribute as this paid to Addison Abercrombie, and he winced under it. He hemmed and hawed, as the saying is, and changed his position on the fence. He was thoroughly disgusted. Now there was no disagreement between Mr. Gossett and Mr. Abercrombie,--no quarrel, that is to say,--but Gossett knew that Abercrombie regarded him with a feeling akin to contempt. He treasured in his mind a remark that Abercrombie had made about him the day he bought Aaron from the negro speculator. He never forgot nor forgave it, for it was an insinuation that Mr. Gossett, in spite of his money and his thrifty ways, was not much of a gentleman.

On this particular subject Mr. Gossett was somewhat sensitive, as men are who have doubts in their own minds as to their standing. Mr. Gossett had an idea that money and "prop'ty," as he called it, made a gentleman; but it was a very vague idea, and queer doubts sometimes pestered him. It was these doubts that made him "touchy" on this subject.

"What has this great man ever done for you, Simmons?" Mr. Gossett asked, with a contemptuous snort.

"Not anything, Colonel, on the top of the green globe. I went to him once to borrow some money, and he wanted to lend it to me without taking my note and without charging me any interest. I says to him, says I, 'You'll have to excuse me.'"

"That was right; you did perfectly right, Simmons. The man was trying to insult you."

"But, Colonel, he didn't go about it that way. Don't you reckon you could tell when anybody was trying to insult you? That was the time I come to you."

"I charged you interest, didn't I, Simmons?"

"You did, Colonel, fer a fact."

"I'm this kind of a man, Simmons," remarked Mr. Gossett, with a touch of sincere pride and gratification in his voice. "When I do business with a man I do business. When I do him a favor it must be outside of business. It's mixing the two things up that keeps so many people poor."

"What two things, Colonel?" gravely inquired Simmons.

"Why the doing of business and--er--the doing of favors."

"Oh, I see," said Mr. Simmons, as if a great light had been turned on the matter. Then he laughed and continued: "Yes, Colonel, I borrowed the money from you and just about that time the fever taken me down, and if it hadn't 'a' been fer Addison Abercrombie the note I give you would have swallowed my house and land."

"Is that so?" inquired Mr. Gossett.

"Ask my wife," replied Mr. Simmons. "One day while I was out of my head with the fever, Addison Abercrombie, he rid by and saw my wife setting on the front steps, jest a-boohooing,--you know how wimmen will do, Colonel; if they ain't a-jawing they're a-cryin'. So Addison Abercrombie, he ups and asks her what's the matter, and Jennie, she tells him. He got right off his hoss and come in, and set by my bed the better part of the morning. And all that time there I was a-running on about notes and a-firing off my troubles in the air. So the upshot of the business was that Addison Abercrombie left the money there to pay the note and left word for me to pay him back when I got good and ready; and Jennie hadn't hardly dried her eyes before here come a nigger on horseback with a basket on his arm, and in the basket was four bottles of wine. Wine! Why, Colonel, it was worse 'n wine. Jennie says that if arry one of the bottles had 'a' had a load of buckshot in it, the roof would 'a' been blow'd off when the stopper flew out. And, Colonel! if ever you feel like taking a right smart of exercise, jest pass my house some day and stick your head over the palings and tell Jennie that Addison Abercrombie's got a streak of meanness in him."

"Have you ever paid Abercrombie?" Mr. Gossett inquired. His voice was harsh and businesslike.

"I was laying off to catch this nigger of yours and pay him some on account," replied Mr. Simmons.

"Why, it has been three years since you paid me," suggested Mr. Gossett.

"Two years or sech a matter," remarked Mr. Simmons complacently.

"Then that's the reason you think Abercrombie ain't harboring my nigger?" inquired Mr. Gossett scornfully.

"But, Colonel," drawled Mr. Simmons, "what under the sun ever got the idee in your head that Addison Abercrombie _is_ harboring your nigger?"

"It's as simple as a-b ab," Mr. Gossett replied with energy. "He tried to buy the nigger off the block and couldn't, and now he thinks I'll sell if the nigger'll stay in the woods long enough. That's the reason he's harboring the nigger. And more than that: don't I know from my own niggers that the yaller rapscallion comes here every chance he gets? He comes, but he don't go in the nigger quarters. Now, where does he go?"

"Yes, where?" said Mr. Gossett's son George, who up to that moment had taken no part in the conversation. "Three times this month I've dealt out an extra rasher of bacon to two of our hands, and they tell the same tale."

"It looks quare," Mr. Simmons admitted, "but as sure as you're born Addison Abercrombie ain't the man to harbor a runaway nigger. If he's ever had a nigger in the woods, it's more'n I know, and when that's the case you may set it down fer a fact that he don't believe in runaway niggers." This was a lame argument, but it was the best that Mr. Simmons could muster at the moment.

"No," remarked Mr. Gossett sarcastically, "his niggers don't take to the woods because they do as they blamed please at home. It sets my teeth on edge to see the way things are run on this plantation. Why, I could take the stuff that's flung away here and get rich on it in five years. It's a scandal."

"I believe you!" assented his son George dutifully.

Chunky Riley heard this conversation by snatches, but he caught the drift of it. What he remembered of it was that some of his fellow servants were ready to tell all they knew for an extra "rasher" of meat, and that the hunt for Aaron would begin the next morning,--and it was now getting along toward dawn. He wanted to warn Aaron again. He wanted especially to tell Aaron that three men were sitting on the fence waiting for him. But this was impossible. The hour was approaching when Chunky Riley must be in his cabin on the Gossett plantation ready to go to work with the rest of the hands. He had slept soundly the first half of the night, and he would be as fresh in the field when the sun rose as those who had slept the night through. As he turned away from the fence a dog in the path leading from the spring to the stile suddenly began to bay. The men tried to drive him away, and one of them threw a stick at him, but the dog refused to be intimidated. He bayed them more fiercely, but finally retreated toward the spring, stopping occasionally to bark at the men on the fence.

"If I'm not mistaken," remarked Mr. Gossett, "that's my dog Rambler. I know his voice, and he's been missing ever since that nigger went to the woods. I wonder if he's taken up over here? George, I wish you'd make it convenient to come over here as soon as you can, and find out whether Rambler is here. Now, there's a dog, Simmons, that's away ahead of anything you've got in the shape of a nigger dog,--nose as cold as ice, and as much sense as the common run of folks."

"He ain't doing you much good," responded Mr. Simmons.

"That's a fact," said Mr. Gossett. "Till I heard that dog barking I thought Rambler had been killed by that nigger."

Chunky Riley struck into the plantation path leading to Gossett's, at the point where the three men had tied their horses. They had ridden as far as they thought prudent, considering the errand they were on, and then they dismounted and made their horses fast to the overhanging limbs of a clump of oaks, which, for some reason or other, had been left standing in the field. One of the horses whinnied when Chunky Riley came near, and the negro paused. Aaron would have known that the horse said, "Please take me home, and be quick about it; I'm hungry;" but Chunky Riley could only guess. And as he guessed a thought struck him--a thought that made him scratch his head and chuckle. He turned in his tracks, went back along the path a little way, and listened. Then he returned, and the horse whinnied again. The creature was growing impatient.

Once more Chunky Riley indulged in a hearty laugh, slapping himself softly on the leg. Then he went to the horses one by one, pulled down the swinging limbs to which their bridle reins were fastened, and untied them. This done, he proceeded to make himself "mighty skace," as he expressed it. He started toward home at a rapid trot, without pausing to listen. But even without listening, he could hear the horses coming after him, Mr. Simmons's horse with the others.

The faster he trotted the faster the horses trotted; and when Chunky Riley began to run the horses broke into a gallop, and came clattering along the path after him, their stirrups flying wildly about and making a clamor that Chunky Riley had not bargained for. The faster he ran the faster the horses galloped, until at last it seemed to him that the creatures were trying to run him down. This idea took possession of his mind, and at once his fears magnified the situation. He imagined the horses were right at his heels. He could feel the hot breath of one of them on the back of his neck.

Fortunately for Chunky Riley there was a fence at the point where the path developed into a lane. Over this he climbed and fell exhausted, fully expecting the horses to climb over or break through and trample him under their feet. But his expectations were not realized; the horses galloped along the lane, and presently he could hear them clattering along the big road toward Gossett's.

Chunky Riley was exhausted as well as terror-stricken. The perspiration rolled from his face, and he could hear his heart beat. He lay in the soft grass in the fence corner until he had recovered somewhat from his exertions and his fright. Finally he rose, looked back along the way he had come, then toward the big road, and shook his head.

"Is anybody ever see de beat er dat?" he exclaimed.

Whereupon he went through the woods instead of going by the road, and was soon in his cabin frying his ration of bacon.

IV.

BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND DAWN.

When Aaron parted from Chunky Riley on the hill after they had come from the Swamp, he went along the path to the spring, stooped on his hands and knees and took a long draught of the cool water. Then he went to the rear of the negro quarters, crossed the orchard fence, and passed thence to the flower garden in front of the great house. At one corner of the house a large oak reared its head above the second story. Some of its limbs when swayed by the wind swept the dormer window that jutted out from Little Crotchet's room. Behind the red curtain of this dormer window a light shone, although it was now past midnight. It shone there at night whenever Little Crotchet was restless and sleepless and wanted to see Aaron. And this was often, for the youngster, with all his activity, rarely knew what it was to be free from pain. But for his journeys hither and yonder on the Gray Pony he would have been very unhappy indeed. All day long he could make some excuse for putting his aches aside; he could even forget them. But at night when everything was quiet, Pain would rap at the door and insist on coming in and getting in bed with him.

Little Crotchet had many quaint thoughts and queer imaginings, and one of these was that Pain was a sure-enough something or other that could come in at the door and go out when it chose--a little goblin dressed in red flannel, with a green hat running to a sharp peak at the top, and a yellow tassel dangling from the peak--a red flannel goblin always smelling of camphor and spirits of turpentine. Sometimes--and those were rare nights--the red goblin remained away, and then Little Crotchet could sleep and dream the most beautiful dreams.

But usually, as soon as night had fallen on the plantation and there was no longer any noise in the house, the little red goblin, with his peaked green hat, would open the door gently and peep in to see whether the lad was asleep--and he knew at a glance whether Little Crotchet was sleeping or only feigning sleep. Sometimes the youngster would shut his eyes ever so tight, and lie as still as a mouse, hoping that the red goblin would go away. But the trick never succeeded. The red goblin was too smart for that. If there was a blaze in the fireplace he would wink at it very solemnly; if not, he'd wink at the candle. And he never was in any hurry. He'd sit squat on the floor for many long moments. Sometimes he'd run and jump in the bed with Little Crotchet and then jump out again. Sometimes he'd pretend he was going to jump in the bed, when suddenly another notion would strike him, and he'd turn and run out at the door, and not come back again for days.

But this was unusual. Night in and night out, the year round, the red goblin rarely failed to show himself in little Crotchet's room, and crawl under the cover with the lad. There was but one person in all that region whom the red goblin was afraid of, and that was Aaron. But he was an obstinate goblin. Frequently he'd stay after Aaron came, and try his best to fight it out with the Son of Ben Ali; but in the end he would have to go. There were times, however, when Aaron could not respond to Little Crotchet's signal of distress,--the light in the dormer window,--and at such times the red goblin would have everything his own way. He would stay till all the world was awake, and then sneak off to his hiding-place, leaving Little Crotchet weak and exhausted.

Thus it happened that, while Chunky Riley was taking an unexpected ride on the White Pig, and afterward while the three men were sitting on the pasture fence beyond the spring, the red goblin was giving Little Crotchet a good deal of trouble. No matter which way he turned in bed, the red goblin was there. He was there when Aaron came into the flower garden. He was there when Aaron stood at the foot of the great oak at the corner of the house. He was there when Aaron put forth his hand, felt for and found one of the iron spikes that had been driven into the body of the oak. The red goblin was in bed with Little Crotchet and tugging at his back and legs when Aaron pulled himself upward by means of the iron spike; when he found another iron spike; when, standing on and holding to these spikes, he walked up the trunk of the tree as if it were a ladder; and when he went into Little Crotchet's room by way of the dormer window. The real name of the red goblin with the green hat was Pain, as we know, and he was very busy with Little Crotchet this night; and though the lad had fallen into a doze, he was moving restlessly about when Aaron entered the room. The Son of Ben Ali stepped to the low bed, and knelt by it, placing his hand that the night winds had cooled on Little Crotchet's brow, touching it with firm but gentle strokes. The lad awoke with a start, saw that Aaron was near, and then closed his eyes again.

"It's a long way for you to come," he said. "There's a lot of things for you in the basket there."

"If twice as long, it would be short for me," replied Aaron. Then, still stroking Little Crotchet's brow with one hand, and gently rubbing his body with the other, the Son of Ben Ali told of Chunky Riley's ride on the White Pig. With his eyes closed, the lad could see the whole performance, and he laughed with so much heartiness that Aaron laughed in sympathy. This was such a rare event that Little Crotchet opened his eyes to see it, but soon closed them again, for now he felt that the red goblin was preparing to go.

"I sent Chunky Riley," said Little Crotchet, after a while. "They're after you to-morrow--Jim Simmons and his hounds. And he has his catch-dog with him. I saw the dog to-day. He's named Pluto. He's big and black, and bob-tailed, and his ears have been cropped. Oh, I'm afraid they'll get you this time, Aaron. Why not stay here with me to-morrow, and the next day?"

"Here?" There was a note of surprise in Aaron's voice.

"Yes. What's to hinder you? I can keep everybody out of the room, except"--

"Except somebody," said Aaron, smiling. "No, no! The White-Haired Master is a good man. Good to all. He'd shake his head and say, 'Runaway hiding in my house! That's bad, bad!' No, Little Master, they'll not get Aaron. You sleep. To-morrow night I'll come. My clothes will be ripped and snagged. Have me a big needle and some coarse thread. I'll mend 'em here and while I'm mending I may tell a tale. I don't know. Maybe. You sleep."

Aaron was no mesmerist, but somehow, the red goblin being gone, Little Crotchet was soon in the land of dreams. Aaron remained by the bed to make sure the sleep was sound, then he rose, tucked the cover about the lad's shoulders (for the morning air was cool), blew out the candle, went out on the roof, closing the window sash after him, and in a moment was standing in the flower garden. There he found Rambler, the track dog, awaiting him, and together they passed out into the lot and went by the spring, where Aaron stooped and took another draught of the cool, refreshing water.

All this time the three men had been sitting on the pasture fence at the point where it intersected the path leading from the spring, and they were sitting there still. As Aaron started along this path, after leaving the spring, Rambler trotted on before, and his keen nose soon detected the presence of strangers. With a whine that was more than half a whistle, Rambler gave Aaron the signal to stop, and then went toward the fence. The situation became clear to him at once, and it was then that Chunky Riley and the three men had heard him bark. They called it barking, but it was a message to Aaron saying:--

"Lookout! lookout! Son of Ben Ali, look sharp! I see three--Grizzlies two, and another."

There was nothing alarming in the situation. In fact, Aaron might have gone within hailing distance of the three men without discovery, for the spring lot was well wooded. If Mr. Addison Abercrombie had any peculiarity it was his fondness for trees. He could find something to admire in the crookedest scrub oak and in the scraggiest elm. He not only allowed the trees in the spring lot to stand, but planted others. Where Aaron stood a clump of black-jacks, covering a quarter of an acre, had sprung up some years before. They were now well-grown saplings and stood as close together, according to the saying of the negroes, as hairs on a hog's back. Through these Aaron slowly edged his way, moving very carefully, until he reached a point close enough to the three men to see and hear what was going on.

Standing in the black shadow of these saplings he made an important discovery. Chunky Riley, it will be remembered, suspected that the two Gossetts and Mr. Simmons were intent on capturing Aaron; but this was far from their purpose. They had no such idea. While Aaron stood listening, watching, he saw a tall shadow steal along the path. He heard the swish of a dress and knew it was a woman. The shadow stole along the path until it came to the three men on the fence and then it stopped.

"Well?" said Mr. Gossett sharply. "What did you see? Where did the nigger go? Don't stand there like you are deaf and dumb. Talk out!"

"I seed him come fum de spring, Marster, an' go up by de nigger cabins. But atter dat I ain't lay eyes on 'im."

"Did he go into the cabins?"

"I lis'n at eve'y one, Marster, an' I ain't hear no talkin' in but one."

"Was he in that one?"

"Ef he wuz, Marster, he wa'n't sayin' nothin'. Big Sal was talkin' wid Randall, suh."

"What were they talking about?"

"All de words I hear um say wuz 'bout der Little Marster--how good he is an' how he all de time thinkin' mo' 'bout yuther folks dan he do 'bout his own se'f."

"Humph!" snorted Mr. Gossett. Mr. Simmons moved about uneasily.

"Whyn't you go in an' see whether Aaron was in there?" asked George Gossett.

"Bekaze, Marse George, dey'd 'a' know'd right pine-blank what I come fer. 'Sides dat, Big Sal is a mighty bad nigger 'oman when she git mad."

"You're as big as she is," suggested Mr. Gossett.

"Yes, suh; but I ain't got de ambition what Big Sal got," replied the woman humbly.

"I'll tell you, Simmons, that runaway nigger is the imp of Satan," remarked Mr. Gossett.

"But, Colonel, if he's that, what do you want him caught for?" inquired Mr. Simmons humorously.

"Why, so much the more need for catching him. I want to get my hands on him. If I don't convert him, why, then you may go about among your friends and say that Gossett is a poor missionary. You may say that and welcome."

"I believe you!" echoed George.

"You may go home now," said Mr. Gossett to the woman.

"Thanky, Marster." She paused a moment to wipe her face with her apron, and then climbed over the fence and went toward the Gossett plantation.

Aaron slipped away from the neighborhood of the three men, crossed the fence near where Chunky Riley had been standing, went swiftly through the pasture for half a mile, struck into the plantation path some distance ahead of the woman, and then came back along the path to meet her. When he saw her coming he stopped, turned his back to her and stood motionless in the path. The woman was talking to herself as she came up; but when she saw Aaron she hesitated, advanced a step, and then stood still, breathing hard. All her superstitious fears were aroused.

"Who is you? Who is dat? Name er de Lord! Can't you talk? Don't be foolin' wid me! Man, who is you?"

"One!" replied Aaron. The sound of a human voice reassured her somewhat, but her knees shook so she could hardly stand.

"What yo' name?" she asked again.

"Too long a name to tell you."

"What you doin'?"

"Watching a child--looking hard at it."

"Wuz you, sho nuff?" She came a step nearer. "How come any chil' out dis time er night?"

"A black child," Aaron went on. "Its dress was afire. It went up and down the path here. It went across the hill. Crying and calling--calling and crying, 'Aaron! Aaron! Mammy's hunting for you! Aaron! Aaron! Mammy's telling on you.'"

"My Lord fum heaven!" moaned the woman; "dat wuz my chil'--de one what got burnt up kaze I wuz off in de fiel'." She threw her apron over her head, fell on her knees, and moaned and shuddered.

"Well, I'm Aaron. You hunted for me in the nigger cabins; you slipped to the fence yonder; you told three men you couldn't find me."

"O Lord! I wuz bleege ter do it. It wuz dat er take ter de woods, an' dey ain't no place fer me in de woods. What'd I do out dar by myse'f at night? I know'd dey couldn't ketch you. Oh, dat wuz my chil'!"

"Stand up!" Aaron commanded.

"What you gwine ter do?" the woman asked, slowly rising to her feet, and holding herself ready to dodge an expected blow--for, as she herself said, she was not at all "ambitious."

"Your breakfast is ready, and I've been waiting here to give it to you. Hold your apron."

The woman did as she was told, and Aaron took from the basket which Little Crotchet had given him four biscuits and as many slices of ham.

"I'll take um, an' thanky, too," said the woman; "but hongry as I is, I don't b'lieve I kin eat a mou'ful un um atter what I done. I'm too mean to live!"

"Get home! get home and forget it," Aaron replied.

"Oh, I can't go thoo dem woods atter what you tol' me!" cried the woman.

"I'll go with you," said Aaron. "Come!"

"You!" The woman lifted her voice until it sounded shrill on the moist air of the morning. "You gwine dar to Gossett's? Don't you know dey er gwine ter hunt you in de mornin'? Don't you know dey got de dogs dar? Don't you know some er de niggers'll see you--an' maybe de overseer? Don't you know you can't git away fum dem dogs fer ter save yo' life?"

"Come!" said Aaron sharply. "It's late."

"Min', now! ef dey ketch you, 't ain't me dat done it," the woman insisted.

"Come!--I must be getting along," was Aaron's reply.

He went forward along the path, and though he seemed to be walking easily, the woman had as much as she could do to keep near him. Though his body swayed slightly from side to side, he seemed to be gliding along rather than walking. Ahead of him, sometimes near, sometimes far, and frequently out of sight, a dark shadow moved and flitted. It was Rambler going in a canter. A hare jumped from behind a tussock and went skipping away. It was a tempting challenge. But Rambler hardly glanced at him. "Good-by, Mr. Rabbit! I'll see you another day!"

Thus Aaron, the woman, and Rambler went to Gossett's.

"Man, ain't you tired?" the woman asked when they came in sight of the negro quarters.

"Me? I'll go twenty miles before sun-up," replied Aaron.

"I'll never tell on you no mo'," said the woman; "not ef dey kills me." She turned to go to her cabin, when Aaron touched her on the shoulder.

"Wait!" he whispered. "If it brings more meat for your young ones, tell! Fetch the men here; show 'em where I stood,--if it brings you more meat for your babies."

"Sho nuff?" asked the woman, amazed. Aaron nodded his head. "What kind er folks is you?" she cried. "You ain't no nigger. Dey ain't no nigger on top er de groun' dat'd stan' up dar an' talk dat away. Will dey ketch you ef I tell?" The woman was thinking about the meat.

Aaron lifted his right hand in the air, turned, and disappeared in the darkness, which was now changing to the gray of dawn. The woman remained where she was standing for some moments as if considering some serious problem. Then she shook her head.

"I'd git de meat--but dey mout ketch 'im, an' den what'd I look like?"

This remark seemed to please her, for she repeated it more than once before moving out of her tracks. When she did move, she went to her cabin, kindled a fire, cooked something for her children,--she had three,--placed a biscuit and a piece of ham for each, and, although she had not slept a wink, prepared to go to the field. It was almost time, too, for she heard the hog feeder in the horse lot talking angrily to the mules, as he parceled out their corn and forage. Presently she heard him calling the hogs to get a bite of corn,--the fattening hogs that were running about in the horse lot.

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 outmanoeuvre 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.