The Law of the Land - Emerson Hough (best young adult book series .txt) 📗

cast a look in their direction, and paused uncertainly in curiosity. The man on the board-pile saw her.

“Here, Jinny! Jinny!” he called, just loud enough to be heard, and not turning toward her more than halfway. “Come heah.”

“Yassah,” said the girl, and slowly approached.

“Get us a little melk, Jinny,” said the speaker.

“We’re plumb out o’ melk down home.”

“Yassah,” said Jinny; and disappeared leisurely, to be gone perhaps half an hour.

There remained little sign of life on the board-pile, the bonnet tube pointing fixedly toward the railway station, the man now and then slowly shifting one leg across the other, but staring out at nothing, his lower lip drooping laxly. When the servant finally brought back the milk-pail and placed it beside him, he gave no word of thanks. The sunbonnet shifted to include the mulatto girl within its full vision, as the latter stood leaning her weight on one side-bent foot, idly wiping her hands upon her apron.

“Folks all well down to yo’ place, Mistah Bowles?” said she, affably.

“Right well.”

“Um-h-h.” Silence then fell until Jinny again found speech.

“Old Bess, that’s the Cunnel’s favoright dawg, you-all know, she done have ‘leven puppies las’ night.”

“That so?”

“Yassah. Cunnel, he’s off down on the Sun-flowah.”

“Um-h-h.”

“Yassah; got most all his dawgs wid ‘im. We goin’ to have b’ah meat now for sho’,”—this with a wide grin.

“Reckon so,” said the visitor. “When’s Cunnel coming back, you reckon?”

“I dunno, suh, but he sho’ won’t come back lessen he gets a b’ah. If you-all could wait a while, yon-all could take back some b’ah meat, if you wantuh.”

“Um-h-h,” said the man, and fell again into silence. To all appearances, he was willing to wait here indefinitely, forgetful of the pail of milk, toward which the sun was now creeping ominously close. The way back home seemed long and weary at that moment. His lip drooped still more laxly, as he sat looking out vaguely.

Not so calm seemed his consort, she of the sunbonnet. Eestored to some extent by her tarrying in the shade, she began to shift and hitch about uneasily upon the board-pile. At length she leaned a bit to one side, reached into a pocket and, taking out a snuff-stick and a parcel of its attendant compound, began to take a dip of snuff, after the habit of certain of the population of that region. This done, she turned with a swift jerk of the head, bringing to bear the tube of her bonnet in full force upon her lord and master.

“Jim Bowles,” she said, “this heah is a shame! Hit’s a plumb shame!”

There was no answer, save an uneasy hitch on the part of the person so addressed. He seemed to feel the focus of the sunbonnet boring into his system. The voice in the bonnet went on, shot straight toward him, so that he might not escape.

“Hit’s a plumb shame,” said Mrs. Bowles, again.

“I know it, I know it,” said her husband at length, uneasily. “That is, about us having to walk up heah. That whut you mean?”

“Yassir, that’s whut I do mean, an’ you know it.”

“Well, now, how kin I help it? We kain’t take the only mewel we got and make the nigger stop wu’k. That ain’t reasonable. Besides, you don’t think Cunnel Blount is goin’ to miss a pail o’ melk now and then, do you?”

A snort of indignation greeted this supposition.

“Jim Bowles, you make me sick,” replied his wife. “We kin get melk heah as long as we want to, o’ co’se; but who wants to keep a-comin’ up heah, three mile, for melk? It ain’t right.”

“Well, now, Sar’ Ann, how kin I help it?” said Jim Bowles. “The cow is daid, an’ I kain’t help it, an’ that’s all about it. My God, woman!” this with sudden energy, “do you think I kin bring a cow to life that’s been kilt by the old railroad kyahs? I ain’t no ‘vangelist.”

“You kain’t bring old Muley to life,” said Sarah Ann Bowles, “but then—”

“Well, but then! But whut? Whut you goin’ to do? I reckon you do whut you do, huh! You just walk the track and come heah after melk, I reckon, if you want it. You ought to be mighty glad I come along to keep you company. ‘Tain’t every man goin’ to do that, I want to tell you. Now, it ain’t my fault old Muley done got kilt.”

“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