Short Fiction - Kate Chopin (animal farm read .txt) 📗

The horse was gone, and with it the United States mailbag!

For an instant Chouchoute stood half-stunned with terror. Then, in one quick flash, came to his mind a vision of possibilities that sickened him. Disgrace overtaking him in this position of trust; poverty his portion again; and his dear mother forced to share both with him.

He turned desperately to some negroes who had followed him, seeing his wild rush from the house:⁠—

“Who saw my hoss? W’at you all did with my hoss, say?”

“Who you reckon tech yo’ hoss, boy?” grumbled Gustave, a sullen-looking mulatto. “You did n’have no call to lef’ ’im in de road, fus’ place.”

“ ’Pear to me like I heahed a hoss a-lopin’ down de road jis’ now; did n’ you, Uncle Jake?” ventured a second.

“Neva heahed nuttin’⁠—nuttin’ ’t all, ’cep’ dat big-mouf Ben yonda makin’ mo’ fuss ’an a t’unda-sto’m.”

“Boys!” cried Chouchoute, excitedly, “bring me a hoss, quick, one of you. I’m boun’ to have one! I’m boun’ to! I’ll give two dolla’ to the firs’ man brings me a hoss.”

Near at hand, in the “lot” that adjoined Uncle Jake’s cabin, was his little creole pony, nibbling the cool, wet grass that he found, along the edges and in the corners of the fence.

The negro led the pony forth. With no further word, and with one bound, Chouchoute was upon the animal’s back. He wanted neither saddle nor bridle, for there were few horses in the neighborhood that had not been trained to be guided by the simple motions of a rider’s body.

Once mounted, he threw himself forward with a certain violent impulse, leaning till his cheek touched the animal’s mane.

He uttered a sharp “Hei!” and at once, as if possessed by sudden frenzy, the horse dashed forward, leaving the bewildered black men in a cloud of dust.

What a mad ride it was! On one side was the river bank, steep in places and crumbling away; on the other, an unbroken line of fencing; now in straight lines of neat planking, now treacherous barbed wire, sometimes the zigzag rail.

The night was black, with only such faint light as the stars were shedding. No sound was to be heard save the quick thud of the horse’s hoofs upon the hard dirt road, the animal’s heavy breathing, and the boy’s feverish “hei-hei!” when he fancied the speed slackened.

Occasionally a marauding dog started from the obscurity to bark and give useless chase.

“To the road, to the road, Bon-à-rien!” panted Chouchoute, for the horse in his wild race had approached so closely to the river’s edge that the bank crumbled beneath his flying feet. It was only by a desperate lunge and bound that he saved himself and rider from plunging into the water below.

Chouchoute hardly knew what he was pursuing so madly. It was rather something that drove him; fear, hope, desperation.

He was rushing to the station, because it seemed to him, naturally, the first thing to do. There was the faint hope that his own horse had broken rein and gone there of his own accord; but such hope was almost lost in a wretched conviction that had seized him the instant he saw “Gustave the thief” among the men gathered at Gros-Léon’s. “Hei! hei, Bon-à-rien!”

The lights of the railway station were gleaming ahead, and Chouchoute’s hot ride was almost at an end.

With sudden and strange perversity of purpose, Chouchoute, as he drew closer upon the station, slackened his horse’s speed. A low fence was in his way. Not long before, he would have cleared it at a bound, for Bon-à-rien could do such things. Now he cantered easily to the end of it, to go through the gate which was there.

His courage was growing faint, and his heart sinking within him as he drew nearer and nearer.

He dismounted, and holding the pony by the mane, approached with some trepidation the young stationmaster, who was taking note of some freight that had been deposited near the tracks.

“Mr. Hudson,” faltered Chouchoute, “did you see my pony ’roun’ yere anywhere? an’⁠—an’ the mail-sack?”

“Your pony’s safe in the woods, Chou’te. The mailbag’s on its way to New Orleans”⁠—

“Thank God!” breathed the boy.

“But that poor little fool darkey of yours has about done it for himself, I guess.”

“Wash? Oh, Mr. Hudson! w’at’s⁠—w’at’s happen’ to Wash?”

“He’s inside there, on my mattress. He’s hurt, and he’s hurt bad; that’s what’s the matter. You see the ten forty-five had come in, and she didn’t make much of a stop; she was just pushing out, when bless me if that little chap of yours didn’t come tearing along on Spunky as if Old Harry was behind him.

“You know how No. 22 can pull at the start; and there was that little imp keeping abreast of her ’most under the thing’s wheels.

“I shouted at him. I couldn’t make out what he was up to, when blamed if he didn’t pitch the mailbag clean into the car! Buffalo Bill couldn’t have done it neater.

“Then Spunky, she shied; and Wash he bounced against the side of that car and back, like a rubber ball, and laid in the ditch till we carried him inside.

“I’ve wired down the road for Doctor Campbell to come up on 14 and do what he can for him.”

Hudson had related these events to the distracted boy while they made their way toward the house.

Inside, upon a low pallet, lay the little negro, breathing heavily, his black face pinched and ashen with approaching death. He had wanted no one to touch him further than to lay him upon the bed.

The few men and colored women gathered in the room were looking upon him with pity mingled with curiosity.

When he saw Chouchoute he closed his eyes, and a shiver passed through his small frame. Those about him thought he was dead. Chouchoute knelt, choking, at his side and held his hand.

“O Wash, Wash! W’at you did that for? W’at made you, Wash?”

“Marse Chouchoute,” the boy whispered, so low