Skeeter Butts hung up the receiver at his end of the line and staggered across the Hen-Scratch saloon. His face was convulsed, and the odd distortions due to the contraction and relaxation of its muscles would lead one to believe that an electric shock received over the telephone had twisted his face and he was trying to set it right. Skeeter had received a shock. Four friends, beholding him, noted that his face was bloodless, his yellow fingers trembled and were beyond his control, his knees shook and buckled under him as he walked, and his chin was aquiver.
“Bad luck, niggers,” he whined through chattering teeth. “A band of robbers has busted into Marse Tom Gaitskill’s house, an’ dey is killin’ Dazzle Zenor.”
The four men sitting at the table quivered with excitement mingled with fear. With that emotional race, any sort of excitement is expressed by noise, but fear calls for silence. For a brief time the silence was so great that the five could distinctly hear the ticking of Hitch Diamond’s big silver watch.
Hitch Diamond, the big prize-fighter, sat in a rickety chair. As he meditated upon the possibilities of the case which Skeeter had stated, and his emotions increased, that chair produced an irritating squeak with every inhalation and expulsion of Hitch’s breath. All the noise produced in that room was caused by Hitch’s watch and his chair. The rest were like frightened quail that squat and try to merge with the scenery.
It seemed to be a long, long time before anyone ventured to break that oppressive silence. Finally Hitch spoke bravely:
“Go up an’ rescue Dazzle, Skeeter. I’ll be glad to stay behime an’ take keer of de saloon.”
Four chairs moved uneasily, emitting a scraping sound. Figger Bush pulled a corncob pipe from his pocket, and his trembling hands caused the stem to drop from the cob and fall under the table. Figger stooped to pick it up, found that it was dark under the table, and straightened up without his pipe-stem. He could get that pipe-stem to-morrow.
“Me, too,” Figger Bush quacked. “I’ll he’p Hitchie keep de saloon.”
Mustard Prophet, the scientific agriculturist of the party, took a big red apple from his pocket and bit deeply into its juicy substance. He was trying to appear disinterested, but his favorite kind of apple was tasteless to him now.
“Dar ain’t no use fer de rest of us to go,” Mustard muttered thickly, munching at his apple, and glancing at Pap Curtain. “Skeeter kin handle de case——”
“You got to go wid me, Mustard,” Skeeter interrupted. “Dazzle tole me dat Hopey wus in de house, too—an’ de robbers is killin’ her.”
The part of the apple Mustard held in his fingers slipped away and rolled across the saloon floor; the part he had in his mouth strangled in his quivering throat.
“Dat’s too bad,” he announced in a tone of disinterested sympathy. “But dat serves Hopey right, an’ she deeserves all she gits. Me an’ my nigger wife don’t speak no more. I went dar to-night, an’ axed Hopey to gimme some hot biscuits an’ a few sirup, an’ she wouldn’t do it!”
“I think dis here is yo’ job, Skeeter,” Pap Curtain snarled, the habitual sneer upon his face becoming more acute and repulsive as he tried to conceal his timidity. “Dazzle didn’t want none of us buttin’ in, or she’d axed fer us. Ef you wants to make a hit wid Dazzle, you got to pick up a brave heart an’ go out dar an’ kill dat band of robbers—jes’ like when you wus in de army.”
“But us army soldiers didn’t do no fightin’ all by our lonely selfs,” Skeeter wailed. “We fi’t an’ bled an’ died in regimints!”
“You oughter hab fotch yo’ army home wid you,” Pap sneered. “Somepin like dis might happen sudden any time, an’ you knowed you’d need it.”
The telephone rang sharply, and every man jumped with fright.
“Gosh, dat skeart me!” Pap Curtain exclaimed. “Answer de telerphome, Skeeter.”
“Answer de telerphome, Figger,” Skeeter squalled, feeling nervously in all his pockets as if he were hunting for the most important thing in the world and could not abandon the search.
“My shoe-string is come ontied,” Figger answered as he bent over his foot. “You answer de phome, Mustard!”
Mustard did not move. The telephone bell subsided with a final little tinkle.
“Dar now, it’s too late!” Mustard lamented. “I’d ’a’ answered, only but I’m total deef in one y-ear.”
The telephone rang again, sharply, insistently; rang for a good five minutes.
“Answer it, Hitch Diamond!” Skeeter wailed in the midst of the sound.
Hitch pretended not to hear.
“I bet dat is Hopey telerphomin’ me dat she’s dead,” Mustard Prophet muttered in pitiful fright. “I won’t never git no more hot biscuits. Hopey wus shore a good cook an’ a good wife. Us had little spats, but dar warn’t never no hard feelin’s.”
“Come on, fellers,” Skeeter interrupted. “Less go up on de hill an’ see whut’s happened.”
“I ain’t gwine in dat house!” Pap Curtain exclaimed. “I don’t like to see blood spilt aroun’ all over Marse Tom’s nice carpets.”
“I hope dey don’t spile de floor too much,” Hitch grumbled as he rose to his feet. “Marse Tom always makes me scrub up de messes because Hopey’s too dang fat to lean over.”
“I’ll let Pap guard de front of de house an’ hide behime de big pecan-tree,” Skeeter announced, glad enough to get company. “Hitch kin guard de kitchen by hidin’ behime de meat-house. Figger an’ Mustard kin guard eac............