Chapter X: Tick Seeks a Place to Die

Tick flopped over on a battered pool-table, and dyed the green cloth red with his blood.

A bunch of negroes gathered close around the table, cackling their comments like a flock of excited hens.

“I heerd dat gun go off!” Figger Bush squeaked. “Dey shot him twicet. Dat gun went bang! bang!”

“Us heerd it, too,” Hitch Diamond growled. “He shore is bad hurted. Dey shot bofe de legs off his pants. I ’speck he fixin’ to die!”

Skeeter Butts talked excitedly over the telephone and five minutes later a big automobile stopped in front of his place, and Dr. Moseley came in.

“Get all these niggers out of here, Skeeter!” he commanded sharply. “Clear the house!”

The negroes tramped out of the door like a drove of horses going through a gap, and then they scattered to all parts of the town to carry the dreadful news.

Dr. Moseley’s examination failed to find a single gunshot wound.

“You are not shot, Tick,” Moseley said. “You’ve been lying to these friends of yours. Somebody beat you over the head with a club.”

“Naw, suh; dat warn’t it, doc,” Tick insisted. “I wus shotted wid bofe barrels of a shotgun!”

“Tick don’t know whut happened, doc,” Skeeter commented. “He come in here ’bout a hour ago so full of booze dat he sloshed like a water-wagon when he walked.”

Moseley bandaged the cut lips and legs and the bruised head, and left Tick to the care and nursing of Skeeter Butts.

“Yes, suh; I’ll set up wid him all night, doc,” Skeeter said. “He’s a fool frien’ of mine.”

Skeeter was aching to know exactly what had happened to Tick, and as soon as the physician left, Tick was served with a drink which sobered him almost immediately, and then he told Skeeter all about his affair in the road.

When Tick had finished, Skeeter sat for a long time in deep thought, at intervals grunting like a pig when some new idea punched him in a new place.

At last he rose to his feet and got his hat.

“Ticky,” he said, “you stay here till I gits back.”

“Suttinly,” Tick said pitifully. “I’s skeart to go anywhar else; lock all de doors up tight.”

Skeeter ran across lots to his home on the premises of Sheriff John Flournoy.

Flournoy had a little automobile, which he used for fishing and hunting trips, and Skeeter pushed this out of the garage, cranked it, and jumped to the seat. In a few minutes he was back again at the saloon.

“Climb in dis machine, Ticky,” he commanded. “A leetle fresh air will rest yo’ mind an’ do you good. Git in!”

Then Skeeter steered the machine straight toward the home of Button Hook. Tick uttered angry and frightened protests, but in vain. Skeeter persisted in his plan.

“Dis is whar it happened, Skeeter,” Tick said as they passed a place in the road. “Dis is whar I wus shotted!”

“Whoa!” Skeeter said, as he brought the car to a stop. “Look dar--dat is de gun whut Button drapped!”

Placing the gun in the machine, Skeeter hurried on toward Button Hook’s home.

“Dis gun will he’p me a heap!” he exulted.

When they reached the house, Skeeter picked up the shotgun and, leaving Tick in the machine, he walked through the yard, stamped up the steps and onto the little porch, and knocked loudly and authoritatively upon the door. He heard shuffling noises with low talking, and movements which indicated that the occupants of the house were waking from sleep and getting out of bed.

“Who dar?” old man Hook inquired in a frightened voice.

“Open up!” Skeeter yelled. “I got a little word wid you an’ Button Hook from Sheriff John Flournoy an’ Doc Moseley.”

At this there was a frightened squeal from Button Hook, excited voices talking, swift movement of feet, and the door opened a little crack. Old Hook stuck his corkscrew whiskers through the opening and asked:

“Whut word is sont?”

“I’s got Ticky Hush out here in Sheriff John Flournoy’s autermobile,” Skeeter announced in a loud voice. “Ticky is been shot two times wid a double-barrel, muzzle-loadin’ shotgun. Nobody ain’t know who done it, but we done foun’ de shotgun, an’ Marse Tom is tryin’ to find out who owns it.”

Button Hook uttered a frightened whine.

“Doc Moseley say Ticky is gittin’ ready to die befo’ mawnin’,” Skeeter resumed. “Ticky ain’t got no kinnery an’ I knowed he wus gwine marry Button Hook, so I fetch him down here so he could die in yo’-all’s house!”

“Gawda’mighty, naw!” old Hook wailed. “I don’t want no dead nigger in my cabin. Take him somewheres else.”

“It’s Marse John Flournoy’s awders to leave him here wid you-alls!” Skeeter lied.

“Naw!” Daddy Hook squalled. “Dis fambly ain’t gwine be home in de mawnin’--us is gittin’ ready trabble to right now, an’ we’s fixin’ to take a soon start!”

“Does you know who dis shotgun belongs to?” Skeeter asked, producing the gun with a dramatic flourish.

“Naw!” Daddy Hook wailed, motioning Skeeter away. “Ain’t never seed dat gun befo’.”

A frightened wail sounded behind old man Hook, informing Skeeter that Button was being strongly affected by what she heard.

“All right!” Skeeter said, as if in doubt what to do next. “I’ll go tell Marse John Flournoy dat you-all won’t take Tick in. I reckon him an’ Marse Tom Gaitskill will come right down an’ cornverse you-all about it. De Sheriff don’t take no nigger foolishness.”

Skeeter turned and walked away. When he got to the automobile it was empty. Tick had climbed out and had hidden behind the same stump which had served him when he delivered the wrist-watch to Button Hook. As Skeeter cranked the machine, Tick emerged from his hiding-place and climbed back into the car.

“Now, Ticky,” Skeeter said when they were once more in the saloon and had sat down. “A long time befo’ mawnin’, Button Hook an’ all dat crowd will be gittin’ to some place fur away in a mighty big hurry. Dey’ll trabble wid a looseness, an’ dey won’t look back, an’ dey won’t never come back.”

“Dey won’t make me mad ef dey stays away,” Tick spoke, trying to grin through his cut and plaster-covered lips.

“Dat saves yo’ life, an’ it gits you good riddunce of one of yo’ to-be wives!”

“Thank ’e, suh,” Tick said gratefully. “You shore is a noble nigger man!”

“You tole me dat Dazzle promise to marry you--is dat so?”

“Naw, suh. Me an’ Dazzle et a little dinner togedder, but dar ain’t nothin’ to dat.”

“Dat leaves jes’ Limit Lark fer you to marry--ain’t dat so?” Skeeter asked.

“Dat’s all!” Tick said. “Thank de Lawd!”

“You done got yo’ license to marry Limit, Ticky,” Skeeter said. “Now, fer goodness sake don’t ax nobody else!”

“I won’t,” Tick promised. “I’s mighty glad we’s done shaved ’em down to jes’ me an’ one woman.”

There was a loud knock upon the front door, and some one on the outside shook it violently, trying to get in.

“Git over dar an’ crawl under de bar, Ticky,” Skeeter whispered. “Dar ain’t no tellin’ whut is gwine happen now!”

When Tick was hidden, Skeeter tiptoed to the door and opened it very cautiously.

“Dis here is Vakey Vapp,” a woman’s voice announced in high, shrill tones. “Lemme in, I got somepin to say offen my mind!”

“Come in, Vakey,” Skeeter said in propitiating tones. “I’s de onliest one here.”

“Whar is Tick Hush?” Vakey snapped.

“Tick is gittin’ ready to die,” Skeeter answered evasively. “Doc Moseley is he’pin’ him along.”

“I come here to tell Tick dat he better make a good job of dyin’, an’ drap off real soon,” Vakey bellowed. “Ef he don’t, I’s gwine meet him in de big road an’ cyarve his gizzard an’ his backbone out!”

“Whut’s done made you mad?” Skeeter asked in surprised tones.

“Dat nigger is done monkeyed wid my affectations,” Vakey howled.

“Dat’s too bad,” Skeeter sympathized.

“It don’t hurt me none, but it’s shore bad fer Tick!” Vakey said in a deadly tone.

Then they sat for a long time in silence, while Vakey Vapp breathed deeply with a heaving breast, like a motion-picture star. At last she stood up to go.

“I comed here to gib Ticky Hush a dyin’ message, Skeeter,” she announced. “I’s sorry he ain’t here. But ef Doc Moseley makes a mistake an’ cures Tick, well, I’s gwine bestow my dyin’ message wid de edge of a sharp razor. Good-by!”

When the door closed behind her, Tick stood up from his hiding-place, showing a face full of tragedy and despair.

“We forgot all about dat one, Skeeter,” he mourned. “Oh, lawdy! Ef I ever gits outen dis mess, I ain’t gwine mess wid mattermony no more!”