IV.

GRISTLE, THE GRAY PONY, CONCLUDES HIS STORY.

The Little Master gave me a drink of cool water from the well in the public square, and then he had me carried to a comfortable stall in the stable behind the old tavern. I don’t know how long I stayed there, but by the time I had dropped off into a comfortable doze, dreaming that I was nibbling sassafras buds in the orchard at home, a negro came running into the stable and into my stall. He came upon me so sudden that I turned in the stall to get out of his way, and nearly mashed the breath out of him. He limped along and led me to the front of the tavern. There I saw the Little Master waiting to mount, and I went toward him gladly enough.

“I thought we were to go home, but my thoughts jumped ahead of facts. I soon saw that the speculator’s wagons and his file of negroes had come into town, and had stopped to rest on the public square, where a great crowd had gathered around them—some out of curiosity and some out of sympathy. I heard an old horse, blind in one eye, say to a companion tied near that such sights were seldom seen in these parts. The Little Master had sent for me, so that, by sitting on my back, he would be as tall as any of the men.

“He rode me into the crowd that had gathered around the negroes. The people made way for him, and I soon found myself so close to the Son of Ben Ali that he could touch my nose with his hand, although his elbows were pinioned. So that he was able to give me the sign, and I knew him and spoke to him and he to me; whereupon he knew that he had found one friend there. He had found two friends, for the Little Master stretched forth his hands, white as a flower, and touched the Son of Ben Ali on the cheek, where there was the mark of a wound, saying, ‘Poor fellow! I am sorry for you.’ And the Son of Ben Ali reached up the best he could, his arms being pinioned, and took the white hand of the Little Master in his, and pressed it to his forehead and then to his lips. After that he held his head higher, so that he looked over all that stood around him and beyond him, and smiled a little.

“But just then the man who owned him came hustling toward us, untied the rope to which the Son of Ben Ali was chained and pushed him roughly through the crowd to the sheriff’s block that stood near the court house door. This he made the Son of Ben Ali mount, so that all might see him. As he stood there, without a coat, the collar of his shirt thrown open, and the muscles of his chest swelling and falling, he seemed to be a man among men. When the white man stood on the block beside him, the crown of his hat was no higher than the Son of Ben Ali’s shoulder.

[Illustration: BEN ALI HAD FOUND TWO FRIENDS]

“The man made a speech to the people. I don’t remember everything he said, but I could see he hated the Son of Ben Ali, and was afraid of him. He was ready to jump from the block and run. But the Son of Ben Ali paid no attention to him. He had his eyes fixed on the face of the Little Master, following every movement he made, and always smiling. The Little Master kept his eyes on the White-haired Master, and called and beckoned to him. But somehow—I couldn’t see what the trouble was—the White-haired Master appeared to be very busy. He was talking with a man who was a stranger to me, and, although he heard the Little Master, and nodded and smiled at him, he kept on talking. I went toward him without any urging, and when we got there he was talking about constitutions and other government contraptions, and seemed to be very warm over it. I was so disgusted that I snorted as often and as loud as I could, and if people had only known it, there was more horse sense in one of my snorts than there was in all the politics I have heard from that day to this.

“But all this time the speculator, or trader, or whatever you call him, was calling to the crowd to come and see the fine bargain he was going to offer. I had one ear for the trader and another for the Little Master. One said:—

“‘Come up, gentlemen, and see what a sacrifice I am going to make. Come up, and I’ll tell you why.’

“The other said: ‘Come, father, please come! You’ll be too late!’ The White-haired Master nodded and smiled. ‘Presently, son; presently.’

“The trader said: ‘Walk right up, gentlemen, and I’ll tell you the truth. I’m selling this boy because he’s too tricky to travel with. He’s bad tempered and hard headed. What he needs is a master who will take time to make him buckle down to work.’

“The Little Master said: ‘Father, come. Oh, don’t wait any longer.’ The White-haired Master smiled. ‘Yes, yes!’ and placed his hand on my neck, whereupon I snorted and shook it off.

“The trader cried out at the top of his voice: ‘Come up, gentlemen! Come up! Look at this boy’s limbs. Look at his muscles. Not a flaw about him, except his temper. What am I offered, cash down, for this likely fellow?’

“The Little Master said: ‘Please, please hurry, father! You’ll be too late. The man is selling him now!’ The air was blue with state rights and constitutions. I shook my head and gave a loud whicker. This seemed to irritate the White-haired Master, for he ceased to smile and joke.

“‘Go buy him yourself,’ he said, sharply.

“‘How much shall I bid, father?’

“‘Up to twelve hundred dollars.’

“Before the Little Master could take the bridle reins in his hand, I wheeled and cantered toward the crowd that had gathered around the sheriff’s block, where the Son of Ben Ali stood.

“The trader was saying: ‘How much am I offered? How much? Look at him, gentlemen! As sound as a dollar!’

“The man who lives across the creek—Mr. Goshawk—no—Mr. Gossett—got on the block with the Son of Ben Ali and put on his spectacles and looked at him, and felt of him, and thumped him on the back, and punched him in the sides. The Son of Ben Ali never flinched nor moved a muscle. He kept his eyes fixed on the Little Master. But, after all, what could the Little Master do? He was but a child.

“Mr. Gossett came down from the block, took off his spectacles, and said something to the trader, who then cried out:—

“‘What do you think, good people? I am asked to give this boy away! My friend here offers me five hundred dollars for the finest hand that ever stood on the block in this country. Five hundred dollars! I am offered five hundred dollars!’

“‘Seven hundred dollars!’ cried the Little Master.

“The trader stopped and looked at the Little Master, as if he thought the bid was a joke.

“‘Who said seven hundred?’ he asked.

“‘I did,’ cried the Little Master.

“‘Seven hundred it is,’ said the trader. ‘I am offered seven hundred—only seven hundred!’

“Mr. Gossett said something to the trader, who cried out: ‘Eight hundred! I am offered eight hundred!’

“‘Nine hundred!’ said the Little Master.

“‘That is right!’ cried the trader. ‘In this country even the children have saddle-bags full of money. Nine hundred! I am offered nine hundred!’

“Mr. Gossett nodded his head. I was watching him.

“‘One thousand!’ cried the trader. ‘I am offered one thousand! Am I to give this man away for one thousand dollars?’

“‘Twelve hundred,’ said the Little Master in a voice as clear as a bell.

“This seemed to stagger the trader. He looked at the Little Master, and then he looked at the crowd. He shook his head, and then some of the people laughed. This made others laugh, and then the trader, very red in the face, turned to Mr. Gossett and said:—

“‘I don’t like to be made a fool of. This negro is yours, sir, for one thousand dollars.’

“This made the people laugh again, but the Little Master didn’t laugh. He cried to the crowd around. ‘Get out of the way here!’ and gave me the word to push my way through. I needed neither whip nor spur for that, and the people in front of me had as much as they could do to scuffle and scramble out of my way.

“‘Here, sir, what does this mean?’ cried the Little Master. ‘I bid twelve hundred dollars, and you sell him for one thousand dollars. What do you mean?’

“‘Don’t bother me, sonny,’ the man replied. ‘The negro is mine. I sell him for what I please. This gentleman here,’ he pointed to Mr. Gossett, ‘said you were playing one of your pranks. I’ve no time for pranks. If you are not pranking, plank down your twelve hundred dollars on that block there.’

“Mr. Gossett had taken from his pocket a long red book, and was already counting out the money he had bid. Then and there a thing happened that has never been understood by anybody but me. Everybody will tell you that the Little Master tried to ride over and run down Mr. Gossett, but it is not so. The Little Master had no more to do with it than the old buggy horse who was tied to the rack near by. I felt the Little Master’s hand shake as it rested on my shoulder, and I heard him sob. I was so mad that everything grew dark except Mr. Gossett’s face. I plunged at him and tried to get his head in my mouth, but he saw me coming and fell backward and rolled out of the way before I could reach him, nor could I trample him. His luck saved him.

“And then somebody caught my bridle and gave it a jerk that brought me to my senses. Whoever it was led me out of the crowd and away from the court house. I could feel the Little Master shaking in the saddle, and I knew he was crying, but I held my head down, not knowing what to do or where to go.

“Presently the White-haired Master, hearing of the commotion, came running toward us. His face was as white as a sheet.

“‘Why, my son! my darling boy! What is the trouble?’ He placed his arms around the Little Master. ‘Oh, tell your father! Has any one dared to hurt so much as your little finger? There, don’t cry any more.’

“Then the Little Master told him what you have already heard, his voice shaking and his white hands trembling.

“‘Wait!’ said the White-haired Master.

“With that he suddenly turned and went toward the crowd at the court house. I followed, though the Little Master never touched a rein. The people seemed to expect something, and they made way for the White-haired Master, and for me, with my nose at his coat-tails.

“‘Has the sale been closed?’ he asked sharply. His words snapped out like the popping of a whip.

“‘Yes, sir; yes, sir—it has been closed,’ the trader replied. He was as humble and polite as one of his poor negroes.

“‘Gossett!’ said the White-haired Master—his voice sounded as I have heard it when he was talking to a lazy plough hand—‘Gossett! I will give you fifteen hundred dollars for your bargain.’

“Mr. Gossett shook his head and smiled, showing two or three yellow teeth. I was so anxious to get at him that the Little Master was compelled to slap me with the slack of the bridle reins and bid me stand still.

“‘No,’ said Mr. Gossett, ‘I’d ruther have the nigger than the money.’

“‘I’ll give you two thousand dollars,’ persisted the White-haired Master.

“Mr. Gossett showed his yellow teeth again. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘if he’s worth that to you, he’s worth it to me. The fact is, I want to tame the nigger. They say he’s as wild as a buck, and as hard-headed as a mule. I want to tame him.’

“The White-haired Master turned to the trader. ‘Why did you insult my son and me by refusing to cry his last bid?’ He caught the man by the throat and shook him. The people gave back and scattered a little at this, for in those times men were quick to use their knives and pistols. But the trader had no idea of using his, though he had both in his belt.

“‘Let me explain, sir; let me explain,’ he cried, as the White-haired Master released his hold. ‘That gentleman there said the youngster was only playing me one of his jokes.’

“‘What gentleman?’ the White-haired Master asked, as quick as a flash. He wheeled and looked around, as if searching for some one. The people were still afraid a fight was about to take place, and they stood off some distance, but not so far that they couldn’t hear every word that was said.

“‘What gentleman?’ the White-haired Master repeated, facing the trader.

“The trader went to Mr. Gossett and touched his shoulder so as to make no mistake. ‘This is the gentleman, sir,’ he said.

“At this the White-haired Master fairly roared with laughter. ‘Pay him another hundred, Gossett—pay him another hundred! He has earned it. You’ll not find another man in the county to pay you such a compliment.’

“There must have been some joke or hit in this, for the people laughed even louder than the White-haired Master, and Mr. Gossett turned very red in the face. But if it was a joke it passed over my head. I saw no fun in it, and neither did the Son of Ben Ali, who had drawn near and was fondling the thin white hand of the Little Master in his.”

Here the Gray Pony paused and held his head up as if he heard a noise somewhere. Then he cropped off a bunch of peach leaves and chewed on them, to all appearances relishing their flavor. This done, he scratched his neck by rubbing it against the peach-tree, which was old and rough. The children sat absorbed in the story he was telling.

“Now, right here,” the Gray Pony went on, “two or three things happened so close together that the quickest eye could hardly separate them. If I told them as they happened I should have to tell them all at once, but this can’t be done, not even in your tongue. So I’ll have to blunder along the best I know how. In cantering or galloping I always start off on my right forefoot. A man taught me that with a whip, and I’ve never been able to forget it. That foot comes down heaviest, and I always fling the right foreshoe first. It was loose when we started from home that morning, and when I jumped at Mr. Gossett I wrenched it nearly off. For a time I didn’t mind it, but every time I stamped my foot to drive the flies away it rang and rattled like a cow bell. The Son of Ben Ali, hearing it rattle as he stood by the Little Master, stooped and placed his hand on my knee. I gave him my foot, and he drew the shoe off by giving it a slight twist with his fingers.

“When the White-haired Master told Mr. Gossett to pay the trader another hundred dollars he made a step toward the man to see what he would do. At that moment Mr. Gossett’s son George, a great rowdy and bully, came rushing through the crowd. He was red in the face and fairly foaming at the mouth. He came crying, ‘Is pap in a fuss? Where are you, pap?’ He had a pistol in his hand, and when he saw the White-haired Master standing so near his pap, as he called him, he bellowed like a mad bull, and came rushing up, leveling the pistol as he got near.

“This happened just as the Son of Ben Ali wrenched the shoe from my foot. Still stooping he turned his head and saw George Gossett halt and point his pistol at the White-haired Master. I felt the body of the Son of Ben Ali sway under my neck in the most unaccountable manner, and the next moment I saw young Gossett fall as if he had been struck by lightning. The Son of Ben Ali crept under my belly, and when I saw him again he was sitting on the block where he had stood to be sold, his arms folded, and his eyes closed as if he were fast asleep.

“No one knew what had happened except the Son of Ben Ali and myself. All eyes had been fixed on George Gossett and the White-haired Master. Some said Gossett had fallen in a fit of passion and that the blood had burst from his face. Some said that he had fallen on a horseshoe that happened to be lying near. Some said one thing and some another. George Gossett always declared, so I’ve heard, that somebody jabbed him in the face with a forked stick, but his best friends said he was drunk at the time and fell on the horseshoe and hurt himself. But there were some people who whispered it around that they saw the blood gush from his face as he fell forward.

“The matter was never explained, and for many a long day no one but the Son of Ben Ali and I knew that Gossett had been hit in the face by one of my shoes. I think the White-haired Master learned the truth by asking the Son of Ben Ali about it one night, when they were returning from a long ride together.

“In the midst of the excitement, old Mr. Gossett forgot all about the Son of Ben Ali. But after the wounded man had been carried to a doctor’s shop and physicked, and the doctors had said that he would recover, though the bruise was a serious one, Mr. Gossett remembered his purchase, and came out to the public square in some alarm, fearing that his newly-bought slave had given him the slip. But he had not far to seek. Though the public square was deserted, except for the horses and mules tied to the racks and a few people straggling aimlessly about, the Son of Ben Ali still sat on the sheriff’s block, erect and silent, his arms folded and his feet crossed. The trader’s wagons and his train of slaves had passed on through the town.

“When Mr. Gossett saw the Son of Ben Ali sitting where he had left him, he nodded his head approvingly. His son had come to town in a wagon, and in this the young man had to be carried home. Straw was spread in the body of the wagon, and into this George Gossett was lifted. The old man had come in a buggy and he made the Son of Ben Ali sit beside him and drive him.”

At this point the Gray Pony paused and bit at a speckled fly that was sitting on his fat side out of reach of the sweep of his tail.

“Is that all?” asked Buster John.

“It is enough,” replied the Gray Pony. “A few days afterward, being on the far side of the plantation, I heard a plough mule telling Mr. Gossett’s buggy horse that the Son of Ben Ali had gone to the woods.”

The Gray Pony, saying this, turned and walked away.