"Well, I haven't had much practice, Major, but if it is important, I'll do my best to keep it."

"Oh, it is not so important. That fellow you saw talking to the negroes awhile ago is named Bridalbin."

"Bridalbin!" exclaimed Gabriel.

"Yes; he goes by some other name, I've forgotten what. He used to hang around Malvern some years before the war, and a friend of mine who lived there knew him the minute he saw him. He's the fellow that married Margaret Gaither; you remember her; she came home to die not so very long ago. Pulaski Tomlin adopted her daughter, or became the girl's guardian. Now, Tolliver, whatever you do, don't breathe a word about this Bridalbin--don't mention his name to a soul, not even to your grandmother. There's no need of worrying that poor girl; she has already had trouble enough in this world. I'm telling you about him because I want you to keep your eye on him. He's up to some kind of devilment besides exciting the n.i.g.g.e.rs."

Gabriel promptly gave his word that he would never mention anything about Bridalbin's name, and then he said--"But this parade--what does it mean?"

The Major laughed. "Oh, that was just some of the boys from our settlement. They are simply out for practice. They want to get their hands in, as the saying is. They heard I was coming over, and so they followed along. They don't belong to the Kuklux that you've read so much about. A chap from North Carolina came along t'other day, and told about the Knights of the White Camellia, and the boys thought it would be a good idea to have a bouquet of their own. They have no signs or pa.s.swords, but simply a general agreement. You'll have to organise something of that kind here, Tolliver. Oh, you-all are so infernally slow out here in the country! Why, even in Atlanta, they have a Young Men's Democratic Club. You've got to get a move on you. There's no way out of it. The only way to fight the devil is to use his own weapons.

The trouble is that some of the hot-headed youngsters want to hold the poor n.i.g.g.e.rs responsible, as I said just now, and the n.i.g.g.e.rs are no more to blame than the chicken in a new-laid egg. Don't forget that, Tolliver. I wouldn't give my old Minervy Ann for a hundred and seventy-five thousand of these white thieves and rascals; and Jerry Tomlin, fool as he is, is more of a gentleman than any of the men who have misled him."

They walked back to the village the way Gabriel had come. On top of the Bermuda hill, Major Perdue paused and looked toward Shady Dale. Lights were still twinkling in some of the houses, but for the most part the town was in darkness.

The Major waved his hand in that direction, remarking, "That's what makes the situation so dangerous, Tolliver--the women and the children.

Here, and in hundreds of communities, and in the country places all about, the women and children are in bed asleep, or they are laughing and talking, with only dim ideas of what is going on. It looks to me, my son, as if we were between the devil and the deep blue sea. I, for one, don't believe that there's any danger of a n.i.g.g.e.r-rising. But look at the other side. I may be wrong; I may be a crazy old fool too fond of the n.i.g.g.e.rs to believe they're really mean at heart. Suppose that such men as this--ah, now I remember!--this Boring--that is what Bridalbin calls himself now--suppose that such men as he were to succeed in what they are trying to do? I don't believe they will, even if we took no steps to prevent it; but then there's the possibility--and we can't afford to take any chances."

Gabriel agreed with all this very heartily. He was glad to feel that his own views were also those of this keen, practical, hard-headed man of the world.

"But men of my sort will be misjudged, Tolliver," pursued the Major; "violent men will get in the saddle, and outrages will be committed, and injustice will be done. Public opinion to the north of us will say that the old fire-eaters, who won't permit even a respectable white man to insult them with impunity--the old slave-drivers--are trying to destroy the coloured race. But you will live, my son, to see some of these same radicals admit that all the injustice and all the wrong is due to the radical policy."

This prophecy came true. Time has abundantly vindicated the Major and those who acted with him.

"Yes, yes," Major Perdue went on musingly, "injustice will be done. The fact is, it has already begun in some quarters. Be switched if it doesn't look like you can't do right without doing wrong somewhere on the road."

Gabriel turned this paradox over in his mind, as they walked along; but it was not until he was a man grown that it straightened itself out in his mind something after this fashion: When a wrong is done the innocent suffer along with the guilty; and the innocent also suffer in its undoing.

Shady Dale woke up the next morning to find the walls and the fences in all public places plastered with placards, or handbills, printed in red ink. The most prominent feature of the typography, however, was not its colour, but the image of a grinning skull and cross-bones. The handbill was in the nature of a proclamation. It was dated "Den No. Ten, Second Moon. Year 21,000 of the Dynasty." It read as follows:

"To all Lovers of Peace and Good Order--Greeting: Whereas, it has come to the knowledge of the Grand Cyclops that evil-minded white men, and deluded freedmen, are engaged in stirring up strife; and whereas it is known that corruption is conspiring with ignorance--

"Therefore, this is to warn all and singular the persons who have made or are now making incendiary propositions and threats, and all who are banded together in secret political a.s.sociations to forthwith cease their activity. And let this warning be regarded as an order, the violation of which will be followed by vengeance swift and sure. The White Riders are abroad.

"Thrice endorsed by the Venerable, the Grand Cyclops, in behalf of the all-powerful Klan. (. (. (. K. K. K. .) .) .)"

Now, if this doc.u.ment had been in writing, it might have pa.s.sed for a joke, but it was printed, and this fact, together with its grave and formal style, gave it the dignity and importance of a genuine proclamation from a real but an unseen and unknown authority. It had the advantage of mystery, and there are few minds on which the mysterious fails to have a real influence. In addition to this, the spectacular performance at the Rev. Jeremiah's church the night before gave substance to the proclamation. That event was well calculated to awe the superst.i.tious and frighten the timid.

The White Riders had disappeared as mysteriously as they came. Only one person was known to have seen them after they had left the church--it was several days before the Rev. Jeremiah could be induced to relate his experience--and that person was Mr. Sanders. What he claimed to have witnessed was even more alarming than the brief episode that occurred at the Rev. Jeremiah's church. Mr. Sanders was called on to repeat the story many times during the next few weeks, but it was observed by a few of the more thoughtful that he described what he had seen with greater freedom and vividness when there was a negro within hearing. His narrative was something like this:

"Gus Tidwell sent arter me to go look at his sick hoss, an' I went an'

doctored him the best I know'd how, an' then started home ag'in. I had but one thought on my mind; Gus had offered to pay me for my trouble sech as it was, an' I was tryin' for to figger out in my mind what in the name of goodness had come over Gus. I come mighty nigh whirlin'

roun' in my tracks, an' walkin' all the way back jest to see ef he didn't need a little physic. He was cold sober at the time, an' all of a sudden, when he seed that I had fetched his hoss through a mighty bad case of the mollygrubs, he says to me, 'Mr. Sanders,' says he, 'you've saved me a mighty fine hoss, an' I want to pay you for it. You've had mighty hard work; what is it all wuth?' 'Gus,' says I, 'jest gi' me a drink of cold water for to keep me from faintin', an' we'll say no more about it.'

"Well, I didn't turn back, though I was much of a mind to. I mosied along wondering what had come over Gus. I had got as fur on my way home as the big 'simmon tree--you-all know whar that is--when all of a sudden, I felt the wind a-risin'. It puffed in my face, an' felt warm, sorter like when the wind blows down the chimbley in the winter time.

Then I heard a purrin' sound, an' I looked up, an' right at me was a gang of white hosses an' riders. They was right on me before I seed 'em, an' I couldn't 'a' got out'n the'r way ef I'd 'a' had the wings of a hummin'-bird. So I jest ketched my breath, an' bowed my head, an' tried to say, 'Now I lay me down to sleep.' I couldn't think of the rest, an'

it wouldn't 'a' done no good nohow. I cast my eye aroun', findin' that I wasn't trompled, an' the whole caboodle was gone. I didn't feel nothin'

but the wind they raised, as they went over me an' up into the elements.

Did you ever pa.s.s along by a pastur' at night, an' hear a cow fetch a long sigh? Well, that's jest the kind of fuss they made as they pa.s.sed out'n sight."

This story made a striking climax to the performances that the negroes themselves had witnessed, and for a time they were subdued in their demeanour. They even betrayed a tendency to renew their old familiar relations with the whites. The situation was not without its pathetic side, and if Mr. Sanders professed to find it simply humourous, it was only because of the effort which men make--an effort that is only too successful--to hide the tenderer side of their natures. But the episode of the White Riders soon became a piece of history; the alarm that it had engendered grew cold; and Hotchkiss, aided by Bridalbin, who called himself Boring, soon had the breach between the two races wider than ever.

CHAPTER TWENTY

_Gabriel at the Big Poplar_

Late one afternoon, at a date when the tension between the two races was at its worst, Gabriel chanced to be sitting under the great poplar which was for years, and no doubt is yet, one of the natural curiosities of Shady Dale, on account of its size and height. He had been reading, but the light had grown dim as the sun dipped behind the hills, and he now sat with his eyes closed. His seat at the foot of the tree was not far from the public highway, though that fact did not add to its attractions from Gabriel's point of view. He preferred the seat for sentimental reasons. He had played there when a little lad, and likewise Nan had played there; and they had both played there together. The old poplar was hollow, and on one side the bark and a part of the trunk had sloughed away. Here Gabriel and Nan had played housekeeping, many and many a day before the girl had grown tired of her dolls. The hollow formed a comfortable playhouse, and the youngsters, in addition to housekeeping, had enjoyed little make-believe parties and picnics there.

As Gabriel sat leaning against the old poplar, his back to the road and his eyes closed, he heard the sound of men's voices. The conversation was evidently between country folk who had been spending a part of the day in town. Turning his head, Gabriel saw that there were three persons, one riding and two walking. Directly opposite the tree where Gabriel sat, they met an acquaintance who was apparently making a belated visit to town.

"h.e.l.lo, boys!" said the belated one by way of salutation. "I 'low'd I'd find you in town, an' have company on my way home."

"What's the matter, Sam?" asked one of the others. "This ain't no time of day to be gwine away from home."

"Well, I'm jest obliged to git some ammunition," replied Sam. "I've been off to mill mighty nigh all day, an' this evenin', about four o'clock, whilst my wife was out in the yard, a big buck n.i.g.g.e.r stopped at the gate, an' looked at her. She took no notice of him one way or another, an' presently, he ups an' says, 'h.e.l.lo, Sissy! can't you tell a feller howdy?'"

"_He did?_" cried the others. Gabriel could hear their gasps of astonishment and indignation from where he sat.

"He said them very words," replied Sam; "'h.e.l.lo, Sissy! can't you tell a feller howdy?'"

"Did you leave anybody at home?" inquired one of the others.

"You bet your sweet life!" replied Sam in the slang of the day. "Johnny Bivins is there, an' he ain't no slouch, Johnny ain't. I says to Molly, says I, 'Johnny will camp here till I can run to town, an' git me some powder an' buckshot.'"

"We have some," one of the others suggested.

"Better let 'im go on an' git it," said another; "we can't have too much in our neck of the woods when things look like they do now. We'll wait for you, Sam, if you'll hurry up."

"Good as wheat!" responded Sam, who went rapidly toward town.

"I tell you what, boys, we didn't make up our minds about this business a single minute too soon," remarked one of the three who were waiting for the return of their neighbour. "Somethin's got to be done, an' the sooner it's done, the sooner it'll be over with."

"You're talkin' now with both hands and tongue!" declared one of the others, in a tone of admiration.

"You'll see," remarked the one who had proposed to wait, "that Sam is jest as ripe as we are. We know what we know, an' Sam knows what he knows. I don't know as I blame the n.i.g.g.e.rs much. Look at it from their side of the fence. They see these d--d white h.e.l.lians goin' roun', snortin' an' preachin' ag'in the whites, an' they see us settin' down, hands folded and eyes shet, and they jest natchally think we're whipped and cowed. Can you blame 'em? I hate 'em all right enough, but I don't blame 'em."

Gabriel knew that the man who was speaking was George Rivers, a small farmer living a short distance in the country. His companions were Tom Alford and Britt Hanson, and the man who had gone to town for the ammunition was Sam Hathaway.

"Are you right certain an' sh.o.r.e that this man Hotchkiss is stayin' wi'

Mahlon b.u.t.ts?" George Rivers inquired.

"He lopes out from there every mornin'," replied Tom Alford.

"Mahlon allers was the biggest skunk in the woods," remarked Hanson.

"He's runnin' for ordinary. I happened to hear him talkin' to a lot of n.i.g.g.e.rs t'other day, and I went up and cussed him out. I wanted the n.i.g.g.e.rs to see how chicken-hearted he is. Well, sirs, he never turned a feather. I never seed a more lamblike man in my life. I started to spit in his face, and then I happened to think about his wife. Yes, sirs, it seemed to me for about the s.p.a.ce of a second or two that I was lookin'

right spang in Becky's big eyes, an' I couldn't 'a' said a word or done a thing to save my life. I jest whirled in my tracks and went on about my business. You-all know Becky b.u.t.ts--well, there's a woman that comes mighty nigh bein' a saint. Why she married sech a rapscallion as Mahlon, I'll never tell you, an' I don't believe she knows herself. But she's all that's saved Mahlon."