I reckon you'll want to be gettin' up to the house, now, and
seein' your folks." "Yes. And I want to swap these toys for a couple of .44s. Then I'm
going to ride out and tell the country people to come into Grimesville. If it's to be an uprising, we don't know when it will commence." "You're not goin' alone!" protested McBride. "I'll be all right," I answered impatiently. "All this may not amount
to anything, but it's best to be on the safe side. That's why I'm going
after the country folks. No, I don't want anybody to go with me. Just
in case the niggers do get crazy enough to attack the town, you'll
need every man you've got. But if I can get hold of some of the swamp
niggers and talk to them, I don't think there'll be any attack." "You won't get a glimpse of them," McBride predicted. _3. Shadows Over Canaan_


It was not yet noon when I rode out of the village westward along
the old road. Thick woods swallowed me quickly. Dense walls of pines
marched with me on either hand, giving way occasionally to fields
enclosed with straggling rail fences, with the log cabins of the
tenants or owners close by, with the usual litters of tow-headed
children and lank hound dogs. Some of the cabins were empty. The occupants, if white, had already
gone into Grimesville; if black they had gone into the swamps, or
fled to the hidden refuge of the town-niggers, according to their
affiliations. In any event, the vacancy of their hovels was sinister in
its suggestion. A tense silence brooded over the pinelands, broken only by the
occasional wailing call of a plowman. My progress was not swift, for
from time to time I turned off the main road to give warning to some
lonely cabin huddled on the bank of one of the many thicket-fringed
creeks. Most of these farms were south of the road; the white
settlements did not extend far to the north; for in that direction lay
Tularoosa Creek with its jungle-grown marshes that stretched inlets
southward like groping fingers. The actual warning was brief; there was no need to argue or explain. I called from the saddle: "Get into town; trouble's brewing on
Tularoosa." Faces paled, and people dropped whatever they were
doing: the men to grab guns and jerk mules from the plow to hitch
to the wagons, the women to bundle necessary belongings together
and shrill the children in from their play. As I rode I heard the
cow-horns blowing up and down the creeks, summoning men from distant
fields--blowing as they had not blown for a generation, a warning and a
defiance which I knew carried to such ears as might be listening in the
edges of the swamplands. The country emptied itself behind me, flowing
in thin but steady streams toward Grimesville. The sun was swinging low among the topmost branches of the pines when I
reached the Richardson cabin, the westernmost "white" cabin in Canaan. Beyond it lay the Neck, the angle formed by the junction of Tularoosa
with Black River, a jungle-like expanse occupied only by scattered
negro huts. Mrs. Richardson called to me anxiously from the cabin stoop. "Well, Mr. Kirby, I'm glad to see you back in Canaan! We been hearin'
the horns all evenin', Mr. Kirby. What's it mean? It--it ain't----"

"You and Joe better get the children and light out for Grimesville," I
answered. "Nothing's happened yet, and may not, but it's best to be on
the safe side. All the people are going." "We'll go right now!" she gasped, paling, as she snatched off her
apron. "Lord, Mr. Kirby, you reckon they'll cut us off before we can
git to town?" I shook my head. "They'll strike at night, if at all. We're just
playing safe. Probably nothing will come of it." "I bet you're wrong there," she predicted, scurrying about in desperate
activity. "I been hearin' a drum beatin' off toward Saul Stark's cabin,
off and on, for a week now. They beat drums back in the Big Uprisin'. My pappy's told me about it many's the time. The nigger skinned his
brother alive. The horns was blowin' all up and down the creeks, and
the drums was beatin' louder'n the horns could blow. You'll be ridin'
back with us, won't you, Mr. Kirby?" "No; I'm going to scout down along the trail a piece." "Don't go too far. You're liable to run into old Saul Stark and his
devils. Lord! _Where_ is that man? Joe! _Joe!_"

As I rode down the trail her shrill voice followed me, thin-edged with
fear. *       *       *       *       *

Beyond the Richardson farm pines gave way to live-oaks. The underbrush
grew ranker. A scent of rotting vegetation impregnated the fitful
breeze. Occasionally I sighted a nigger hut, half hidden under the
trees, but always it stood silent and deserted. Empty nigger cabins
meant but one thing: the blacks were collecting at Goshen, some miles
to the east on the Tularoosa; and that gathering, too, could have but
one meaning. My goal was Saul Stark's hut. My intention had been formed when I heard
Tope Sorley's incoherent tale. There could be no doubt that Saul Stark
was the dominant figure in this web of mystery. With Saul Stark I meant
to deal. That I might be risking my life was a chance any man must take
who assumes the responsibility of leadership. The sun slanted through the lower branches of the cypresses when I
reached it--a log cabin set against a background of gloomy tropical
jungle. A few steps beyond it began the uninhabitable swamp in which
Tularoosa emptied its murky current into Black River. A reek of decay
hung in the air; gray moss bearded the trees, and poisonous vines
twisted in rank tangles. I called: "Stark! Saul Stark! Come out here!" There was no answer. A primitive silence hovered over the tiny
clearing. I dismounted, tied my horse and approached the crude, heavy
door. Perhaps this cabin held a clue to the mystery of Saul Stark; at
least it doubtless contained the implements and paraphernalia of his
noisome craft. The faint breeze dropped suddenly. The stillness became
so intense it was like a physical impact. I paused, startled; it was as
if some inner instinct had shouted urgent warning. As I stood there every fiber of me quivered in response to that
subconscious warning; some obscure, deep-hidden instinct sensed peril,
as a man senses the presence of the rattlesnake in the darkness, or
the swamp-panther crouching in the bushes. I drew a pistol, sweeping
the trees and bushes, but saw no shadow or movement to betray the
ambush I feared. But my instinct was unerring; what I sensed was not
lurking in the woods about me; it was inside the cabin--_waiting_. Trying to shake off the feeling, and irked by a vague half-memory that
kept twitching at the back of my brain, I again advanced. And again
I stopped short, with one foot on the tiny stoop, and a hand half
advanced to pull open the door. A chill shivering swept over me, a
sensation like that which shakes a man to whom a flicker of lightning
has revealed the black abyss into which another blind step would
have hurled him.