Black Canaan | Page 6

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 cowhorns 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 liveoaks. 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