horses, and so he angled into the dense woods, breaking through thickets of mountain laurel and briars too close packed for the horses to travel with ease. They pulled up, and Little Strofe jumped down and released the dogs.
"Steboy," he said, urging them after the Negro.
The pair went off baying and yapping, slashing through the dense woods as sleek as fish in water. A quarter mile into the forest, the four men came upon the boy, halfway up a crab apple tree, the dogs below barking up a storm. He put up a good fight when Preacher and Little Strofe climbed up to get him down, kicking and flailing away, even biting Little Strofe on the wrist. But finally Preacher clubbed him with the barrel of his pistol and the boy fell leadenly to the ground. Preacher let out with a whoop like somebody who'd won something at a fair. They tied him up, put a gag in his mouth, and then headed back to their camp in the woods, where Preacher tied him to a sycamore tree.
It had started to rain again, a fine gray mist that fell out of the low sky like sifted flour. Little Strofe built a fire and began cooking supper.
Preacher removed the gag from their captive's mouth and asked him again about the two runaways.
"Where they at, boy?"
The Negro just stared at him. Cain guessed him to be about thirteen years old, a lean but muscular lad, broad shouldered, with coal black skin that had never been diluted by a single drop of white blood. At first he didn't say a word, just stared blankly at them as he was asked questions, and Cain wondered for a moment if they'd captured themselves a deaf mute. But then Preacher took out his knife and waved it in front of him. With that, the boy finally broke his silence.
"I'm free. I gots my papers," he said defiantly, staring at the knife.
"Would you listen to the cheeky nigger?" Preacher scoffed. He removed a whetstone from his pocket and calmly ran it up and down the blade of the knife, the way you would if it were hog-butchering season and you were fixing to gut one.
"I don't gots to tell you nothin'," the boy cried.
"Is that so?"
"Yessum. I'm a free man. I gots rights just like you."
Preacher smiled. "You'll do what we goddamn tell you to, boy," he said, striking him on the side of the head with the flat of the knife blade. "You hear me?"
"White bastard," the boy cursed, for which he received a second and harder blow.
This time the boy just gritted his teeth and stared hatefully back at the white man in front of him.
Preacher then tried to grab the Negro's ear, but the boy shook his head wildly, sensing what was coming. So the blond man turned to Little Strofe, who was squatting a few feet away, frying the eggs the boy had been carrying. "C'mere."
"Me?" asked Little Strofe.
"Yeah, you. C'mere and grab hold a this here nigger's head."
Little Strofe didn't move at first.
"Y'hear me?" Preacher cried. "Get your ass over here."
Little Strofe glanced at his brother, who sat there sipping from a bottle of applejack. Finally, he stood and walked over to Preacher.
"Hold him still," Preacher commanded.
Reluctantly, Little Strofe grabbed the boy's head with two hands.
Preacher took the boy's right earlobe and stretched it away from his head until the boy cried out.
"You know where they at, you'd better talk."
The boy's face was contorted in pain and in fear, but he didn't say anything. Then in one cat-quick motion, Preacher swung the bowie knife and severed the earlobe. Blood spurted out and the boy winced from the pain but somehow managed to remain silent. Preacher held the bloody piece of flesh up in front of the boy.
"See that, nigger. That there is only the first part of what you're gonna lose if'n you don't start talkin'."
The boy stared at him. There was fear in his eyes but something else, too. Something that Cain had had a glimpse of now and then in certain blacks, say, after an overseer's flogging, or when a man was humbled by a master in front of his woman: hatred certainly, but nothing
"Steboy," he said, urging them after the Negro.
The pair went off baying and yapping, slashing through the dense woods as sleek as fish in water. A quarter mile into the forest, the four men came upon the boy, halfway up a crab apple tree, the dogs below barking up a storm. He put up a good fight when Preacher and Little Strofe climbed up to get him down, kicking and flailing away, even biting Little Strofe on the wrist. But finally Preacher clubbed him with the barrel of his pistol and the boy fell leadenly to the ground. Preacher let out with a whoop like somebody who'd won something at a fair. They tied him up, put a gag in his mouth, and then headed back to their camp in the woods, where Preacher tied him to a sycamore tree.
It had started to rain again, a fine gray mist that fell out of the low sky like sifted flour. Little Strofe built a fire and began cooking supper.
Preacher removed the gag from their captive's mouth and asked him again about the two runaways.
"Where they at, boy?"
The Negro just stared at him. Cain guessed him to be about thirteen years old, a lean but muscular lad, broad shouldered, with coal black skin that had never been diluted by a single drop of white blood. At first he didn't say a word, just stared blankly at them as he was asked questions, and Cain wondered for a moment if they'd captured themselves a deaf mute. But then Preacher took out his knife and waved it in front of him. With that, the boy finally broke his silence.
"I'm free. I gots my papers," he said defiantly, staring at the knife.
"Would you listen to the cheeky nigger?" Preacher scoffed. He removed a whetstone from his pocket and calmly ran it up and down the blade of the knife, the way you would if it were hog-butchering season and you were fixing to gut one.
"I don't gots to tell you nothin'," the boy cried.
"Is that so?"
"Yessum. I'm a free man. I gots rights just like you."
Preacher smiled. "You'll do what we goddamn tell you to, boy," he said, striking him on the side of the head with the flat of the knife blade. "You hear me?"
"White bastard," the boy cursed, for which he received a second and harder blow.
This time the boy just gritted his teeth and stared hatefully back at the white man in front of him.
Preacher then tried to grab the Negro's ear, but the boy shook his head wildly, sensing what was coming. So the blond man turned to Little Strofe, who was squatting a few feet away, frying the eggs the boy had been carrying. "C'mere."
"Me?" asked Little Strofe.
"Yeah, you. C'mere and grab hold a this here nigger's head."
Little Strofe didn't move at first.
"Y'hear me?" Preacher cried. "Get your ass over here."
Little Strofe glanced at his brother, who sat there sipping from a bottle of applejack. Finally, he stood and walked over to Preacher.
"Hold him still," Preacher commanded.
Reluctantly, Little Strofe grabbed the boy's head with two hands.
Preacher took the boy's right earlobe and stretched it away from his head until the boy cried out.
"You know where they at, you'd better talk."
The boy's face was contorted in pain and in fear, but he didn't say anything. Then in one cat-quick motion, Preacher swung the bowie knife and severed the earlobe. Blood spurted out and the boy winced from the pain but somehow managed to remain silent. Preacher held the bloody piece of flesh up in front of the boy.
"See that, nigger. That there is only the first part of what you're gonna lose if'n you don't start talkin'."
The boy stared at him. There was fear in his eyes but something else, too. Something that Cain had had a glimpse of now and then in certain blacks, say, after an overseer's flogging, or when a man was humbled by a master in front of his woman: hatred certainly, but nothing
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