Back Home: Being the Narrative of Judge Priest and His People. Cobb Irvin Shrewsbury

now the grass was cumbered with many shattered cocoanut shells, like broken shards; and banana peels, both red and yellow, lay wilted and limp everywhere in the litter underfoot.

      The steam Flyin’ Jinny – it would be a carousel farther North – ground unendingly, loaded to its gunwales with family groups. Crap games started in remote spots and fights broke out. In a far shadow of the fence behind the stables one darky with brass knuckles felled another, then broke and ran. He scuttled over the fence like a fox squirrel, with a bullet from a constable’s big blue-barreled revolver spatting into the paling six indies below him as he scaled the top and lit flying on the other side. Sergeant Jimmy Bagby, dragging his Springfield by the barrel, began a long story touching on what he once heard General Buckner say to General Breckinridge, went to sleep in the middle of it, enjoyed a refreshing nap of twenty minutes, woke up with a start and resumed the anecdote at the exact point where he left off – “An’ ‘en General Breckinridge he says to General Buckner, he says, ‘General – ‘”

      But Judge Priest’s Jeff disentangled himself from the center of things, and took a quiet walk up toward the stables to see what might be seen and to hear what might be heard, as befitting one who was speculating heavily and needed all available information to guide him. What he saw was Van Wallace, owner of the mare, and Jackson Berry, owner of the studhorse, slipping furtively into an empty feed-shed. As they vanished within Van Wallace looked about him cautiously, but Jeff had already dived to shelter alongside the shed and was squatting on a pile of stable scrapings, where a swarm of flies flickered above an empty pint flask and watermelon rinds were curling up and drying in the sun like old shoesoles. Jeff had seen something. Now he applied his ear to a crack between the planks of the feedshed and heard something.

      For two minutes the supposed rivals confabbed busily in the shelter of a broken hay-’rack. Then, suddenly taking alarm without cause, they both poked their heads out at the door and looked about them searchingly – right and left. There wasn’t time for Jeff to get away. He only had a second’s or two seconds’ warning; but all the conspirators saw as they issued forth from the scene of their intrigue was a small darky in clothes much too large for him lying alongside the shed in a sprawled huddle, with one loose sleeve over his face and one black forefinger shoved like a snake’s head down the neck of a flat pocket-flask. Above this figure the flies were buzzing in a greedy cloud.

      “Just some nigger full of gin that fell down there to sleep it off,” said Van Wallace. And he would have gone on; but Berry, who was a tall red-faced, horsy man – a blusterer on the surface and a born coward inside – booted the sleeper in the ribs with his toe.

      “Here, boy!” he commanded. “Wake up here!” And he nudged him again hard.

      The negro only flinched from the kicks, then rolled farther over on his side and mumbled through a snore.

      “Couldn’t hear it thunder,” said Berry reassured. “Well, let’s get away from here.”

      “You bet!” said Van Wallace fervently. “No use takin’ chances by bein’ caught talkin’ together. Anyhow, they’ll be ringing the startin’ bell in a minute or two.”

      “Don’t forget, now!” counseled Berry as Wallace started off, making by a roundabout and devious way for his own stable, where Minnie May, hitched to her sulky and with her legs bandaged, was being walked back and forth by a stable boy.

      “Don’t you worry; I won’t!” said Wallace; and Berry grinned joyously and vanished in the opposite direction, behind the handy feedshed.

      On the instant that both of them disappeared Judge Priest’s Jeff rose to his feet, magically changing from a drunken darky to an alert and flying black Mercury. His feet hardly hit the high places as he streaked it for the grandstand – looking for Judge Priest as hard as he could look.

      Nearly there he ran into Captain Buck Owings. Captain Buck Owings was a quiet, grayish man, who from time to time in the course of a busy life as a steamboat pilot and master had had occasion to shoot at or into divers persons. Captain Buck Owings had a magnificent capacity for attending strictly to his own business and not allowing anybody else to attend to it. He was commonly classified as dangerous when irritated – and tolerably easy to irritate.

      “Cap’n Buck! Cap’n Buck!” sputtered Jeff, so excited that he stuttered. “P-please, suh, is you seen my boss – Jedge Priest? I suttinly must see him right away. This here next heat is goin’ to be thro wed.”

      It was rarely that Captain Buck Owings raised his voice above a low, deliberate drawl. He raised it a trifle now.

      “What’s that, boy?” he demanded. “Who’s goin’ to throw this race?”

      He caught up with Jeff and hurried along by him, Jeff explaining what he knew in half a dozen panted sentences. As Captain Buck Owings’ mind took in the situation, Captain Buck Owings’ gray eyes began to flicker a little.

      Nowhere in sight was there any one who looked like the judge. Indeed, there were few persons at all to be seen on the scarred green turf across which they sped and those few were hurrying to join the crowds that packed thick upon the seats of the grandstand, and thicker along the infield fence and the homestretch. Somewhere beyond, the stable bell jangled. The little betting ring was empty almost and the lone bookmaker was turning his blackboard down.

      His customary luck served Jeff in this crisis, however. From beneath a cuddy under the grandstand that bore a blue board lettered with the word “Refreshments” appeared the large, slow-moving form of the old judge. He was wiping his mouth with an enormous handkerchief as he headed deliberately for the infield fence. His venerable and benevolent pink face shone afar and Jeff literally flung himself at him.

      “Oh, Jedge!” he yelled. “Oh, Jedge; please, suh, wait jes’ a minute!”

      In some respects Judge Priest might be said to resemble Kipling’s East Indian elephant. He was large as to bulk and conservative as to his bodily movements; he never seemed to hurry, and yet when he set out to arrive at a given place in a given time he would be there in due season. He faced about and propelled himself toward the queerly matched pair approaching him with such haste.

      As they met, Captain Buck Owings began to speak and his voice was back again at its level monotone, except that it had a little steaming sound in it, as though Captain Buck Owings were beginning to seethe and simmer gently somewhere down inside of himself.

      “Judge Priest, suh,” said Captain Buck, “it looks like there’d be some tall swindlin’ done round here soon unless we can stop it. This boy of yours heard something. Jeff tell the judge what you heard just now.” And Jeff told, the words bubbling out of him in a stream:

      “It’s done all fixed up betwixt them w’ite gen’lemen. That there Mr. Jackson Berry he’s been tormentin’ the stallion ontwell he break and lose the fust two heats. Now, w’en the money is all on the mare, they goin’ to turn round and do it the other way. Over on the backstretch that Mr. Van Wallace he’s goin’ to spite and tease Minnie May ontwell she go all to pieces, so the stallion’ll be jest natchelly bound to win; an’ ‘en they’ll split up the money amongst ‘em!”

      “Ah-hah!” said Judge Priest; “the infernal scoundrels!” Even in this emergency his manner of speaking was almost deliberate; but he glanced toward the bookmaker’s block and made as if to go toward it.

      “That there Yankee bookmaker gen’leman he’s into it too,” added Jeff. “I p’intedly heared ‘em both mention his name.”

      “I might speak a few words in a kind of a warnin’ way to those two,” purred Captain Buck Owings. “I’ve got a right smart money adventured on this trottin’ race myself.” And he turned toward the track.

      “Too late for that either, son,” said the old judge, pointing. “Look yonder!”

      A joyful rumble was beginning to thunder from the grandstand. The constables had cleared the track, and from up beyond came the glint of the flashing sulky-spokes as the two conspirators wheeled about to score down and be off.

      “Then I think maybe I’ll have to attend to ‘em personally after the race,” said Captain Buck