wrung out theiroveralls.
“Hist’s Cunnel Sartoris’s boy, ain’t it?” the elder said at last, and he lowered himself stiffly to the sand, groaning and grunting, and donned his shoes.
“Yessuh,” John Henry answered. “Is he daid, pappy?”;
“Co’se he is”, the other answered petulantly. “Atter that otto’bile jumped offen dat bridge wid ‘im? Whut you reckon he is, ef he ain’t daid? And whut you gwine say when de law axes how come you de onliest one dat found ‘im daid? Tell me dat.”
“Tell ‘urn you holp me.”
“Hit ain’t none of my business. I never run dat thing offen de bridge. Listen at it, dar, mumblin’ and grindin’ yit, You git on ‘fo’ hit blows up.”
‘We better git ‘im into town,” John Henry said. “Dey mought not be nobody else comin’‘long today.” He stooped and raised Bayard’s shoulders and tugged him to a sitting position. “He’p me git ‘im up de bank, pappy.” .
“Hit ain’t none of my business,” the other repeated, but he bent and picked up Bayard’s legs and they lifted him, and he groaned without waking.
“Dar, now,” John Henry exclaimed.“Hear dat? He ain’t daid.” But he might well have been, with his long inert body and his head wrung excruciatingly against John Henry’s shoulder. They shifted their grips and turned toward the road. “Hah,” said John Henry, “Le’s go!”
They struggled up the shaling treacherous bank with, him and onto the road, where the elder let his end of the burden slip to the ground. “Whuf,” he expelled his breath sharply. “He heavy ez a flou’ bar’l.”
“Come on, pappy,” John Henry said.“Le’s git ‘im in de waggin.” The other stooped again, with bared teeth, and they raised Bayard with dust caked redly on his wet thighs, and heaved him by panting stages into the wagon bed. “He looks lak a daid .man,” John Henry added, “and hesho’ do acklak one. I’ll ride back here and keep his haid f’um bumpin’.”
“Git dat brakin’ pole you lef in de creek,” his father ordered, and John Henry descended and retrieved the sapling and got in the wagon again and lifted Bayard’s head onto his knees, and his father unwrapped the reins from the stanchion and mounted to the sagging seat and picked up his peeled hickorywand.
“I don’t lak dis kind o’ traffickin’,” he repeated. “Hwup, mules.” The mules lurched the wagon into motion once more, and they went on. Behind them the car lay on its back in the creek, its engine still muttered and rumbled at idling speed.
Its owner lay in the springless wagon, jolting lady and inert, oblivious of it and of John Henry’s dark compassionate face above him. Thus for some miles, while John Henry kept the sun: from Bayard’s face with the shadow of his hat, then their jolting progress penetrated into that region to which he had withdrawn arid he groaned again. “Drive slower, pappy,” John Henry said. “De joltin’ wakin’‘im up.”
“I caint he’p dat,” the elder replied, “I never run dat otto’bile offen dat bridge. I got to git on into town and git back home. Git on dar, mules.”
John Henry tried to ease him to the jolting, andBayard groaned again and lifted his hand to his chest, and moved and opened his eyes. But he closed them immediately against the sun and he lay on John Henry’s knees, cursing. Then he moved again, trying to sit up. John Henry restrained htaj, firmly yet diffidently, and he opened his eyes again, struggling.
“Let go, goddam you!” he said. “I’mhurt.”
“Yessuh, captain; ef you’ll jes’ lay still—”
Bayard heaved himself violently, clutching his side; his teeth shone between his drawn, bloodless lips arid he gripped John Henry’s shoulder with a. clutch like steel hooks. “Stop,” he shouted.“Stop him; make him stop! He’s driving my damn ribs right through me!” He cursed again, trying to get onto his knees, gripping John Henry’s, shoulder, clutching his side with his other hand. The older negro turned and lookedback at him. “Hit him with something,” Bayard shouted. “Make him stop. I’m hurt, goddamn it!”
The wagon stopped. Bayard was now on his hands and knees, bending lower and lower on all fours, like a wounded beast. The two negroes watched him quietly, and still clutching his side he moved and essayed to climb out of the wagon. John Henry jumped down and helped him, and he got slowly out and leaned against the wheel, with his sweating, bloodless. face and the dry grinning of his teeth.
“Git back in de waggin, captain, and le’s git to town to de doctor,” John Henry said.
Bayard stared at him, moistening his lips with his tongue. Then he moved again and crossed to the roadsideand sat down, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt. The two negroes watched him. “Got a knife, son? “he asked presently.
“Yessuh.” John Henry produced his knife, and by Bayard’s direction he slit the other’s shirt off. Thenthe two of them bound it tightly about Bayard’s body, and he got to his feet
“Got a cigarette?” he asked,
John Henry had not. “Pappy got some chewin’ terbacker,” he suggested.
“Gimme a chew, then,” They gave him a chew and helped him back into the wagon and onto the seat, and drove on again. They jingled and rattled interminably onward in the red dust, through shadow and sunlight and uphill and down, while Bayard alternately chewed and swore. On and on, and at every jolt, with every breath he took, his broken ribs stabbed and probed into his flesh.
Then a final hill, and the road emerged from the trees and crossed the flat valley and joined the highway, and here they stopped while the sun blazed down on Bayard’s naked shoulders and bare head while he and the old negro wrangled as to whether they should drive him home or not, and Bayard swore and raged and suffered. At last he took the reins from the elder negro’s hands and swung the mules about himself . The negro continued to protest, querulously, until Bayard dug a banknote from his trousers and gave it to him and surrendered the lines, and they went on.
This last mile was the worst of all On all sides of them cultivated fields spread away to the shimmering hills: earth was saturated with heat and broken and turned and saturated again and drunken with it, exuding heat like an alcoholic’s breath. The trees along the road were sparse and but half grown, and the mules moved at a
