Page:Weird Tales v02 n01 (1923-07-08).djvu/48

Rh "Go on where you come from, nigger; we don't allow no tramps here!"

He came forward threateningly, as if to drive the old man away.

T IS doubtful if Black Cunjer ever had the slightest intention of coming up the path from the road. Certainly he did not quicken his lagging pace, nor notice the foreman or the trembling group of negroes.

There was about his unhurried advance a certain dignity, despite his tattered garments and shuffling gait. He came straight forward until he was opposite the shed and hardly ten feet away. The firelight shone redly on his dusky features as he passed. Oberman approached swaggeringly.

Then Black Cunjer looked up, his blank eyes fixed for a moment upon the mottled countenance of the foreman. Without a word, he turned into the underbrush and headed toward the uncut woods. In another moment the night and the mist had hidden him from the straining eyes.

A breath of relief escaped the negroes, like a long-drawn sigh of the pine branches above their heads. Oberman moved-nearer the fire, and gave a thick laugh.

"Now you see it's all your tom-fool notions about 'tricks' and 'cunjer.' I ain't hurt—am I?"

He rubbed his hairy hands together as if greatly elated.

"He darsn’t harm none of you while you're working for me! I could twist him up like a piece of paper—that old nigger—huh—" he snapped his fingers. "He knows it, too, and if he ever gets the bunch, of you locoed again—I'm going to his darn shack, you are all so 'fraid of—and fix him, for good!"

The negroes gazed in silent awe at the huge hands that gripped together at the last words. It was rumored among the workmen that Oberman had killed a man "out yonder" with those hands.

After some bottles were handed around a more cheerful spirit animated the group. Tom announced, that he wasn't afraid of that old Cunjer, anyhow, that he'd been "puttin' on" all the while.

"Yass, niggers, I's goin' to chop down dat crap o' pines t'morrow mawnin'. Mis; Oberman is right, money look good ter me. Who gwine foller?"

Several volunteered, and Oberman promised to double every man's pay the moment they cut the last tree.

So with a general undercurrent of good-fellowship, the fire was banked, and the camp turned in for the night.

BERMAN watched the woodcutters leave at dawn.

When they were out of sight he turned, a glitter in his small eyes, to Ed Parker, the white man who helped him run the sawmill.

"Niggers is just like other hands—they got to be treated rough to learn 'em sense; when they get a real man to boss 'em"—he slapped his thigh jocosely—"they'll come under all right! This hoodoo stuff"—he spat, sneering,—"makes me tired."

"Well, I hopes we finish this job on time. Big money in it if we do—and hell to pay if we don't," Ed remarked.

Sundown came, without the gang. Oberman stopped work, and walked about impatiently. Presently, from the edge of the woods, he spied the two white laborers returning.

Rushing forward, he demanded, with many oaths, where the negroes were. They related briefly that while they were measuring the first lot of trees, they heard a cry from the negroes, and turned to see them running headlong from the pines. After following them to their homes miles away, the white men learned that Black Cunjer had appeared to the group and told them those were sacred trees, and if they cut down so much as one other, he would set his mark on them and their children.

Entreaties—extra money—threats proved vain. Nothing on earth could induce those negroes to return to the neighborhood of Black Cunjer.

When Oberman heard this story, even the rough laborers shrank from the blasphemy that poured from his lips. His sense of power, swollen the preceding night, his confident boasts of this very day—served to lash his fury to madness. He had been fooled, mocked at, by a miserable old scarecrow of a creature.

Well, Hock Oberman would show them—he'd give these niggers a lesson they'd never forget!

With this threat, he started off on a run toward the foot-path leading into the pines. The men began half-heartedly to follow, but they were all dead tired, and soon gave up the attempt.

Oberman ran deeper and deeper into the woods; his breath came in gasps, and sweat poured from his body. He slowed his pace to a walk, but still pushed ahead, heedless of the sheet lightning and the muttering thunder.

Just before the last bit of daylight faded, he reached the cabin, and with his clenched fist struck the sagging door.

It opened soundlessly, and like a shadow Black Cunjer rose from the threshold.

ITH a volley of oaths, Oberman demanded why he had sent his workmen away—when he would get them back—and ended by threatening the old negro's life unless he had every man in place by the next morning.

During this tirade, Black Cunjer spoke not a syllable, his expressionless eyes staring into the distorted face before him with a curious, unseeing gaze. This silence and impassivity stirred Oberman’s resentment as no words could have done.

As he stepped up on the log threshold, a sharp exclamation tore through his lips, and he moved aside so quickly as to lose his balance. But, recovering himself, his rage ten times greater, he seized the ancient negro by the back of his neck and shook him until the shrunken black head rolled from side to side—then released him with a cruel twist.

Black Cunjer’s head struck with powerful force against the door-jamb, his thin body crumpled up, and he fell headlong across the threshold, prone at Oberman's feet.

With an ugly laugh, the foreman stepped down on the rotting log, and stirred the prostrate body with his boot. A slow purple stream was trickling from Black Cunjer’s temple, and Oberman noticed the tip of his boot was wet with the dark blood.

He leaned over und felt the negro's heart. It was still.

Giving a shudder of repulsion, he scraped his boot against the log, then wiped it on the ground covered with pine needles, and turned to go back, blind fury still seething in his brain.

As Oberman hurried down the narrow path between the crowding tree trunks, his right foot felt wet, as if he had water in his boot. He tried to ignore it, but when the foot became stiff and cold, though he was panting with the heat, he stopped and, leaning against a tree, ran his fingers down the boot, to investigate.

He drew them out sopping wet, and by the sheet lightning, which grew momently brighter, he looked at them curiously. They were covered with blood!

Trembling, terrified, he managed with difficulty to pull off the boot. The blood that soaked his foot kept welling up from some secret source, and dripping slowly on the ground.

Cold sweat stood out on Oberman’s forehead as he stared down at the foot with which he had contemptuously touched Black Cunjer’s body.

INALLY he thrust his boot back on, and went limping with desperate haste toward the camp, calling aloud in