William Faulkner - Flags in the Dust

“Why, goddam his soul,” he said to Bayard’s back. The lawyer grasped his arm.

“He’s drunk,” he whispered quickly, “he’s drunk.”

“I don’t give a damn,” the other exclaimed loudly. “Because he was a goddam shave-tail he thinks—”

“Shhhh, shhhh,” the lawyer hissed. The proprietor appeared at the corner of his candy case, peering out with hot round alarm.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!’’ he exclaimed. The stranger made another violent movement, and Bayard stopped.

“Wait a minute while I bash his face in,” he told MacCallum, turning. The stranger thrust the lawyer aside and stepped forward.

“You never saw the day—” he began. MacCallum took Bayard’s arm firmly and easily.

“Come on here, boy.”

‘I’ll bash his bloody face in,” Bayard stated equably, watching the angry stranger with his bleak eyes. The lawyer grasped his companion’s arm again.

“Get away,” the other said, flinging him off. “Just let him try it. Come on, you limey—”

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” the proprietor implored.

“Come on here, boy,” MacCallum said. “I’ve got to look at a horse.”

“A horse?” Bayard repeated. He turned obediently, then as an afterthought he paused and looked back. “Can’t bash your face in now,” he told the stranger. “Sorry. Got to look at a horse. Call for you at the hotel later.” But the stranger’s back was turned, and behind it the lawyer grimaced at MacCallum and waggled his hand.

“Get him away, MacCallum, for God’s sake.”

“Bash his face in later,” Bayard repeated. “Can’t bash yours, though, Eustace,” he told.the lawyer. “Taught us in ground-school never seduce a fool nor hit a cripple.”

“Come on, here,” MacCallum repeated, leading him away. At the door Bayard must stop again to light a cigarette, then they went on. It was three o’clock and again they walked among school children in released surges, sibilant with temporary freedom. Bayard strode steadily enough, and a little belligerently, and presently MacCallum turned into a side street and they went on before negro shops, and between a busy grist mill and a silent cotton gin they turned into a lane filled with tethered horses and mules. From the end of the lane a blacksmith’s anvil clanged,but they passed its ruby glow and the squatting overalled men along the shady wall, and came next to a high barred gate backing a long dun-colored brick building smelling of ammonia. A few men sat on the top of the gate, others leaned their crossed arms upon it, and from the paddock itself came voices, then through the slatted gate gleamed a haughty motionless shape of burnished flame.

The stallion stood against the yawning cavern of the livery stable door like a motionless bronze flame, and along its burnished coat ran at intervals little tremors of paler flame, little tongues of nervousness and pride. But its eye was quiet and arrogant, and occasionally and with a kingly air its gaze swept along the group at the gate with a fine disdain, without seeing them as individuals at all, and again little tongues of paler flame rippled flicking along its coat. About its head was a rope hackamore; it was tethered to a door post, and in the background a white man moved about at a respectful distance with a proprietorial air: beside him, a negro hostler with a tow sack tied about his middle with a string. MacCallum and Bayard halted at the gate, and the white man circled the stallion’s haughty immobility and crossed to them. The negro hostler came forth also, with a soft dirty cloth and chanting in a sad mellow singsong. The stallion permitted Mm to approach and suffered him to erase with his rag the licking nervous little flames that ran in renewed ripples under its skin.

“Ain’t he a picture, now?” the white man demanded of MacCallum, leaning his elbow on thegate. A cheap nickel watch was attached to his suspender loop by a length of rawhide lace leather worn black and soft with age, and his shaven beard was heaviest from the corners of his mouth to his chin; he looked always as though he were chewing tobacco with his mouth open. He was a horse trader by profession, and he was usually engaged in litigation with the railroad company over the violent demise of some of his stock by its agency. “Look at that nigger, now,” he added. “He’ll let Tobe handle him like a baby. I wouldn’t get within ten foot of him, myself. Dam’f I know how Tobe does it Must be some kin between a nigger and a animal, I always claim.”

“I reckon he’s afraid you’ll be crossing the railroad with him some day about the time 3’ is due,” MacCallum said drily.

“Yes, I reckon I have the hardest luck of any feller in this county,” the other agreed. “But they got to settle this time: I got’em dead to rights this time”

“Yes,” MacCallum said. “The railroad company ought to furnish that stock of your’n with time tables.” The other onlookers guffawed.

“Ah, the company’s got plenty of money,” the trader rejoined. Then he said: “You talk like I might have druv them mules in front of that train. Lemme tell you how it come about—”

“I reckon you won’t never drive him in front of no train.” MacCallum jerked his head toward the stallion. The negro burnished its shimmering coat, crooning to it in a monotonous singsong. The trader laughed.

“I reckon not,” he admitted. “Not less’n Tobe goes, too. Just look at him, now. I wouldn’t no more walk up to that animal than I’d fly.”

“I’m going to ride that horse,” Bayard said suddenly.

“What hoss?” the trader demanded, and the other onlookers watched Bayard climb the gate and vault over into the lot “You let that hoss alone, young feller,” the trader added. But Bayard paid him no heed He turned from the gate, the stallion swept its regal gaze upon him and away. “You let that hoss alone,” the trader shouted, “or I’ll have the law on you.”

“Let him be,” MacCallum said.

“And let him damage a fifteen hundred dollar stallion? That hoss’llkill him. You,Sartoris!”

MacCallum drew a wad of bills enclosed by a rubber band from his hip pocket “Let him be,” he repeated “That’s what he wants.”

The trader glanced at the money with quick calculation. “I take you gentlemen to witness—” he began loudly, then he ceased and they watched tensely as Bayard approached the stallion. The beast swept its haughty glowing eye upon him again and lifted its head without alarm and snorted, and the negro crouched against its shoulder and his crooning chant rose to a swifter beat Then the beast snorted again and swept its head up, snapping the rope like a gossamer thread, and the negro grasped at the flying rope-end.

“Git away, whitefolks,” he said hurriedly. “Git away, quick.”

But the stallion eluded his hand It cropped its teeth in a vicious arc and the negro leaped sprawling as the animal’s whole body soared like a bronze explosion. But Bayard had dodged beneath the sabring hooves and as the horse swirled the myriad flicking tongues of its glittering coat the spectators saw that the man had contrived to take a turn with the rope-end about its jaws, then they saw the animal rear again, dragging the man from the ground and whipping hisbody like a rag upon its flashing arc. Then it stopped trembling as Bayard closed its nostrils with the twisted rope, and suddenly he was upon its back while still it stood with lowered head and rolling eyes, rippling its burnished coat into quivering tongues of flame before exploding again.

The beast burst like unfolding bronze wings: a fluid desperation; the onlookers tumbled away from the gate and hurled themselves to safety as the gate splintered to matchwood beneath its soaring volcanic thunder. Bayard crouched on its shoulders and dragged its mad head around and they swept down the lane, spreading pandemonium among the horses and mules tethered and patient before the blacksmith shop and among the wagons there. Where the lane debouched into the street a group of negroes scattered before them, and without a break in its stride the stallion soared over a small negro child clutching a stick of striped candy directly in its path. A wagon drawn by mules was turning into the lane: these reared madly before the wild slack-jawed face of the white man in the wagon, and again Bayard dragged his thunderbolt around and headed it away from the square. Down the lane behind him, through the dust the spectators ran, shouting, the trader among them, and Rafe MacCallum still clutching his roll of money.