William Faulkner - Flags in the Dust

“There. That’ll ride. So long.”

“Solong.”

Perry moved on, and he looked back. They still stood there, quiet and grave and steadfast. Beside the kitchen door the fox, Ethel, sat, looking at him covertly; near her the half-grown puppies moved about in the sun. The sun was an hour above the western hills; the road wound on into the trees. He looked back again, the house sprawled its rambling length against the further trees, its smoke like a balanced plume against the windless sky. The door was empty again. He shook Perry into his easy, tireless foxtrot, the jug of whisky jouncing a little against his knee.

6

Where the dim, infrequent road to MacCallum’s left the main road, rising, he halted Perry and sat for a while in the sunset. Jefferson, 14 miles. Rafe and the other boys would not be along for some time, yet, what with Christmas eve in town and the slow festivegathering of the county. Still, they may have left town early, so as to get home by dark; might not be an hour away. The sun’s rays, slanting away, released the chill they had held prisoned in the ground during the perpendicular hours, and it rose slowly and gradually about him as he sat Perry in the middle of the road, and slowly his blood cooled with the cessation of Perry’s motion. He turned the pony’s back to town and shook him into his foxtrot again,

Darkness overtook him soon, but he rode on beneath the leafless trees, along the pale road in the gathering starlight Already Perry was thinking of stable and supper and he went on with tentative, inquiring tossings of his head, but obediently and without slackening his gait, knowing not where they were going nor why, save that it was away from home, and a little dubious, though trustfully. The chill grew in the silence and the loneliness and the monotony of their progress. He reined Perry to a halt and produced the jug and drank, and fastened the sack to the saddle again.

The hills rose wild and black about him; no sign of any habitation, no trace of man’s hand did they encounter. On all sides the hills rolled blackly away in the starlight, or when the road dipped into valleys where the ruts were already stiffening into iron-like shards that rattled beneath Perry’s hooves, they stood about him darkly towering and sinister, feathering their leafless branches against the spangled sky. Where a stream of winter seepage trickled across the road Perry’s feet crackled brittly in this ice, and Bayard slacked the reins while the pony snuffed at the water, and drank again from the jug.

He fumbled a match clumsily in his cold Angers and lit a cigarette, and pushed his sleeve back from his wrist 11:30. “Well, Perry,” his voice soundedloud and sudden in the stillness and darkness and the cold, “I reckon we better look for a place to hole up till morning.” Perry raised his head and snorted, as though he understood the words, as though he would enter the bleak loneliness in which his rider moved, if he could. They went on, mounting again.

The darknessspreadaway, lessening a little presently where occasional fields lay in the vague starlight, breaking the monotony of trees; and after a time during which he rode with the reins slack on Perry’s neck and his hands in his pockets seeking warmth between leather and groin, a cotton house squatted beside the road, its roof dusted over with a frosty sheen as of hushed silver. Not long, he said to himself, leaning forward and laying his hand on Perry’s neck, feeling the warm, tireless blood there. “House soon, Perry, if we look sharp.”

Again Perry whinnied alittle, as though he had understood, and presently he swerved from the road, and as Bayard reined him up he too saw the faint wagon trail leading away toward a low vague dump. of trees. “Good boy, Perry,” he said, slackening the reins again.

The house was a cabin. It was dark, but a hound came gauntly from beneath it and bayed at him and continued its uproar while he reined Perry to the door and knocked upon it with his numb hand. From within the house at last a voice, indistinguishable, and he repeated “Hello.” Then he added: ‘Tm lost. Open the door. “ The hound continued to bellow at him, and the door cracked upon a dying glow of embers, emitting a rank odor of negroes, and against the crack of warmth, a head.

“You, Jule,” the head commanded. “Shut yo’ mouf.” The hound ceased obediently and retired beneath the house, growling. “Who dar?”

“I’m lost,” Bayard repeated. “Can I sleep in your barn tonight?”

“Ain’t got no barn,” the negro answered. “Dey’s anudder house down de road a piece.”

“I’ll pay yon.” Bayard fumbled in his trousers with his numb hand. “My horse is tired out.” The negro’s head peered around the door, against the crack of firelight. “Come on, uncle,” Bayard added impatiently, “don’t keep a man standing in the cold.”

‘Who is you, whitefolks?”

“Bayard Sartoris, from Jefferson. Here,” and he extended his hand.

‘Banker Sartoris’s folks?”

“Yes. Here.”

“Wait a minute.” The door closed. But Bayard tightened the reins and Perry moved readily and circled the house confidently and went on among frost-stiffened cotton stalks that clattered drily about his knees. As Bayard dismounted onto frozen rutted earth beneath a gaping doorway, a lantern approached, swung low among the bitten stalks and the shadowy scissoring of the man’s legs, and he came up with a shapeless bundle under his arm and stood with the lantern while Bayard stripped the saddle and bridle off.

“How you manage to git so fur fum home dis time of night, whitefolks?” he asked curiously.

“Lost,” Bayard answered briefly. “Where can I put my horse?”

The negro swung the lantern into a stall. Perry stepped carefully over the sill and turned into the lantern light again, his eyes rolling in phosphorescent gleams; Bayard followed and rubbed him down with the dry side of the saddle blanket. The negro vanished and reappeared with a few ears of corn and dumped them into the manger beside Perry’s eagernuzzling. “You gwine be keerful about fire, ain’t you, boss?”

“Sure. I won’t strike any matches at all.”

“I got all my stock and tools and feed in here,” the negro explained. “I can’t affo’d to git burnt out. Insu’ance don’t reach dis fur.”

“Sure,” Bayard repeated. He shut Perry’s stall and drew the sack forth from where he had set it against the wall, and produced the jug. “Got a cup here?” The negro vanished again and Bayard could hear him in the crib in the wall opposite, then he emerged with a rusty can, from which he blew a bursting puff of chaff. They drank. Behind them Perry crunched his corn. The negro showed him the ladder to the loft.

“You won’t fergit about no fire, boss?” he repeated anxiously.

“Sure,” Bayard said. “Goodnight” He turned to mount. Again the negro stopped him and handed him the shapeless bundle he had brought out with him.

“Ain’t got but one to spare, but hit’ll help some. You gwine to sleep cole, tonight.” It was a quilt, ragged and filthy to the touch, and impregnated with that unmistakable odor of negroes.

“Thanks,” Bayard answered, “Much obliged to you. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, whitefolks.”

The lantern winked away, to the criss-crossing of the negro’s legs, and Bayard mounted into darkness and the dry, pungent scent of hay. Here, in the darkness, he made himself a bed of it and lay down and rolled himself into the quilt, filth and odor and all, and thrust his icy hands inside his shirt, against his flenching chest After a time and slowly his hands began to warm, tingling a little, but still his body lay shivering with weariness and with cold. Below himPerry munched steadily and peacefully in the darkness, and gradually the shaking of his body ceased. Before he slept he uncovered his arm and looked at the luminous dial on his wrist. One o’clock. It was already Christmas.