Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
them. What is he up to, anyway? So I says:
“All right; trot ahead.”
I followed a half a mile; then he struck out over the swamp, and waded
ankle deep as much as another half-mile. We come to a little flat piece
of land which was dry and very thick with trees and bushes and vines,
and he says:
“You shove right in dah jist a few steps, Mars Jawge; dah’s whah dey
is. I’s seed ’m befo’; I don’t k’yer to see ’em no mo’.”
Then he slopped right along and went away, and pretty soon the trees
hid him. I poked into the place a-ways and come to a little open patch
as big as a bedroom all hung around with vines, and found a man laying
there asleep—and, by jings, it was my old Jim!
I waked him up, and I reckoned it was going to be a grand surprise to
him to see me again, but it warn’t. He nearly cried he was so glad, but
he warn’t surprised. Said he swum along behind me that night, and heard
me yell every time, but dasn’t answer, because he didn’t want nobody to
pick _him_ up and take him into slavery again. Says he:
“I got hurt a little, en couldn’t swim fas’, so I wuz a considable ways
behine you towards de las’; when you landed I reck’ned I could ketch up
wid you on de lan’ ’dout havin’ to shout at you, but when I see dat
house I begin to go slow. I ’uz off too fur to hear what dey say to
you—I wuz ’fraid o’ de dogs; but when it ’uz all quiet agin, I knowed
you’s in de house, so I struck out for de woods to wait for day. Early
in de mawnin’ some er de niggers come along, gwyne to de fields, en dey
tuk me en showed me dis place, whah de dogs can’t track me on accounts
o’ de water, en dey brings me truck to eat every night, en tells me how
you’s a-gitt’n along.”
“Why didn’t you tell my Jack to fetch me here sooner, Jim?”
“Well, ’twarn’t no use to ’sturb you, Huck, tell we could do sumfn—but
we’s all right now. I ben a-buyin’ pots en pans en vittles, as I got a
chanst, en a-patchin’ up de raf’ nights when—”
“_What_ raft, Jim?”
“Our ole raf’.”
“You mean to say our old raft warn’t smashed all to flinders?”
“No, she warn’t. She was tore up a good deal—one en’ of her was; but
dey warn’t no great harm done, on’y our traps was mos’ all los’. Ef we
hadn’ dive’ so deep en swum so fur under water, en de night hadn’ ben
so dark, en we warn’t so sk’yerd, en ben sich punkin-heads, as de
sayin’ is, we’d a seed de raf’. But it’s jis’ as well we didn’t, ’kase
now she’s all fixed up agin mos’ as good as new, en we’s got a new lot
o’ stuff, in de place o’ what ’uz los’.”
“Why, how did you get hold of the raft again, Jim—did you catch her?”
“How I gwyne to ketch her en I out in de woods? No; some er de niggers
foun’ her ketched on a snag along heah in de ben’, en dey hid her in a
crick ’mongst de willows, en dey wuz so much jawin’ ’bout which un ’um
she b’long to de mos’ dat I come to heah ’bout it pooty soon, so I ups
en settles de trouble by tellin’ ’um she don’t b’long to none uv um,
but to you en me; en I ast ’m if dey gwyne to grab a young white
genlman’s propaty, en git a hid’n for it? Den I gin ’m ten cents
apiece, en dey ’uz mighty well satisfied, en wisht some mo’ raf’s ’ud
come along en make ’m rich agin. Dey’s mighty good to me, dese niggers
is, en whatever I wants ’m to do fur me, I doan’ have to ast ’m twice,
honey. Dat Jack’s a good nigger, en pooty smart.”
“Yes, he is. He ain’t ever told me you was here; told me to come, and
he’d show me a lot of water-moccasins. If anything happens _he_ ain’t
mixed up in it. He can say he never seen us together, and it’ll be the
truth.”
I don’t want to talk much about the next day. I reckon I’ll cut it
pretty short. I waked up about dawn, and was a-going to turn over and
go to sleep again, when I noticed how still it was—didn’t seem to be
anybody stirring. That warn’t usual. Next I noticed that Buck was up
and gone. Well, I gets up, a-wondering, and goes down stairs—nobody
around; everything as still as a mouse. Just the same outside. Thinks
I, what does it mean? Down by the wood-pile I comes across my Jack, and
says:
“What’s it all about?”
Says he:
“Don’t you know, Mars Jawge?”
“No,” says I, “I don’t.”
“Well, den, Miss Sophia’s run off! ’deed she has. She run off in de
night some time—nobody don’t know jis’ when; run off to get married to
dat young Harney Shepherdson, you know—leastways, so dey ’spec. De
fambly foun’ it out ’bout half an hour ago—maybe a little mo’—en’ I
_tell_ you dey warn’t no time los’. Sich another hurryin’ up guns en
hosses _you_ never see! De women folks has gone for to stir up de
relations, en ole Mars Saul en de boys tuck dey guns en rode up de
river road for to try to ketch dat young man en kill him ’fo’ he kin
git acrost de river wid Miss Sophia. I reck’n dey’s gwyne to be mighty
rough times.”
“Buck went off ’thout waking me up.”
“Well, I reck’n he _did!_ Dey warn’t gwyne to mix you up in it. Mars
Buck he loaded up his gun en ’lowed he’s gwyne to fetch home a
Shepherdson or bust. Well, dey’ll be plenty un ’m dah, I reck’n, en you
bet you he’ll fetch one ef he gits a chanst.”
I took up the river road as hard as I could put. By-and-by I begin to
hear guns a good ways off. When I come in sight of the log store and
the woodpile where the steamboats lands, I worked along under the trees
and brush till I got to a good place, and then I clumb up into the
forks of a cottonwood that was out of reach, and watched. There was a
wood-rank four foot high a little ways in front of the tree, and first
I was going to hide behind that; but maybe it was luckier I didn’t.
There was four or five men cavorting around on their horses in the open
place before the log store, cussing and yelling, and trying to get at a
couple of young chaps that was behind the wood-rank alongside of the
steamboat landing; but they couldn’t come it. Every time one of them
showed himself on the river side of the woodpile he got shot at. The
two boys was squatting back to back behind the pile, so they could
watch both ways.
By-and-by the men stopped cavorting around and yelling. They started
riding towards the store; then up gets one of the boys, draws a steady
bead over the wood-rank, and drops one of them out of his saddle. All
the men jumped off of their horses and grabbed the hurt one and started
to carry him to the store; and that minute the two boys started on the
run. They got half way to the tree I was in before the men noticed.
Then the men see them, and jumped on their horses and took out after
them. They gained on the boys, but it didn’t do no good, the boys had
too good a start; they got to the woodpile that was in front of my
tree, and slipped in behind it, and so they had the bulge on the men
again. One of the boys was Buck, and the other was a slim young chap
about nineteen years old.
The men ripped around awhile, and then rode away. As soon as they was
out of sight I sung out to Buck and told him. He didn’t know what to
make of my voice coming out of the tree at first. He was awful
surprised. He told me to watch out sharp and let him know when the men
come in sight again; said they was up to some devilment or
other—wouldn’t be gone long. I wished I was out of that tree, but I
dasn’t come down. Buck begun to cry and rip, and ’lowed that him and
his cousin Joe (that was the other young chap) would make up for this
day yet. He said his father and his two brothers was killed, and two or
three of the enemy. Said the Shepherdsons laid for them in ambush. Buck
said his father and brothers ought to waited for their relations—the
Shepherdsons was too strong for them. I asked him what was become of
young Harney and Miss Sophia. He said they’d got across the river and
was safe. I was glad of that; but the way Buck did take on because he
didn’t manage to kill Harney that day he shot at him—I hain’t ever
heard anything like it.
All of a sudden, bang! bang! bang! goes three or four guns—the men had
slipped around through the woods and come in from behind without their
horses! The boys jumped for the river—both of them hurt—and as they
swum down the current the men run along the bank shooting at them and
singing out, “Kill them, kill them!” It made me so sick I most fell out
of the tree. I ain’t a-going to tell _all_ that happened—it would make
me sick again if I was to do that. I wished I hadn’t ever come ashore
that night to see such things. I ain’t ever going to get shut of
them—lots of times I dream about them.
I stayed in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid to come down.
Sometimes I heard guns away off in the woods; and twice I seen little
gangs of men gallop past the log store with guns; so I reckoned the
trouble was still a-going on. I was mighty downhearted; so I made up my
mind I wouldn’t ever go anear that house again, because I reckoned I
was to blame, somehow. I judged that that piece of paper meant that
Miss Sophia was to meet Harney somewheres at half-past two and run off;
and I judged I ought to told her father about that paper and the
curious way she acted, and then maybe he would a locked her up, and
this awful mess wouldn’t ever happened.
When I got down out of the tree, I crept along down the river bank a
piece, and found the two bodies laying in the edge of the water, and
tugged at them till I got them ashore; then I covered up their faces,
and got away as quick as I could. I cried a little when I was covering
up Buck’s face, for he was mighty good to me.
It was just dark now. I never went near the house, but struck through
the woods and made for the swamp. Jim warn’t on his island, so I
tramped off in a hurry for the crick, and crowded through the willows,
red-hot to jump aboard and get out of that awful country. The raft was
gone! My souls, but I was scared! I couldn’t get my breath for most a
minute. Then I raised a yell. A voice not twenty-five foot from me
says:
“Good lan’! is dat you, honey? Doan’ make no noise.”
It was Jim’s voice—nothing ever sounded so good before. I run along the
bank a piece and got aboard, and Jim he grabbed me and hugged me, he
was so glad to see me. He says:
“Laws bless you, chile, I ’uz right down sho’ you’s dead agin. Jack’s
been heah; he say he reck’n you’s ben shot, kase you didn’ come home no
mo’; so I’s jes’ dis minute a startin’ de raf’ down towards de mouf er
de crick, so’s to be all ready for to shove out en leave soon as Jack
comes agin en tells me for certain you _is_ dead. Lawsy, I’s mighty
glad to git you back agin, honey.”
I says:
“All right—that’s mighty good; they won’t find me, and they’ll think
I’ve been killed, and floated down the river—there’s something up there
that’ll help them think so—so don’t you lose no time, Jim, but just
shove off for the big water as fast as ever you can.”
I never felt easy till the raft was two mile below there and out in the
middle of the Mississippi. Then we hung up our signal lantern, and
judged that we was free and safe once more. I hadn’t had a bite to eat
since yesterday, so Jim he got out some corn-dodgers and buttermilk,
and pork and cabbage and greens—there ain’t nothing in the world so
good when it’s cooked right—and whilst I eat my supper we talked, and
had a good time. I was powerful glad to get away from the feuds, and so
was Jim to get away from the swamp. We said there warn’t no home like a
raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a
raft don’t. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft.
CHAPTER XIX.
Two or three days and nights went by; I reckon I might say they swum
by, they slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely. Here is the way we
put in the time. It was a monstrous big river down there—sometimes a
mile and a half wide; we run nights, and laid up and hid daytimes; soon