He passed a negro cabin
whence often had proceeded at night the penetrating cry of a fiddle, and
it was night now but no fiddle sent forth its whine. A dog shoved open
the door, and by the fire light within the old man saw a negro sitting
with a gun across his lap, and beside him stood two boys, looking with
rapture upon their father's weapon. Throughout the neighborhood had
spread a report that the negroes were meeting at night to drill, and
this glance through a door gave life to what had been a shadow.
He rode on, and his horse's hoof struck into another patch of leaves,
but no tune arose from the rustle. The old man was thinking. In a field
of furrowed clouds the moon was struggling, and down the sandy road fell
light and darkness in alternating patches. Far away he saw a figure
stepping from light into darkness and back again into light. Into the
deep shadow of a vine-entangled tree he turned his horse, and here he
waited until he heard footsteps crunching in the sand, until he saw a
man in the light that lay for a moment in the road, and then he cried:
"Hello, there, Jim Taylor!"
"Is that you, Uncle Gideon?"
"Yes, Gideon's band of one. Come over here a moment."
"I will as soon as I can find you. What are you doing hiding out in the
dark? The grand jury ain't in session."
"No, I gad, but something else is," he replied.
Jim came forward and put his hand on the horn of the old man's saddle,
which as an expert he did in spite of the shying of the horse; and then
he asked: "Well, what is it, Uncle Gideon?"
"You've heard the rumor that the negroes are drilling at night.
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