Uncollected Stories of William Faulkner by William Faulkner Page B

we—” Granny said, with her hand to her chest, looking at him; I reckon it was Ringo that knew first what he meant.
    “We like fifty,” Ringo said.
    “Fifty, hey?” the officer said. He cursed again; he turned to one of the men behind him and cursed him now. “Count ’em!” he hollered. “Do you think I’m going to take their word for it?”
    The man counted the mules; we didn’t move; I don’t think we even breathed hardly. “Sixty-three,” the man said.
    The officer looked at us. “Sixty-three from a hundred and ten leaves forty-seven,” he said. He cursed. “Get forty-seven mules!” he hollered. “Hurry!” He looked at us again. “Think you can beat me out of three mules, hey?” he hollered.
    “Forty-seven will do,” Ringo said. “Only I reckon maybe we better eat something, like the paper mention.”
    We crossed the ford. We didn’t stop; we went on as soon as they brought up the other mules, and some more of the women got on them. We went on. It was after sundown then, but we didn’t stop.
    “Hah!” Ringo said. “Whose hand was that?”
    We went on until midnight before we stopped. This time it was Ringo that Granny was looking at. “Ringo,” she said.
    “I never said nothing the paper never said,” Ringo said. “Hit was the one that said it; hit wasn’t me. All I done was to told him how much the hundred and ten liked; I never said we liked that many. ’Cides, hit ain’t no use in praying about hit now; ain’t no telling what we gonter run into ’fore we gits home. The main thing now is, whut we gonter do with all these niggers.”
    “Yes,” Granny said. We cooked and ate the food the cavalry officer gave us; then Granny told all the niggers that lived in Alabama to come forward. It was about half of them. “I suppose you all want to cross some more rivers and run after the Yankee Army, don’t you?” Granny said. They stood there, moving their feet in the dust. “What? Don’t any of you want to?” They just stood there. “Then who are you going to mind from now on?”
    After a while, one of them said, “You, missy.”
    “All right,” Granny said. “Now listen to me. Go home. And if I ever hear of any of you straggling off like this again, I’ll see to it. Now line up and come up here one at a time while we divide the food.”
    It took a long time until the last one was gone; when we started again, we had almost enough mules for everybody to ride, but not quite, and Ringo drove now. He didn’t ask; he just got in and took the reins, with Granny on the seat by him; it was just once that shetold him not to go so fast. So I rode in the back then, on one of the chests, and that afternoon I was asleep; it was the wagon stopping that woke me. We had just come down a hill onto a flat, and then I saw them beyond a field, about a dozen of them, cavalry in blue coats. They hadn’t seen us yet, trotting along, and then I saw Granny and Ringo watching them.
    “They ain’t hardly worth fooling with,” Ringo said. “Still, they’s horses.”
    “We’ve already got a hundred and ten,” Granny said. “That’s all the paper calls for.”
    “All right,” Ringo said. “You wanter go on?” Granny didn’t answer, sitting there drawn back a little, with her hand at her breast again. “Well, what you wanter do?” Ringo said. “You got to ’cide quick, or they be gone.” He looked at her; she didn’t move. Ringo leaned out of the wagon. “Hey!” he hollered. They looked back quick and saw us and whirled about. “Granny say come here!” Ringo hollered.
    “You, Ringo,” Granny whispered.
    “All right,” Ringo said. “You want me to tell um to never mind?” She didn’t answer; she was looking past Ringo at the two Yankees who were riding toward us across the field, with that kind of drawn-back look on her face and her hand holding the front of her dress. It was a lieutenant and a sergeant; the lieutenant didn’t look much older than Ringo and me. He saw Granny