It some other time. . . . Miss Suellen is at Tara and she's

married to a mighty fine man, Mr. Will Benteen. And Miss Carreen,

she's in a--" Scarlett paused. She could never make plain to the

weeping giant what a convent was. "She's living in Charleston now.

But Pork and Prissy are at Tara. . . . There, Sam, wipe your nose.

Do you really want to go home?"

"Yas'm but it ain' gwine be lak Ah thought wid Miss Ellen an'--"

"Sam, how'd you like to stay here in Atlanta and work for me? I

need a driver and I need one bad with so many mean folks around

these days."

"Yas'm. You sho do. Ah been aimin' ter say you ain' got no bizness

drivin' 'round by yo'seff, Miss Scarlett. You ain' got no notion

how mean some niggers is dese days, specially dem whut live hyah in

Shantytown. It ain' safe fer you. Ah ain' been in Shantytown but

two days, but Ah hear dem talk 'bout you. An' yesterday w'en you

druv by an' dem trashy black wenches holler at you, Ah recernize

you but you went by so fas' Ah couldn' ketch you. But Ah sho tan

de hides of dem niggers! Ah sho did. Ain' you notice dar ain'

none of dem roun' hyah terday?"

"I did notice and I certainly thank you, Sam. Well, how would you

like to be my carriage man?"

"Miss Scarlett, thankee, Ma'm, but Ah specs Ah better go ter Tara."

Big Sam looked down and his bare toe traced aimless marks in the

road. There was a furtive uneasiness about him.

"Now, why? I'll pay you good wages. You must stay with me."

The big black face, stupid and as easily read as a child's, looked

up at her and there was fear in it. He came closer and, leaning

over the side of the buggy, whispered:

"Miss Scarlett, Ah got ter git outer 'Lanta. Ah got ter git ter

Tara whar dey woan fine me. Ah--Ah done kilt a man."

"A darky?"

"No'm. A w'ite man. A Yankee sojer and dey's lookin' fer me. Dat

de reason Ah'm hyah at Shantytown."

"How did it happen?"

"He wuz drunk an' he said sumpin' Ah couldn' tek noways an' Ah got

mah han's on his neck--an' Ah din' mean ter kill him, Miss

Scarlett, but mah han's is pow'ful strong, an' fo' Ah knowed it, he

wuz kilt. An' Ah wuz so sceered Ah din' know whut ter do! So Ah

come out hyah ter hide an' w'en Ah seed you go by yestiddy, Ah says

'Bress Gawd! Dar Miss Scarlett! She tek keer of me. She ain'

gwine let de Yankees git me. She sen' me back ter Tara."

"You say they're after you? They know you did it?"

"Yas'm, Ah's so big dar ain' no mistakin' me. Ah spec Ah's de

bigges' nigger in 'Lanta. Dey done been out hyah already affer me

las' night but a nigger gal, she hid me in a cabe ober in de woods,

tell dey wuz gone."

Scarlett sat frowning for a moment. She was not in the least

alarmed or distressed that Sam had committed murder, but she was

disappointed that she could not have him as a driver. A big negro

like Sam would be as good a bodyguard as Archie. Well, she must

get him safe to Tara somehow, for of course the authorities must

not get him. He was too valuable a darky to be hanged. Why, he

was the best foreman Tara had ever had! It did not enter

Scarlett's mind that he was free. He still belonged to her, like

Pork and Mammy and Peter and Cookie and Prissy. He was still "one

of our family" and, as such, must be protected.

"I'll send you to Tara tonight," she said finally. "Now Sam, I've

got to drive out the road a piece, but I ought to be back here

before sundown. You be waiting here for me when I come back.

Don't tell anyone where you are going and if you've got a hat,

bring it along to hide your face."

"Ah ain' got no hat."

"Well, here's a quarter. You buy a hat from one of those shanty

darkies and meet me here."

"Yas'm." His face glowed with relief at once more having someone

to tell him what to do.

Scarlett drove on thoughtfully. Will would certainly welcome a

good field hand at Tara. Pork had never been any good in the

fields and never would be any good. With Sam on the place, Pork

could come to Atlanta and join Dilcey as she had promised him when

Gerald died.

When she reached the mill the sun was setting and it was later than

she cared to be out. Johnnie Gallegher was standing in the doorway

of the miserable shack that served as cook room for the little

lumber camp. Sitting on a log in front of the slab-sided shack

that was their sleeping quarters were four of the five convicts

Scarlett had apportioned to Johnnie's mill. Their convict uniforms

were dirty and foul with sweat, shackles clanked between their

ankles when they moved tiredly, and there was an air of apathy and

despair about them. They were a thin, unwholesome lot, Scarlett

thought, peering sharply at them, and when she had leased them, so

short a time before, they were an upstanding crew. They did not

even raise their eyes as she dismounted from the buggy but Johnnie

turned toward her, carelessly dragging off his hat. His little

brown face was as hard as a nut as he greeted her.

"I don't like the look of the men," she said abruptly. "They don't

look well. Where's the other one?"

"Says he's sick," said Johnnie laconically. "He's in the bunk

house."

"What ails him?"

"Laziness, mostly."

"I'll go see him."

"Don't do that. He's probably nekkid. I'll tend to him. He'll be

back at work tomorrow."

Scarlett hesitated and saw one of the convicts raise a weary head

and give Johnnie a stare of intense hatred before he looked at the

ground again.

"Have you been whipping these men?"

"Now, Mrs. Kennedy, begging your pardon, who's running this mill?

You put me in charge and told me to run it. You said I'd have a

free hand. You ain't got no complaints to make of me, have you?

Ain't I making twice as much for you as Mr. Elsing did?"

"Yes, you are," said Scarlett, but a shiver went over her, like a

goose walking across her grave.

There was something sinister about this camp with its ugly shacks,

something which had not been here when Hugh Elsing had it. There

was a loneliness, an isolation, about it that chilled her. These

convicts were so far away from everything, so completely at the

mercy of Johnnie Gallegher, and if he chose to whip them or

otherwise mistreat them, she would probably never know about it.

The convicts would be afraid to complain to her for fear of worse

punishment after she was gone.

"The men look thin. Are you giving them enough to eat? God knows,