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lurks in his eyes. He is the robber and the murderer who needs
little provocation to kill his man.

JOHN SANDERS is a native of Nova Scotia. He has lived with the Croatans for two years as a missionary, healer and teacher. In this time he has won their confidence and their affection. He is a tall man, of winning manners, clear-blue, fearless eyes and alert mind—strikingly attractive in his blue homespun shirt, corduory breeches, and calf-skin boots. He is busy packing up his outfit. He appears somewhat nervous and excited, but tries to conceal his anxiety under the show of preparations for the exodus. The room is lighted by the light-wood blaze from the fireplace and a single candle on the table.

HENRY BERRY. Mon, when first ye come to our swamp-land
and begun a-talkin' about movin' to that Texas place, I
thought ye a fool.

SANDERS. I reckon you did, Henry, for it did sound foolish
at first.

HENRY BERRY. But I sees it now, mon. We can escape by
traveling at night an' takin' it easy during the heat of the
day. Course I hates to go like this—looks like the Lowries
is a-runnin'. That's what them domn whites'll say.

SANDERS. Let them say what they want to, Henry.

HENRY BERRY (bitterly). Yes, let 'em. Mon, ye know that it
hurts me to go like this. But we are fightin' the whole
State now. Outlawed—price on me, ten thousand dollars
dead or alive. And a big price set on Steve over thar—on
every last one of us. An' I see with ye that this is the way
out.

SANDERS (nervously, tying up a bundle). Yes, Henry, I believe
this will come out all right. And you ain't showing the
white feather by leaving like this. Besides, think of where
we are going. (With a show of enthusiasm.) To a land where
we can live as we see fit. A land that is not ruled by court-
martial trials.

HENRY BERRY. Court-martial trials! Yeh ho, mon, it were

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219

at a court-martial trial that they murdered my pa for
takin' a barrel o' molasses—killed him for takin' a barrel
o' sweetenin'. Mon, that sweet killin' ha'e been as bitter
as gall-berries to them what done it. Spite of that, we
ain't gettin' nowheres. I'm ready to leave it all behind. I
feels kind o' happy on my last night in Scuffletown.

STEVE (breaking in). Me, too, mon. Hurrah for Texas! Domn
Robeson County! (STEVE has been striking meaningless
chords on his banjo. His instrument seems to be out of tune.
He strokes it carelessly, not paying much attention to the
conversation.) Kind o' hate to slip off in the night like a
domn sheriffs' force though.

HENRY BERRY (going up to him). Steve, quit yo' thumpin'
that thing. Mon, I believe ye're drunk again. An' this
night o' all nights for ye to be a-drinkin'. We need live men
for the start, Steve; and you know it. (He turns to SANDERS.)
Mon, see if ye can fix for him some o' that thar
drink ye sober him up with.

SANDERS. Good. There's a little left, I think. (He mixes a
drink. The bottles on the fireplace are easily reached, because
they are often used.) Here you go, Steve, drink it down; it
will make you feel better. (STEVE drains the gourd dipper
without changing his expression.)

STEVE (dully). Mon, I'm all right.

HENRY BERRY. That's good. (To SANDERS.) Mon, brother
Steve owes ye a lot on account o' what ye done for him
during his drinkin' spells.

STEVE. Henry, I'm all right, I tell ye. Dunno be all lickered.
I was thinkin' how much I'd give for one more shot at
that domn Donahoe. Just one more, afore we leave.

HENRY BERRY. It's too late now, Steve. But, mon, let me
tell ye, just one more shot at Donahoe, and he'd bleed.

STEVE (now more mentally and physically alert). Luck ha'e
been agin me with that mon. Everything bein' ready to
leave when the moon sets, think I'll strike ye up a tune or

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two afore we go. (The meanest and most bloodthirsty of the
Lowries is lost for the time being in the plaintive melody of
an old ballad.)

(HENRY BERRY and SANDERS go on cleaning their guns
while STEVE is singing. At the conclusion of the song STEVE
goes to the window, throws open the shutter, and peers out
into the swamp.)

HENRY BERRY (rebuking him and closing the shutter). Steve,
ye domn fool, shut that thar window. Old Donahoe's
rifle will bark out thar in the night and ye won't be a-goin'
to Texas.

STEVE (going back to the fireplace). An' what'll they be a-
sayin' when we do go off to Texas?

HENRY BERRY. Dunno be no help for what they'll say,
Steve. Dunno do no good to think about what they'll
have to say.

STEVE. Domn 'em! They'll say we run—like women.

SANDERS (cheerfully). Oh, it won't matter what they say
after we get there. And it won't be long before nine o'clock

THE SCUFFLETOWN OUTLAWS

221

will be on us. (To HENRY BERRY.) And you are sure that
everything is ready?

HENRY BERRY. Yes, everything is ready, Sanders.

SANDERS. Have all the wagons been greased?

HENRY BERRY. Yes, every one o' them is fixed right. There's
a-plenty o' feed for the mules—everything is ready.

SANDERS. What about my share of the grease for my wagon?

HENRY BERRY. Time Rhody and Luke's here with it now.

SANDERS (nervously). Who you got out watching the roads
to-night, Henry?

HENRY BERRY. That's all fixed, mon. Don't ye worry about
that.

STEVE. We got 'em watched all right. Thar's William Chavis
down by the crick bridge, an' George Applewhite is
a-watchin' the big road to come this way. Brother Tom's
over to Red Banks station to see if some of them domn
deputies from Lumberton gits off the train. (Footsteps are
heard outside. STEVE and HENRY BERRY seize their guns,
spring to their feet, and stand ready to fire. A signal of three
short whistles is heard.)

HENRY BERRY. Hit's Rhody and Luke. (HENRY BERRY
answers the signal and STEVE opens the door.)

STEVE. Come in. (RHODY and LUKE enter. RHODY LOWRIE
is the wife of the robber chief, HENRY BERRY LOWRIE. Her
figure and countenance mark her as somewhat older than
her years. She is dressed poorly, but wears a bright-colored
shawl about her shoulders. There is something in her voice
which reveals the constant anxiety of her existence and a stoic
attitude toward life.)

RHODY. Everything with us is ready for the start far as I
know. (Turning coldly to SANDERS.) Here's your grease,
mon. (Going to the fireplace she sits there silently, betraying
no emotion. STEVE closes the door after RHODY and LUKE,
and bars it.)

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SANDERS. Well, I'd better grease my wagon right now. Can
any of you help me?

HENRY BERRY. Come on, Steve, we can holp him.

SANDERS (to LUKE). Here, lad. Sit down by the fire with Rhody and rest a bit. (As they leave HENRY BERRY warns them.)

HENRY BERRY. An' keep that window shut.

RHODY (darkly). Hit may be a good thing, but I fear it. Who knows what may happen on the road to Texas, and that mon Sanders a-leadin' o' us. Boy, don't ye never trust a white mon—never, I tell ye.

LUKE. (LUKE LOCKLEAR is a fearless young outlaw-in-the-making. A handsome tall lad of eighteen, of keen and bright eye and graceful bearing. He is in love with JUNE LOWRIE, HENRY BERRY'S niece.) I ha'e watched him. I ha'e trailed him like a hound-dog, and I aims to keep on his trail. He ain't a-lyin', Aunt Rho'; he means to take us some place far away. Uncle Henry and the rest ain't blind.

RHODY. I dunno be sure, Luke. I dunno know.

LUKE. Hit dunno be the plan, Aunt Rho'. . . . I—I could kill the mon like a moccasin for a-comin' betwixt June and me. But I can't do hit. I can't do hit, 'cause Uncle Henry and Steve and all of 'em don't put no faith in what I think.

RHODY. Boy, I ha'e argued for ye. But June won't listen to me lak she used to. She aims to marry him when we gits to Texas (doubtfully)—if we ever git thar. God help 'em. A Lowrie a-marryin' a white mon! (A low whistle is heard outside. LUKE answers the signal.)

LUKE. Hit's June, Aunt Rho'. (LUKE goes to the door, unbars it, and lets her in.)

JUNE. (JUNE LOWRIE is a Croatan girl. She is well formed and fair to look upon, just turned twenty. Her eyes are dark, her skin is smooth and firm. In the sordid background of a Scuffletown cabin she appears fresh, clear and lovely. She

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4

5

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223

wears a scarlet swamp flower in her hair. There is a wistful quality in her voice which is gentle and low—in marked contrast with the abrupt staccato speech of the men and of her AUNT RHODY.) We ha'e everything ready to leave over our way and I thought I'd run over and see if I could help John pack some of his things. (Looking around the room.) But he's pretty nigh got his house cleaned out.

LUKE. Yes, and he don't need your holp. No white mon does.

JUNE (fiercely, her eyes shining). He needs my holp and I'm goin' to he'p him, too.

LUKE. Well, he'p him then if ye want to, and domn ye for it. But it's agin your blood—and him a white mon! (He goes out, slamming the door. JUNE bars it.)

RHODY. June, thar goes the best boy in Scuffletown—and him a Locklear, too. Luke would be good to ye, lass, and ye dunno do right by throwin' him off.

JUNE. But, Aunt Rho', I love John. He will be good to me, too. But that good part don't make so powerful much difference. I love the mon—here. (Placing her hand over her heart.)

RHODY. Lass, ye dunno know white people lak I do.

JUNE. But, Aunt Rho', John is the same as one o' us.

RHODY (bitterly). If ye had been with us in that cold and damp jail in Lumberton ye would not be for a-lovin' any white mon. They thought they'd take Steve's wife, and Boss Strong's wife, and me—Henry Berry Lowrie's wife— an' all the wives from Scuffletown, and make our men stop takin' what they wanted and a-killin' them what was a-huntin' of 'em. Hit did no' work. I would ha'e kilt myself if Henry Berry had give up on account of my bein' in jail.—Bless God, no Lowrie has ever touched a white woman!—An' ye go agin your blood, lass, when ye talk o' marryin' this white mon. I dunno trust none of 'em, in spite of what the rest thinks. I dunno forget them nights in that jail, with them cold iron bars a-shadowin' on the

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wall. An' who knows but what he's a-settin' to ketch us—
him a-comin' away down here from that Nova Scotia
place.

JUNE (soothing her). But, Aunt Rho', ye dunno forget, too, how gentle and kind John has been to all o' us these two years he's been here. He's doctored us for fever, tended the men when they were shot up, and held preachin' for us every Sunday—and all kinds o' things for us he's done. 'Twas a lucky day, I tell ye, for Scuffletown when John Sanders was found out'n his head with swamp-fever, and I brung him back to health. (She takes up SANDERS' coat from the chair and fondles it.) An' I love him, Aunt Rho'. I love him, I tells ye!

RHODY (despairing). I understand what ye say, lass; but the day will come when my words'll sound like buryin' hymns to ye! I dunno be able to trust the mon like ye do. (She rises.) I must go home now, so as to be good an' ready for that nine-o'clock leavin' time. There don't seem no sense in a-arguin' with ye.

JUNE (calling after her). I'll be along in a little while, Aunt Rho'. (Alone in the cabin, JUNE LOWRIE remains seated by the fireplace. She is gazing intently at the smouldering coals when JOHN SANDERS enters. She goes to meet him.)

SANDERS. Hello, June. I thought you had gone.

JUNE. No, John, that was Aunt Rho'. I just thought I'd stay a little bit longer. You don't care if I do, do ye?

SANDERS. You should be at home resting. Didn't I tell you to get all the rest you could? The road to Texas is hard and treacherous and you should rest now as much as possible.

JUNE. I know that's what ye said, and I love ye John for a-sayin' it; but I couldn't keep from comin' over just for a minute.

SANDERS. Well, young lady, if you love me so much you had

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225

better obey me. (He goes on with his preparations for the leaving.) I know what's best for you.

JUNE (coquettishly). You dunno be able to make me go right now. Let me stay just a little while, John. I'll no' be in the way.

SANDERS. Oh, all right. Make yourself at home. (SANDERS goes on with his packing. JUNE watches him closely—happy to be near him.)

JUNE. John, where's Uncle Henry and Steve? Ain't they a-comin', too?

SANDERS. They've gone on down to their wagons to see that everything's ready for the start. (There is a moment of silence.)

JUNE. John, we be all by ourselves. . . . Won't you do something for me?

SANDERS. June, you know I would do anything for you.

JUNE. John, tell me more about that wonderful country we be a-goin' to—that country where everything is peaceful and happy, where there will be no more killin' and a-robbin' of folks. Where Uncle Henry and the rest can go to town without fear o' bein' arrested. Where the babes and the chillun can play and laugh knowin' that their pas will come home to the cabin of a night. Oh, John—John! It's good to dream about that country. It makes me believe on that hymn ye taught us to sing on Sundays. “Thar is a happy land, fur, fur away!” Mon, I tell ye one of them miracles is about to happen. Seems jus' lak one o' them you used to preach of.

SANDERS. Yes, June, it is a good country, and a free land. Texas is as big as half a dozen of our states out here. There will be plenty of land for everybody. We can begin at the bottom and build the Croatan nation over again. This trouble will be forgotten in a few years. The sun will shine on us to-morrow—I know it will, June.

6

226

THE SCUFFLETOWN OUTLAWS

JUNE. An', John, ye'll marry me when we get there; an' we
can grow old together in that young country.

SANDERS. Yes, June, we'll marry when we get there.

JUNE. John, if ye knew how happy it makes me to hear ye
say that, ye wouldn't ever stop sayin' it.

SANDERS. But you must run along home now, June, and try
to rest. This escape is mighty serious business, and I must
finish the packing right now.

JUNE. I dunno want to go—but I will since ye say to.
(Lightly.) I'll see ye at Uncle Henry's, John.

SANDERS (following her to the door, SANDERS impetuously
draws her to him). June, I love you, girl. Tell me, would
you always love me ... even if something terrible
should happen?

JUNE (quietly). Mon, I will love ye forever and ever—it
matters not what happens.

SANDERS (he kisses her). Go on, child; go on. ... (JUNE
leaves and JOHN is alone. Now he appears tired and worried
—unsettled in his mind. A sudden tapping at the side door
interrupts his thinking. He listens. Again the tapping. He
walks stealthily to the door and gives a signal. It is answered
and he opens the door, admitting DONAHOE. JAMES MC-
QUEEN, alias DONAHOE, is a tall, eccentric figure—a gaunt
"gawky Scotchman," swift and sure in every movement he
makes. Each looks inquiringly at the other. SANDERS bolts
both doors. Then DONAHOE strides to the center of the room
and speaks.)

DONAHOE (in a repressed voice). Everything all right, John?

SANDERS. Yes, I think so—not much danger. They all left a
few minutes ago. They won't be back soon. Make yourself
comfortable. (SANDERS pours out a glass of whiskey, which
DONAHOE accepts gratefully.)

DONAHOE. Thank'ee, lad; that tastes good! This business of
crawling through Scuffletown swamp like a snake calls
for some kind of a nerve settler.

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227

SANDERS. I don't see how you do it, Donahoe. You must be
a ghost. God knows they hate you since you killed Boss
Strong. You run in Steve Lowrie's mind all the time.

DONAHOE. An' he runs in mine, the dirty skunk! I'd love to
shoot him.—I don't want to see him hung like he will be
when we catch 'im. (A pause.) Is everything all right,
John?

SANDERS. Yes, I reckon so. ...

DONAHOE. We got our end fixed all right.

SANDERS (evasively). Have you?

DONAHOE. Oh, yes. You can count on us. Tell you what we
done. We got Wishart's Company, all the sheriff's force
from Lumberton, and all the good shots from up Phila-
delphus way and tried them bridges the other day just to
make sure. An' it'll work! You see, some of our men will
be under the bridge on scaffolds fixed for it; the rest will
be on the dam at both ends; you all drive on the bridge,
and we'll close in and catch every damn one of 'em!

SANDERS (vaguely). Sounds all right, Donahoe.

DONAHOE. Yes, by God, and it is all right. (In his enthusiasm
his voice rises and SANDERS cautions him to speak more
quietly.) We got 'em now (grimly)—the rusty swamp-
devils. They'll never git away alive if our boys surround
'em. Tell you what you can do, Sanders. Try to call
Henry Berry and Steve and the other leaders up to the
head wagon for a conference about the time you git to
the bridge. They'll be easy to catch up there.

SANDERS (evasively). All right. ...

DONAHOE. I bring ye good news, lad. The Governor has
raised them rewards. You stand to clean up nigh on to
$52,000.00 on this deal. God knows you deserve every
penny of it for what you've been doing here. And I want
to shake hands with the bravest man in North Carolina—
no—in the United States! (He offers SANDERS his hand,

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THE SCUFFLETOWN OUTLAWS

but SANDERS *does not accept it*.*) Oh, come on, John. I mean it, and there ain't no use beatin' 'round the bush.

SANDERS (*slowly, with determination*). Donahoe, I can't
shake hands with you on this deal.

DONAHOE. Why, what's the matter, John? Seems to me you
ought to be the happiest man in Robeson County.

SANDERS (*walking away from him*). But I'm not happy. I'm
miserable. Donahoe, you call me a brave man. I tell you
I'd rather be called the biggest coward in the world and
have this thing off my hands. (*Resolved*.) I don't believe I
can see it through.

DONAHOE (*amazed*). What do you mean about not seein' it
through?

SANDERS. Man, you won't be able to understand it when I
tell you. For two long years I have lived here with these
people. I know the atrocities they have committed. I
know things they have done that you will never know.
You should go to their cabins as I have done, when their
men are away hiding in the Swamp, and see their wives
and little ones—wild-eyed, nervous, unable to sleep—
listening, eternally listening, for the sound of a gun some-
where far off in the swamps. They can't understand it.
The white people tramped on them and they had to strike
back in their own way. I've lived with 'em, doctored 'em,
taught them—and they have come to put a damning
trust in me, in everything.

DONAHOE. John, have you gone crazy? What does this
mean?

SANDERS (*firmly*). Donahoe, I mean, that with God as my
judge, I swear to you I can't see this thing through. (*He
takes from the Bible on the table a faded photograph and
observes it intently.*) How could I ever face my wife and
children—and me a traitor. . . . Donahoe, man is a queer
mixture.—God knows how I can face them anyhow.—
What's $50,000.00 for selling the lives of men who trust
me as they have never trusted a white man before.

THE SCUFFLETOWN OUTLAWS

229

DONAHOE (*facing him*). Sanders, I warn ye not to put any
confidence in their trust.

SANDERS. You don't know, Donahoe. Even their suspicious
women trust me. There is one girl, June Lowrie—that
girl loves me. I began by playing with her so as to make
everything run smooth for me in Scuffletown. One little
slip and I would have been a dead man. . . . Donahoe,
what would you think of me if I told you that I love that
girl?

DONAHOE. Good God, man! You are crazy!

SANDERS (*pacing up and down restlessly*). Maybe I am, but I
can't help it. I hate to think about it. My two years here
make me appreciate affection even from what you call
"a damn Croatan."

DONAHOE. Man, don't talk to me about Croatan affection.
How much would your trust be worth to Steve Lowrie?
I know, and you know, that they would kill you like a dog
if they knew what you were doing.

SANDERS. I don't believe they would, Donahoe. They have
a keener sense of justice than you give them credit for.
I can better stand the wrath and ridicule of North Caro-
lina than to be forever tormented by a guilty conscience.
(*Decisively*.) I can't see this thing through.

DONAHOE (*advancing to him*). John, I've listened to all this
talk. You must be out of your head. I know it has been a
great strain on ye, but try to buck up, mon.

SANDERS (*resolved*). Donahoe, I stand by what I told you, so
help me, God!

DONAHOE (*challenging him*). John, have you forgotten the
eleven good and honest citizens that these hellions have
murdered? Those men they waited on in ambush and
blowed their heads off with buckshot? Tell me, have you?

SANDERS. No. . . .

DONAHOE. Have you forgotten so soon Owen Norment, who
was shot down in his front yard, with his wife and chil-

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THE SCUFFLETOWN OUTLAWS

dren looking on and pleading for mercy? Old Sheriff King;
they murdered him by his own fireside. Old man Barnes,
shot down on his own mill dam. You know all this, Sanders.
It's true, isn't it?

SANDERS (*evading him*). Yes, but . . .

DONAHOE. Look at the terrified district—white men can’t
move from their firesides for fear of bein’ shot down.
White women and children pray that God Almighty’ll
take care of them through the night—and you talk like
this.

SANDERS. Well. . .

DONAHOE (*rebuking him*). And the whole country is laugh-
ing at us—saying that the people of Robeson County are
cowards. You can’t pick up a newspaper but has some-
thing to say about the cold-footed North Carolina people
who let a handful of Indians run wild, murdering and
robbing. Well, you know it takes more than talking and
even fighting to clean out this gang.—That’s the reason
we got you, John Sanders.—Tod Caldwell has power as
Governor to clean out the gang for us; but he ain’t help-
ing any. The Freedmen’s Bureau is helping *them*; the
Republican troops what was here has helped ’em. You
admit this, don’t you?

SANDERS (*weakening*). Well, yes. . . .

DONAHOE. Sanders, you’ve done more by yourself toward
ridding the earth of this running sore than all the rest of
us put together. Think, man, of the suffering you will rid
this country of when your plans go through.—I’m Presby-
terian, I am, an’ it seems to me that the good Master sent
you here to do your work. You’ve done it well, lad. You
deserve—

SANDERS. Don’t tell me that again.

DONAHOE. I know how you feel, boy. Brace up. . . . We’ll
be waitin’ for ye.

SANDERS (*resigned*). I’ll do what I can.

THE SCUFFLETOWN OUTLAWS

231

DONAHOE (*his hand on SANDERS’ shoulder*). Man, I knowed
all the time you was troubled by the strain. You are doing
the right thing, and a great thing, for mankind.—We’ll
be on the bridge. I’ll tell the boys that our troubles will
soon be over. Guess you’ll be along about three o’clock?

SANDERS. If nothing happens. . . .

DONAHOE. Well, good luck, boy; and God guide ye. (*He gives SANDERS a warm hand-shake, and slips out by the side door of the shack. SANDERS sits down by the table, deeply troubled. LUKE LOCKLEAR, who has been spying outside, now opens the shutter softly, and peers in. He watches SANDERS take up the photograph, study it intently, and place it in his bosom; then take a sheet of paper from the table, write something hurriedly on it, and leave it by the Bible. Then, with a last look about the walls of the cabin LUKE sees him sling a bundle over his shoulder and go out hurriedly by the side door.*

LUKE LOCKLEAR now slips in at the rear door as stealthily
as a cat. He goes swiftly to the table, takes up the written
paper—but he cannot make it out. He looks puzzled, places
the paper in his shirt and hurries out.

SCENE 2

The setting is the same. It is early morning of the second day
following. HENRY BERRY LOWRIE is pacing the floor with
evident excitement.

RHODY (*grimly*). I told ye, Henry—many a time I told ye
not to trust that white trash. 'Tis a wonder ye ain't cold-
dead right now.

HENRY BERRY (*bitterly*). 'Tis the truth, woman, if ye ever
spoke it.

RHODY. He fooled ye onct, Henry.

HENRY BERRY. Yes, but domn my hand to the bone (*holding up his hand in front of him*) if ye ever hear o' this mon a-foolin' me twice. A dead mon fools no mon.

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THE SCUFFLETOWN OUTLAWS

11

RHODY. Ye remember of him a-preachin' to us out'n that book—and him all the time no better'n a stray dog.

HENRY BERRY. Luke and Steve'll get him. They'll get him, I tell ye. They'll run him until he's so tired it'll hurt him to close his domn eyes.—Mon, I kin see ye a-bleedin' on every bush betwixt here an' your stoppin' place— a-bleedin' and a-sweatin' drops o' blood.

RHODY (sullenly). I dunno trust no white mon.

HENRY BERRY. I 'tol' Steve to bring him here for me to make up my mind about what to do with him afore I turns him over to the rest of 'em for trial. They ought to be here with 'im by this. (Outside footsteps, guttural commands, and the clanking of guns are heard.) They're here, Rhody. (He goes to the door.) Woman, ye'll stand over thar (pointing to the fireplace) an' dunno move your tongue. (STEVE and LUKE enter with SANDERS. He is bound and bleeding, and nearly exhausted. He reels and sinks to the floor. STEVE and LUKE kick at him viciously, and jerk him to his feet.)

STEVE. Stand up, ye son-of-a—

HENRY BERRY (sternly). Mon, if ye ha'e strength in ye to breathe, ye ha'e strength enough to stand up and hear what I ha'e to tell ye. Stand up!—for Henry Berry Lowrie— afore I nails ye to that wall with hickory pegs. (SANDERS braces himself with a frantic effort, and stands erect.) Mon, I got ye! I got ye afore ye could git away with your lyin', dirty scheme. An' till now I ha'e not decided what to do with ye; but I ha'e some notion what it'll be.

STEVE (casually). Ye'll remember, Henry, how ol' mon Nor- ment looked when Jack McLaurin blowed his jaw off'n him with them number ten buck-shot. (RHODY and LUKE nod agreement, but HENRY BERRY continues calmly.)

HENRY BERRY. Mon, for two year ha'e I been fooled into trustin' ye. I trusted ye with things that the others'll never know. I thought ye my friend, a-workin' to help me and the rest, when every other domn white mon was

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233

a-workin' to kill us. Mon, ye ha'e been brave, but the brave mon most times gits shot.

RHODY. I dunno lak to hear ye speak so, Henry.

HENRY BERRY. Woman, you keep quiet, I tell ye. (To SANDERS.) Mon, I hate to see ye there a-whimperin' and a-shiverin' like a cur-dog. Hit's your own doin' though, and I reckon ye kin stand it. What do ye mean o' this? (He reads the note SANDERS had left behind him, studying his face intently as he does so.) "Good-bye, good friends. Don't follow plans made for to-night and you will be safe from any danger." What do ye mean by that?

SANDERS (with great effort). For God's sake, Henry ... let me tell you. ...

HENRY BERRY. I tol' ye to speak, mon.

SANDERS (breathing hard). I ... I ... I came here with a plan for capturing you and the whole Lowrie gang. You know I don't belong to this part of the country ... and I swear to you that I came all the way from Nova Scotia ... just for the rewards. I ... I had you in my power to-night. ... I could have sold you to the white people of this section ... for $50,000.00 ... but I couldn't do it. ... My two years here with you have made me understand your true feelings so much that on this very night I couldn't see it through ... Before God, I swear that I'm telling you the truth—I am. ... (He is about to sink exhausted to the floor.)

STEVE (forcing him to his feet again). Mon, ye'll stand up, if ye know what's good for ye.

SANDERS. God have mercy. ...

HENRY BERRY. Don't call on God, mon. Little holp he will ha'e for ye now. 'Tis better you waste your cryin' on me— 'twill do ye more good than a thousand a-prayin' for your soul.

RHODY. Ye speak the truth, Henry.

HENRY BERRY (speaking calmly and coldly). Let me tell ye.

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One day I went to my fish-box in Drowning Creek to git some fish for Rhody, and one pore little perch had his head all e't away and his fins gone—a jack-fish done it. I can see ye, mon, with your head gone and your body a-bleedin' and a-drippin' lak a stuck hog.—One day, while I was a-watchin' McNeill's dam by myself, I saw a king snake squeeze the life out'n a moccasin. He wropped himself around the other snake and he squeezed, and he squeezed till he mashed the life out'n that mocassin.— Mon, let me tell ye, I could do thot for ye with my own hands and I—(The door is opened suddenly, and JUNE rushes in.) June, you go home. You—

JUNE (rushing to SANDERS she helps him into the chair). I know ye tol' me to stay home, Uncle Henry, but I couldn't do it. I had to come. I stayed outside and listened as long as I could stand it; and I tell ye I had to come in. (Observing SANDERS' weakened condition.) Get me some water quick! (No one responds. She gets the water herself and lifts the gourd dipper to JOHN SANDERS' lips.) Doesn't that feel better? (SANDERS can only look at her, gratefully.)

STEVE. June, why don't you keep your domn mouth shut and go home where you belong?

JUNE (fiercely). I hear you, Steve; and I ain't goin'. Can't you see he's too weak to talk for himself. He tried to tell you, but ye wouldn't hear him.

RHODY (grimly). He's had too much of a chance already.

JUNE. I'm goin' to speak for him.—You, Steve, what's he done for you? How many times has he saved your life when you were too drunk to move? How many times has he gi'e you medicine to sober you up so you could go to Back Swamp and hide, when the deputies were hot on your trail? How many times, I ask ye?—You, too, Uncle Henry. (Her voice changes; she speaks with a tone of respect.) He's been a help to ye; 'cause look how many times he's advised ye about what to do. I know, Uncle Henry, that you are too wise and too brave to ever be caught, but you

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know what he's done for the rest of the men. (She turns fiercely now on LUKE, with a sneer.) You, Luke, where'd you be if John Sanders hadn't been here when you broke your leg over at Brown's Grist Mill. Ye'd be walkin' on a wooden peg right now! (To RHODY, reproachingly.) And you, Aunt Rhody, what did he do for you when you was down with chills and fever? Ye remember how ye tol' us all good-bye, and how ye was ready to die, and John saved you.

RHODY. I dunno trust him in spite of it.

JUNE (pleading). I ask all of you to think of the good things he has done for all of us. He has been a guardian angel for Scuffletown for two long years, and now you talk of killin' him.

HENRY BERRY. But I tell ye, he betrayed me.

JUNE. But, Uncle Henry, you know that nothing has hurt us for what he has done.

HENRY BERRY. Yes, June ... that's the truth. But he ain't what we thought he was, and no white man can be. It's just like a great river a-tween us. Them over thar on the one side and us over here on the other. And there ain't no endin' to it but by killin'. (Gravely.) An' killin's don't end nothin' neither. (A pause, then he turns quickly to SANDERS.) Mon, I gi'e ye six hours to be out'n this territory. If ye're no out by then, and if I ever see ye or hear of ye in Scuffletown again—God help your soul!

SANDERS (dazed). You mean ... I can ... go? ... Free? ... Thanks. ...

HENRY BERRY (indicating the door). Go, go! Don't thank me. Go, I tell ye!

JUNE (rushing up to SANDERS). And I'm goin' with ye.

SANDERS. No, no. ...

JUNE. I am.

HENRY BERRY. Go! Go!

LUKE (flashing out). Who you goin' with?

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JUNE. You know who I'm goin' with.

LUKE. You wouldn't go if ye knowed what I know. I ain't
tol' ye all there is to know, yet.

JUNE. What do you mean?

LUKE (his eyes flashing). I mean that he's been a-lyin' and a-foolin' ye. He's been betrayin' ye all along. He tol' ye he loved ye, and he promised to marry ye, jus' so's he could stay on the good side of Uncle Henry.

JUNE (savagely). You're a domned liar, Luke Locklear!

LUKE. I ain't neither; I know.

JUNE. How do you know?

LUKE. He's married, and he's got two chilluns—that's how I know!—Last night I crawled up to that thar window just in time to see him a-lookin' at a picture, and a-talkin' to himself.—Wish to God I had knowed it were Donahoe I seed goin' down the path. I thought it was one of our folks.—(Crossing over to SANDERS, he draws out the photograph from his shirt bosom, and hands it to JUNE.) And here it is for ye to see for yourself! (JUNE snatches the picture and stares at it fixedly for a moment. Her expression changes. She is puzzled, hurt, afraid. Then she goes slowly over to SANDERS and hands the photograph to him.)

JUNE (quietly). Will ye tell them what this is? Whose picture is this? What are they to ye?

LUKE (savagely). It belongs to him—they're his wife and chillun. That's what they are.

JUNE (still very calm). Is it so? Is this your picture? Does this be your wife and chillun?

SANDERS. (Erect. He speaks quietly and firmly.) Yes . . . they are mine . . . my own!

JUNE is transformed. Her eyes burn with the hate of the diamond-back when he is about to strike. Her face is set, motionless as a mask shadowing a presentiment of tragic fury.

HENRY BERRY (grimly). My word stands; ye can leave, mon.

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JUNE (coldly). Then, go! Get out of my sight, ye white trash, with your lyin', dirty heart! (She walks slowly to the table, takes up a large knife she finds there and fondles it distractedly.) I could cut it out o' ye, mon, just like ye cut the heart of a melon . . . but I don't want to see how filthy it is. . . . I want to kill ye so bad, it makes my heart ache. (She hesitates a moment, then goes up behind him, and—cuts his bonds.) Go, you white Judas! (SANDERS staggers out. There is a pause.)

HENRY BERRY. I dunno be sure whether I done the right thing or no.

JUNE. Uncle Henry, I pray that God Almighty'll strike him dead, afore he goes a hundred yards! (STEVE on the instant, takes up the rifle, throws open the shutter and takes aim to shoot. JUNE, seeing this, fiercely springs at him and shrieks out.) No! No!! No!!! (But STEVE has pushed her aside. He takes a careful aim and fires to kill. JUNE stands, staring blankly.)

CURTAIN

First draft of libretto
completed, June 1, 1951.

Langston Hughes
New York.

THE CROATAN DIALECT

In preparing the text of *The Scuffletown Outlaws* the aim of the Editor has been to preserve the natural speech as far as that is possible. The spelling of the dialect has been simplified as much as is practicable, without destroying the local characteristics of the language.

It is difficult to represent the spoken dialect in print. Below is a list of words, commonly used by the Croatans, which will be of interest to the reader and serve the actor as a guide in the pronunciation.

Man, Can, That, Damn, Land, Swamp, Stand, are pronounced
Mõn, Cõn, Thõt, Dõmn, Lõndt, Swõmp, Stõnd.
Time, Strike, Right, are pronounced
Toime, Stroike, Roight.
There, Where, Here, are pronounced
Thär, Whär, Hyär.

<table><tr><td>Do not</td><td>Dunno</td></tr><tr><td>Don't know</td><td></td></tr><tr><td>Plenty</td><td>Plain-tee</td></tr><tr><td>Brother</td><td>Bruvver</td></tr><tr><td>Mean</td><td>Māne</td></tr><tr><td>Liquor</td><td>Licker</td></tr><tr><td>Leave</td><td>Lāve</td></tr><tr><td>Because</td><td>Becāze</td></tr><tr><td>Onion</td><td>Inyun</td></tr><tr><td>Creek</td><td>Crīck</td></tr><tr><td>("Swamp" is often used)</td><td></td></tr><tr><td>Woman</td><td>ōoman</td></tr><tr><td>Fire</td><td>Fär</td></tr></table>

<table><tr><td>Help (noun)</td><td>Hōlp</td></tr><tr><td>Help (verb) present</td><td>Hěp</td></tr><tr><td>Help (verb) past</td><td>Hōlp</td></tr><tr><td>Wagon</td><td>Waggin</td></tr><tr><td>Window</td><td>Winder</td></tr><tr><td>Afraid</td><td>Afeard</td></tr><tr><td>Between</td><td>Betwixt</td></tr><tr><td>Bring</td><td>Fetch</td></tr><tr><td>Carry</td><td>Tote</td></tr><tr><td>Sack, or Bag</td><td>Wallet (of meal)</td></tr><tr><td>Marry</td><td>Merry</td></tr><tr><td>Argue</td><td>Argy</td></tr><tr><td>Good</td><td>Goot</td></tr></table>

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