The Legend of Bass Reeves by Gary Paulsen Read Free Book Online

never took anyone with him. Early one morning a week after they had come back from the Garnetts’, Bass was stunned when the mister said:
    “Have your ma fix a bag of vittles. Just for you—I’ll eat in the saloon. We’re going to Paris for supplies and won’t be back until tomorrow. Bring a blanket so’s you can sleep under the wagon. And leave the shooter here. I can’t have people thinking I got slaves that carry guns.”
    He had not asked for the little rifle back after the trip to the Garnetts’ and Bass had not offered it.
    “Yes sir. Should I harness the mules?”
    “Unless you want to pull the wagon yourself.”
    Bass went into the quarters for his blanket and a sack of food. Mammy stopped him and made him sit down. “You never been in town before and you got to remember your manners.”
    “I got good manners. You’ve been teaching me.”
    “I mean the other kind, the slave manners. That town will be white people everywhere and you got to remember how to act or you’ll get in trouble. Don’t walk on the boardwalks.”
    “What’s a boardwalk?”
    “It’s a plank walk made along the sides of the road for white people to walk on so’s they don’t get their feet dirty.”
    “Why can’t we walk on it?”
    Mammy closed her eyes and sighed.“It’s just the way of it. Don’t walk on the boardwalks, and if a white man or woman is walking toward you out on the road, you move out of their way. If they talk to you, look at the ground andsay ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ or ‘yes ma’am’ or ‘no ma’am’ and don’t ever, ever touch them. The best thing is just stay away from them and only do as you’re told.”
    “But—”
    “No buts. The mister never taught you all the rules. Out here you don’t need them all. But you’re going to town now and I don’t want you to get in trouble. Be careful. Mind your town manners.”
    The last was said to his back as he threw a hurried “yes ma’am” over his shoulder, took the sack and his blanket and ran out to the barn to harness the mules.
    He was so excited to be going into town that he could hardly sit still on the wagon seat. The mister drove, the reins held easily in his hands, but the mules seemed to crawl. Bass had never seem them go so slowly and it was lucky he hadn’t brought the rifle. He probably would have shot them.
    It took six hours from the homestead to the outskirts of Paris. Six hours that seemed like six days, or six weeks, and the only saving grace was that, as they got closer to town where other roads and trails came in, now and then they began to see other wagons and riders.
    The mister had let Bass ride up on the seat with him, but as they approached the town he said, “Get in the back of the wagon and sit down.” For a second Bass was going to ask why, but then he remembered Mammy’s words. He moved back and sat on his rolled-up blanket.
    By most standards Paris was a very small town. Eight or ten buildings in a row, five on each side of the center street. The street was plain prairie dirt, and dusty. If it had been raining, it would have been a quagmire of mud.
    There were two saloons, a blacksmith’s shop next to alivery, one dry goods store, a square wooden-frame building with a sign that said HOTEL PARIS, and some nondescript small buildings that held a café, a dressmaker’s shop, a harness and saddle store and a gunsmith’s.
    There were people. Everywhere. Bass hadn’t thought there were that many people in the world, let alone only twenty miles from the homestead. Wagons rumbled up and down the street, raising clouds of dust, and axles needing grease screeched so loudly it sounded like screaming.
    There were stray dogs chasing and biting mules and horses, barking, yapping. Men were yelling at each other and swearing at the dogs and the mules.
    One huge freight wagon met them head-on. It was pulled by a span of ten mules, all held in check by one man. His face was covered with hair, his chin whiskers soaked