Page:Weird Tales Volume 35 Issue 04 (1940-07).djvu/40

mation, Ransome, you must have a theory. You skeptics always have theories.”

Ransome poured whiskey and spurted soda into the glasses. “Hnnn,” he said, “might be a Negro thing—this used to be slave territory. One storekeeper in Crispinville thinks it may have come from the first English colonists; again, it might be Indian. But what keeps it so local? Can’t you tell us, Pitts?”

“Not me,” said Pitts, his eyes on the dewy glass held out to him.

They all drank. Pursuivant wiped his blond mustache. His spectacles were full of thoughtful lights.

“The rabbit’s a great figure in folklore,” he observed. “A witch named Julian Cox was tried in England in the 1660’s, for turning into a rabbit. And Jules de Grandin once told me that southern French will turn back from a day’s work because a hare hopped across their trail—bad luck, like a black cat.”

“Never heard that,” rejoined Ransome. “Of course, de Grandin’s a fable-collector, like you. Of course, I read Uncle Remus when I was a boy—plenty of rabbit stuff there.”

“And I used to carry the left hind foot of a graveyard rabbit for luck,” contributed Pitts, sipping at his highball.

Pursuivant was also turning over the Uncle Remus tales in his mind. They were impressive and sometimes grim, for all the bright humor of Joel Chandler Harris. Br’er Rabbit, seemingly so harmless and plausible, had tricked all the larger and fiercer creatures in self-defense, or for profit, or for mere cruel fun; hadn’t Br’er Wolf been deluded into killing his own children, and Br’er Fox shunted into a fire so that all his progeny looked singed, down into the present day?

“Don’t you think,” Ransome was saying, “that you’re paying too much attention to a silly little custom—a triviality?”

“Hey,” protested Pitts, taking his nose from his glass, “it ain’t silly when it’s a township ordinance—you can’t even hunt rabbits.”

“And there are no trivialities in life, as Sherlock Holmes or somebody said,” added Pursuivant. “As Mr. Pitts suggests, there must be a good reason for making the rule, and for observing it as well.”

Ransome laughed loudly. His own drink had been long and strong, and he was at the bottom of it. “Time for me to do some missionary work,” said he. Rising, he took two objects from the table.

They were the stock and barrels of an excellent shotgun, and they snicked neatly together in his knowing hands. He grinned above the weapon. “It’s summer, and rabbit’s aren’t fit to eat, but just for the sake of smashing a superstition—” And he fed two shells into the double breech.

Pitts got up. “Better not do it, Mr. Ransome. It’s ’gainst the law.”

“I'll pay any fine, or whatever,” laughed Ransome.

Pursuivant also rose, and set down his empty glass. “I want to go back to town and look into the community records. I’ll leave my suitcase, and be back before sundown.”

“Shall I run you back in the car?” offered Pitts.

“No, thanks. It’s fine weather and lovely country, and only four miles. I’ll walk.” Pursuivant turned to Ransome. “Promise me you won’t go rabbit-hunting until I return.”

“Oh, all right,” Ransome agreed, and stood the gun in a corner. He saw the judge to the door.

CRISPINVILLE was not the county seat, but Pursuivant knew that there would be a township trustee, a clerk and a constable. When he reached the ham-