Jingo Django by Sid Fleischman Page A

those great, easy-tempered horses. We had come a thousand miles together and they seemed the nearest thing to old friends I had. “But you forgot to trade back for the coach,” I added.
    â€œThe coach?” He laughed and tugged at his hat. “The coach is not here. Our friend only changed horses. Fresh horses. Oh, he was in a big hurry, wasn’t he, eh?”
    In a big hurry to join up with Mrs. Daggatt and General Dirty-Face Jim Scurlock, I thought. “Your friend,” I murmured scornfully. “Not mine.”
    He spread his hands in an open gesture. “Why do you say that? He has not harmed you, chavo.”
    I almost explained how he had humbugged me with the treasure map and the pin. But I shrugged instead, and walked off to sit by myself. There seemed no escaping Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones. I could feel his presence like a cunning spirit lurking about the camp. He had flummoxed Tornapo as easily as he had me, and I calculated he’d turn up when he was ready to claim his horses.
    Day by day we followed the river, selling goats’ milk and horse-trading, but mostly living off the land. New Orleans couldn’t be much further off. Sacki trapped a porcupine and brought it into camp like a great trophy.
    â€œA hatchi-witchu!” Bibi Mizella exclaimed, and I gave a start. I recalled that word from long ago, even if I had forgotten what it meant. It was a grand word — I used to run the sound of it over my tongue — and I was sorely disappointed that it was only puro jib for a pesky porcupine.
    The gypsies clustered around and Tornapo grinned. “Have you ever seen such a fine, fat one, eh!”
    I turned to Sacki. “What’s it good for?”
    â€œGood?” He seemed amazed at my simplemindedness. “Have you never eaten a hatchi-witchu? There’s nothing better! We’ll have a feast tonight!”
    Bibi Mizella took charge. She stuffed it with nuts and wild garlic and wrapped it with a thick layer of river mud. Then she buried it in the hot ashes to bake.
    I didn’t intend to be that hungry for supper. But as night fell and we sat around the campfire I decided that if I was going to live with gypsies I had best learn to eat porcupine.
    And I did have a taste. Bibi Mizella cracked open the mud ball and I was surprised to see that the quills and skin came away with it, leaving the steaming, garlicky treat. Tornapo carved it up and offered pieces all around. I accepted a chunk and after a while ventured to take a nibble. I must confess it was tender and juicy, but I was glad there wasn’t enough for second helpings. Porcupine was porcupine and it would take some getting used to.
    â€œGood, yes?” Sacki asked, licking his fingers.
    I grinned and nodded. “First rate,” I said. “First rate and a half. That’s the best hatchi-witchu I ever ate.”
    Soon Tornapo began scraping away on his fiddle and there was the usual dancing and hand-clapping around the campfire. Sacki climbed a tree and said he could see the lights of New Orleans downriver, but no one seemed to care.
    I sat practicing with my fetching stick and told myself that Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones had done me a service running out on me. Was there a jollier life than traveling the roads in a gypsy wagon? I might grow up to be a horse trader, like Sacki, and have a fine painted vardo of my own.
    Tornapo must have fiddled away for two hours straight. But finally he called a halt and went to bed. I stretched my hammock between two trees and curled up for the night.
    I could hear a distant rumble of thunder and the sky darkened over with clouds.
    I don’t know how long I had been asleep when the clouds burst open and a warm, spattering downpour woke me. When I opened my eyes I saw a light burning in Tornapo’s wagon and then I saw a man approaching through the rain. He stopped and looked at me, with the cloudburst pouring off the brim of his hat.
    â€œSar shan,