"
"Didn't you know where I was staying?"
"Co'se I did; up 'mong de white folks. You know dey don' 'low no
shootin' an' killin' 'mong de white folks." He drew his pistol from the
holster with the address of an expert marksman.
[Illustration: "Naw yuh don't," he warned sharply. "You turn roun' an'
march on to niggertown"]
Peter stood, with a quickening pulse, studying his assailant. The glade,
the air, the sunshine, seemed suddenly drawn to a tension, likely to,
break into violent commotion. His abrupt danger brought Peter to a
feeling of lightness and power. A quiver went along his spine. His
nostrils widened unconsciously as he calculated a leap and a blow at
Tump's gun.
The soldier took a step backward, at the same time bringing the barrel
to a ready.
"Naw you don't," he warned sharply. "You turn roun' an' march on to
Niggertown."
"What for?" Peter still tried to be casual, but his voice held new
overtones.
"Because, nigger, I means to drap you right on de Main Street o'
Niggertown, 'fo' all dem niggers whut's been a-raggin' me 'bout you an'
Cissie.
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