I's gwine show dem fool niggers I don' take no fumi-diddles
off'n nobody."
"Tump," gasped Jim Pink, in a husky voice, "you oughtn't shoot Peter; he
mammy jes daid."
"'En she won' worry none. Turn roun', Peter, an' when I says, 'March,'
you march." He leveled his pistol. "'Tention! Rat about face! March!"
Peter turned and moved off down the noiseless path, walking with the
stiff gait of a man who expects a terrific blow from behind at any
instant.
The mulatto walked twenty or more paces amid a confusion of self-
protective impulses. He thought of whirling on Tump even at this late
date. He thought of darting behind a cedar, but he knew the man behind
him was an expert shot, and something fundamental in the brown man
forbade his getting himself killed while running away. It was too
undignified a death.
Presently he surprised himself by calling over his shoulder, as a sort
of complaint:
"How came you with the pistol, Tump? Thought it was against the law to
carry one."
"You kin ca'y 'em ef you don' keep 'em hid," explained the ex-soldier in
a wooden voice.
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