N Carson Dwight's farm, as the place was not particularly well kept, the negro hands lived in dismantled log-cabins scattered here and there about the fields, or in the edge of the woods surrounding the place. In one of these, at the overseer's suggestion, Pete had installed himself, his household effects consisting only of a straw mattress thrown on the puncheon floor and a few cooking utensils for use over the big fireplace of the mud-and-log chimney.

Here he was sleeping on the night of the tragedy which had stirred the country-side into a white heat of race hatred. He had spent the first half of the night at a negro dance, two miles away, at a farm, and was much elated by finding that he had attracted marked attention and feminine favor, which was due to the fact that he was looked upon by the country blacks as something out of the usual run—a town darky with a glib tongue and many other accomplishments, and a negro, too, as Pete assured them, who stood high in the favor of his master, whose name carried weight wherever it was mentioned.

Shortly after dawn Pete was still sleeping soundly, as was his habit after a night of pleasure, when his door was rudely shaken.

“Pete Warren! Pete Warren!” a voice called out sharply. “Wake up in dar; wake up, I tell you!”

There was no response—no sound came from within the cabin except the deep respiration of the sleeper. The door was shaken again, and then, as it was not locked, and slightly ajar, the little old negro man on the outside pushed the shutter open and entered, stalking across the floor to where Pete lay.

“Wake up here, you fool!” he said, as he bent and shook Pete roughly. “Wake up, ef you know what good fer you.”

Pete turned over; his snoring broke into little gasps. He opened his eyes, stared inquiringly for an instant, and then his eyelids began to close drowsily.

“Looky here!” He was roughly handled again by the black hand on his shoulder. “You young fool, you dance all night till you cayn't keep yo' eyes open in de day-time, but ef you don't git er move on you en light out er dis cabin you'll dance yo' last jig wid nothin' under yo' feet but wind. It'll be er game er frog in de middle en you be de frog.”

“What dat?—what dat you givin' me, Uncle Richmond?” Pete was now awake and sitting bolt upright on the mattress.

“Huh, I come ter tell you, boy, dat you 'bout ter git in trouble, en, fer all I know, de biggest you ever had in all yo' bo'n days.”

“Huh, you say I is, Uncle Richmond?” Pete exclaimed, incredulously. “What wrong wid me?”

The old man stepped back till he could look through the cabin door over the fields upon which the first streaks of daylight were falling in grayish, misty splotches.

“Pete,” he said, “somebody done slip in Abe Johnson's house en brain him en his wife wid er axe.”

“Huh, you don't say!” Pete stared in sleepy astonishment. “When dat happen, Uncle Richmond?”

“Las' night, er towards mawnin',” the old man said. “Ham Black come en toi' me. He say we better all hide out; it gwine ter be de biggestm 'cite-ment ever heard of in dese mountains; but, Pete, you de main one ter look out—you, you!”

“Me! Huh, what you say dat fer, Uncle Rich'?”

“'Ca'se dey gwine ter look fer you de fus one, Pete. You sho is been talkin' too much out yo' mouf 'bout dat whippin' Johnson done give you en Sam Dudlow, en de res' um in town dat night. Ham tol' me ter come warn you ter hide out, en dat quick. Ham say he know in reason you didn't do it, 'ca'se, he say, yo' bark is wuss'n yo' bite. Ham say he bet 'twas done by some nigger dat didn't talk so much. Ham say he mighty nigh sho Sam Dudlow done it, 'ca'se Sam met Abe Johnson in de big road yisterday en Johnson cussed 'im en lashed at 'im wid er whip. Ham say dat nigger come on ter de sto' lookin' lak er devil in men's clothes. But he didn't say nothin' even den. Look lak he was des lyin' low bidin' his time.”

Pete got up and began to dress himself with the unimaginative disregard for danger that is characteristic of his race.

“I bet, myse'f, Sam done it,” he said, reflectively.

“He's er bad yaller nigger, Uncle Richmond, en ever since Johnson en Dan Willis larruped we-all, he's been sulkin' en growlin'. But es you say, Uncle Rich', he didn't talk out open. He lay low.”

“Dat don't mek no diffunce, boy,” the old black man went on, earnestly; “you git out'n here in er hurry en mek er break fer dem woods. Even den I doubt ef dat gwine ter save yo' skin, 'ca'se Dan Willis got er pair er blood-hounds dat kin smell nigger tracks thoo er ten-inch snow.”

“Huh, I say, Uncle Richmond, you don't know me,” Pete said. “You don't know me, ef you 'low I'm gwine ter run fum dese white men. I 'ain't been nigh dat Abe Johnson's house—not even cross his line er fence. I promised Marse Carson Dwight not ter go nigh 'im, en—en I promised 'im ter let up on my gab out here, en I done dat, too. No, suh, Unc' Rich', you git somebody else ter run yo' foot-race. I'm gwine ter cook my breakfust lak I always do en den go out ter my sprouts dat hatter be grubbed. I got my task ter do, rain er shine.”

“Look here, boy,” the old man's blue-black eyes gleamed as he stared at Pete. “I know yo' mammy en daddy, en I like um. Dey good black folks er de ol' stripe, en always was friendly ter me, en I don't like ter see you in dis mess. I tell you, I'm er old man. I know how white men act in er case like dis—dey don't have one bit er pity er reason. Dey will kill you sho. Dey'd er been here 'fo' dis, but dey gittin' together. Listen! Hear dem hawns en yellin'?—dat at Wilson's sto'. Dey will be here soon. I don't want ter stan' here en argue wid you. I 'ain't had nothin' ter do wid it, but dey would saddle some of it onto me ef dey found out I come here ter warn you. Hurry up, boy.”

“I ain't gwine ter do it, Uncle Rich',” Pete declared, firmly, and with a grave face. “You are er old man, but you ain't givin' me good advice. Ef I run, dey would say I was guilty sho', en den, es you say, de dogs could track me down, anyway.”

The boy's logic seemed unassailable. The piercing, beadlike eyes of the old man flickered. “Well,” he said, “I done all I could. I'm gwine move on. Even now, dey may know I come here at dis early time, en mix me up in it. Good-bye. I hope fer Mammy Lindy's sake dat dey will let you off—I do sho.”

Left alone, Pete went out to the edge of the wood behind his cabin and gathered up some sticks, leaves, and pieces of bark that had fallen from the decaying boughs of the trees, and brought them into the cabin and deposited them on the broad stone hearth. Then he uncovered the coals he had the night before buried in the ashes, and made a fire for the preparation of his simple breakfast. He had a sharp sense of animal hunger, which was due to his long walk to and from the dance and the fact that he was bodily sound and vigorous. He took as much fresh-ground corn-meal as his hands would hold from a tow bag in a corner of the room and put it into a tin pan. To this he added a cup of water and a bit of salt, stirring it with his hand till it was well mixed. He then deftly formed it into a pone, and, wrapping it in a clean husk of corn, he deposited it in the hot ashes, covering it well with live coals. Then he made his coffee, being careful that the water in the pot did not rise as high as the point near the spout where the vessel leaked. Next he unwrapped a strip of “streak o' lean streak o' fat” bacon, and with his pocket-knife sliced some of it into a frying-pan already hot. These things accomplished, he had only to wait a few minutes for the heat to do its work, and he stepped back and stood in the doorway.

Far across the meadow, now under the slanting rays of the sun, he saw old Uncle Richmond, bowlegged and short, waddling along through the dewy grass and weeds, his head bowed, his long arms swinging at his sides.

“Huh!” was Pete's slow comment, “so somebody done already settled Abe Johnson's hash. I know in reason it was Sam Dudlow, en I reckon ef dat rampacious gang er white men lays hands on 'im—ef dey lays hands on 'im—” He was recalling certain details of the recent riots in Atlanta, and an unconscious shudder passed over him. “Well,” he continued to reflect, “Abe Johnson was a hard man on black folks, but his wife was er downright good 'oman. Ever'body say she was, en she was. It was a gre't pity ter kill her dat way, but I reckon Sam was afeard she'd tell it on 'im en had ter kill um bofe. Yes, Miz Johnson was er good 'oman—good ter niggers. She fed lots of 'em behind dat man's back, en wished 'em well; en now, po', po' 'oman!”

Pete went back to the fireplace and with the blade of his knife turned the curling white and brown strips of bacon, and with the toe of his coarse, worn shoe pushed fresher coals against his coffee-pot. Then for a moment he stood gravely looking at the fire.

“Well,” he mused, with a shrugging of his shoulders. “I wish des one thing, I wish Marse Carson was here. He wouldn't let 'em tech me. He's de best en smartest lawyer in Georgia, en he would tell 'em what er lot er fools dey was ter say I done it, when I was right dar'n my baid. My! dat bacon smell good! I wish I had er few fresh hen aigs ter drap in dat brown grease. Huh! it make my mouf water.”

There was no table in the room, and so when he had taken up his breakfast he sat down on the floor and ate it with supreme relish. Through all the meal, however, in spite of the arguments he was mentally producing, there were far under the crust of his being certain elemental promptings towards fear and self-preservation.

“Well, dar's one thing,” he mused. “Marse Hillyer done laid me out my task ter do in de old fiel' en I ain't ergoin' to shirk it, 'ca'se Marse Carson gwine ter ax 'im, when he go in town, how I'm gittin' on, en I wants er good repo't. No, I ain't goin' ter shirk it, ef all de dogs en white men in de county come yelpin' on de hunt for Sam Dudlow.”