"I've a mind to kill you now. Let's give him twenty feet, Jim, then let him have it!"
Cole's arteries seemed frozen. "It was—it was dat union feller, suh—Mr. Dawson. He drawed a gun on me fu'st."
A peculiar look passed from one policeman to another, an expression significant with doubt. There was more in this than mere murder. "Come with us, nigger. If you try any tricks——" The pistol bored into his back.
"Lawd knows, boss," the whites of his eyes tumbled in desperation, "Ah ain' gwinter do no tricks."
The policemen, with two others who had come up, examined the room carefully. One phoned for the wagon, another located the pistol thrown into the littered lot beside.
"Ah was so scared," Cole admitted, his shifty eyes reassured by the attitude of the police, "Ah jus' th'owed dat gun anywhar."
The first officer picked up the weapon beside the chair, sprung the cylinder, and revealed the dented shell. He threw out the charge; each shell had been emptied.
"You say he shot at you first? Don't lie to me, nigger."
"Dat's de Lawd's trufe, sir. Ah ain' lie to no policeman."
Ed Cole was hurried off to the city lock-up, to await removal to the county jail, charged with murder in the first degree.