The three negroes ran up and down the bank of the stream, striking with weary arms, kicking with feet as heavy as lead, sobbing, praying, cursing, raving—adding their insane voices to the noise of the hounds, making pandemonium of the silent, shadowy swamp.
At last the hound-pack, wearied by swimming and unable to effect a landing, turned back to the opposite shore in defeat.
“Saved!” Mobile sobbed. “Now, niggers, trot down this here bayou till we git to de public road!”
Ten minutes later, they fell in the dust of the public highway like monstrous worms or rather like raw, skinned cattle divested of their hides and their carcasses left as food for the carrion crows.
For a few minutes they were motionless, lying like dead men; then a consciousness of approaching danger roused them to renew their flight.
Rising totteringly to their feet, they breathed deeply, and started. Then all hope died.
From out of the high weeds on the side of the road, a deep-seamed, weather-tanned Spanish face appeared, and two fearless eyes held the gaze of the helpless negroes like a hypnotist.
“You niggers stop right there!” a quiet voice said.
It was Sheriff Ulloa, who knew the route of fugitive criminals, and had taken the precaution to guard the only outlet from the Massacre Swamp.
“Please, suh, boss, save us,” the negroes sobbed in a chorus.