“Please!”
The negroes, whose view of the fight had been obscured by the camera and the bodies of Rouke and Pellet, started around them toward the front, where they could see.
“Keep out of the picture!” Rouke screamed. “I’ll kill the first nigger that moves!”
Skeeter and Sudds ceased their combat, dropped their weapons of war, and each held out his hands to Lalla Cordona, pleading, beseeching, each asking her approval of the part he had taken in the fray.
The girl stood for a moment looking from one to the other, hesitant, indignant.
“Don’t pay no mind to dat Sudds, Missy,” Skeeter pleaded. “His name proves dat he ain’t nothin’ but dirty dishwater, an’ his maw wus a cheap washlady. Come along wid me, an’ be my frien’! I loves you mo’ dan he do!”
“You niggers hike!” Lalla spoke.
Her voice bit into their souls like acid, and the men turned and started slowly away.
The girl stood looking after them a moment, then she ran to the tree where her horse was standing hitched.
Skeeter and Sudds sprang after her.