“You reckon I was gwine to stay here an’ starve?� snarled Cæsar.
“An’ makin’ me tell dat lie ’bout not seein’ Miss Anne,� grumbled Isham. “When dey finds out——�
“If you tell on me I’ll kill you, if it’s my last livin’ act,� Cæsar said fiercely.
“Uh, I ain’t gwine to tell; I ain’t nuver gwine to tell,� promised Isham, hastily. “But it don’t need me. Thar’s Miss Anne. What c’n you do to——�
“Kill her,� said Cæsar.
“Uh, my boy! my boy! Trouble! trouble!� moaned his father.
“Cæsar! Cæsar!� Isham’s voice was shocked and deprecating.
“Killin’ is saftest,� insisted Cæsar. “If you-all’s feered, leave it to me.�
“Naw! naw!� protested Isham. “Boy, if you do a killin’—— I know dese here white mens. Dey’re mighty soft an’ easy-goin’ long as you don’t make ’em mad. But if harm comes to dat gal, dey’ll grub thar way down to hell wid thar bare hands to git de man dat done it. You’ll nuver git away. I—I’ve heerd bloodhounds run,� he quavered.
Cæsar cowered. “You want to turn her loose, to start a search an’ git me cotch?� he asked sullenly.