“Those negroes!” gasped Matt, struggling to rise from amid the wreckage of the door. “Come on, don’t wait, for they are three to two, and they are just drunk enough to be as ugly as sin!”
He caught Andy by the arm, and before the latter could ask for a further explanation, hurried him up the hill toward the wagon.
The negroes came out of the cottage and made after them, but only for a short distance. Then they came to a sudden halt, and after a brief consultation, hurried back to the cottage.
“What do you suppose they went back for—pistols and razors?” questioned Andy, as they reached 234 the turn-out, and he unhitched Billy from the tree to which he had been tied.
“No, they are afraid we are going after the police,” returned Matt, springing up to the seat. “Every one of that crowd ought to be in jail this minute!” he went on bitterly.
“What did they do to you?”
“Nearly robbed me!” And in a few brief words he related what had happened to him.
“Well, do you want to go back to Easton and make a complaint?” asked Andy, when he had finished.
“No, I am sick of having to do with the police, Andy. All I want is to be let alone.”
“That’s my sentiment, Matt. We are out for business—and money—not trouble.”