“You need not trouble yourself; I will get it,” he said, as he stooped and raised it. “Bloodstained? Why, what does this mean?”
“I killed a dog,” the negro muttered, his mouth parched with terror, his vicious eyes shooting forth venomous flashes. “I’d kill anybody’s dog before I’d let him bite me. Was it your dog?” and he shrank slightly away.
“No,” said the sheriff, “it was not mine, but I am afraid you made a great mistake in killing that dog! Come, get yourself dressed and show it to me.”
“I threw him in the creek,” he said, angrily.
“You are under arrest. Come, we are going to take you to Georgetown.” The sheriff caught him by the arm.
“What! for killing a dog, and a yellow dog at that?” He scowled blackly and fiercely. “I’m in hopes you won’t get me into court about this matter. I am willing to pay for it,” he said in a husky voice.
“Very likely you will be called upon to pay—in full, but I will protect you to the extent of my authority. Hurry up! we’ve no time to lose. It is late and it’s going to rain.”
The negro cast his eyes wildly about him, the last mechanical resource of despair, but saw nothing else to do.
Mounting the prisoner handcuffed behind him, the sheriff was soon off for the Scott county jail, one of the party being sent ahead to have the Carr cook in waiting. The negro had nothing to say, but rode on in savage silence, his head dropped forward on his breast.