"We ain't a-tryin' to fight you-all," called out the big negro who was in for rape, "we jest don' want you to kill him an' git hung foh murduh."
At the word "murder" I stepped quickly back.
"Well, don't let him come bothering me or my pal for a fight any more when we've done nothing to him."
"Don' worry, he won't no moh!" assured the fiddler....
I threw down the lead pipe. It had seemed to me that all the while it was my Uncle Landon who had received the blows.
The rough-neck farmer was in bad shape; he was bloodied all over like a stuck pig. The mulatto girl on the outside had for the last five minutes been occupied in calling out of the window for help. She managed to attract the attention of a passerby-by.
"What's the matter?" was called up to her....
"The jailer ain't downstairs ... an' de boys is killin' each other up heah!"
By the time the angry-faced sheriff came with his son, the jailer, and a couple of doctors, we had quieted down.