"Master, don't shoot me."
"Put down your gun, then," I replied, utterly astonished at his coolness and effrontery, and slowly he let the hammer fall and lowered his piece.
"Master," he said piteously, "you isn't gwine to kill me, is ye?"
"What were you about to do to me?" I demanded; "were you not in the act of shooting me?"
"Master," he replied, "I'se a poor black man; my life ain't worth nothin' to you, no how; so jes please let me live a little longer; please don't shoot me."
Again I demanded why he had drawn his gun on me.
"O please, sir, put down de pistol, den I kin talk to you."
I lowered the pistol, keeping a strict eye on his movements. He prefaced his remarks with the very pertinent question:
"Is you from Texas?"