“Dem Union Leaguers. Dey say dey wuz gwine ter kill him fur not jinin’ ’em, en fur tryin’ ter vote ergin ’em.”
“I’ve been afraid of it,” sighed the Preacher as he felt Nelse’s pulse.
“Yassir, en now dey’s done hit. My po’ ole man. I wish I’d a been better ter ’im. Lawd Jesus, help me now!”
Eve knelt by the bed and laid her face against Nelse’s while the tears rained down her black face.
“Aunt Eve, it may not be so bad,” said the Preacher hopefully. “His pulse is getting stronger. He has an iron constitution. I believe he will pull through, if there are no internal injuries.”
“Praise God! ef he do git well, I tell yer now, Marse John, I fling er spell on dem niggers bout dis!”
“I am afraid you can do nothing with them. The courts are all in the hands of these scoundrels, and the Governor of the state is at the head of the Leagues.”
“I doan want no cotes, Marse John, I’se cote ennuf. I kin cunjure dem niggers widout any cote.”
The doctor pronounced his injuries dangerous but not necessarily fatal. Charlie and Dick watched with Eve that night until nearly midnight. Nelse opened his eyes, and saw the eager face of the boy, his eyes yet red from crying. “I aint dead, honey!” he moaned.
“Oh! Nelse, I’m so glad!”