“I knows that, stranger,” replied the imperturbable Joe Bagbone. “It don’t make no difference.”
“I am sent over by General M——. I belong to the Fourth Alabama.”
“Shet up! Don’t tell no lies, ’cause yer hain’t got no time ter repent on ’em.”
“Then, if I understand it, you mean to murder one of your own men in cold blood.”
“Nothin’ of the sort; only gwine to shoot a Yank.”
Somers looked into that hard, relentless eye; but there was not the slightest indication of any change of purpose. He felt that he stood in the presence of his executioner. All the errors of his past life crowded upon him, and the grave seemed to yawn before him.
“Call the sergeant above, and he will satisfy you that I am all right,” said he, making one more effort to move the villain from his wicked purpose.
“Don’t want the sergeant. Yer time’s out, stranger.”
“Let me call him, then.”
“If yer do, I’ll fire. Say yer prayers now, if yer mean ter; but I reckon the prayers of a Yank ain’t of much account,” replied Joe with a sneer.