“Lo’dee, massa,” whispered he, “done thought you nevah would come.”
“What is it, Pete?” I asked in the same guarded tones.
“I done got somefin’ to tell you. While I ketchin’ a lil’ bit of sleep ’longside that white trash Mo’ton’s place, I done heah dey all plannin’ to git out warrant for to arres’ Massa Fairfax and Massa Pine and Massa Ma’sh for a-killin’ dem men las’ week; and I heah dem say dey gwine fer to gib dem trial, and if dey fight dey gwine done shoot ’em.”
“That is serious news, Pete,” said I. “Who were talking?” But Pete, who was already frightened half to death, grew suddenly cautious.
“I don’ jest rightly know, sah,” he said sullenly. “I couldn’t tell. Jes’ Massa Mo’ton. He say he gwine sw’ar in good big posse.”
“I can believe that,” said I thoughtfully. “Pete,” I turned on him suddenly, “don’t you know they’d skin you alive if they found out you’d been here?”
Pete was shaking violently, and at my words a strong 349 shudder went through his frame, and his teeth struck faintly together.
“Why did you do it?”
“Massa Fairfax is quality, sah,” he replied with a certain dignity. “I jest a pore nigger, but I knows quality when I sees it, and I don’t aim to have no pore white truck kill none of my folks if I can help it.”
“Pete,” said I, fully satisfied, “you are a good fellow. Now get along back.”