The soldier took a step backward, at the same time bringing the barrel to a ready.
"Naw you don't," he warned sharply. "You turn roun' an' march on to Niggertown."
"What for?" Peter still tried to be casual, but his voice held new overtones.
"Because, nigger, I means to drap you right on de Main Street o' Niggertown, 'fo' all dem niggers whut's been a-raggin' me 'bout you an' Cissie. I's gwine show dem fool niggers I don' take no fumi-diddles off'n nobody."
"Tump," gasped Jim Pink, in a husky voice, "you oughtn't shoot Peter; he mammy jes daid."
"'En she won' worry none. Turn roun', Peter, an' when I says, 'March,' you march." He leveled his pistol. "'Tention! Rat about face! March!"
Peter turned and moved off down the noiseless path, walking with the stiff gait of a man who expects a terrific blow from behind at any instant.
The mulatto walked twenty or more paces amid a confusion of self- protective impulses. He thought of whirling on Tump even at this late date. He thought of darting behind a cedar, but he knew the man behind him was an expert shot, and something fundamental in the brown man forbade his getting himself killed while running away. It was too undignified a death.
Presently he surprised himself by calling over his shoulder, as a sort of complaint:
"How came you with the pistol, Tump? Thought it was against the law to carry one."