Mamie between sobs was telling her mother of some accident that had befallen her.
“I had been—to Ewing’s Store and that Jim Archer—and Charley Allen—and two or three other white boys—that hang around Ewing’s Store—said nasty things to me when I came out—I hurried home they must have followed me.”
Here she broke down again while her mother crooned softly to her, pleading with her not to cry so hard. Mamie choked back her sobs and went on. Bob’s face became terrible to see. He hung there on the steps almost breathless, waiting, and dreading what he felt was coming.
“At that old field-near the railroad—they jumped out—and grabbed me oh, my God! My God! Why didn’t they kill me? Why didn’t they kill me?” Mamie’s screams were horrible to hear. “Then—oh, God! God help me!”
For a minute Bob stood there as one frozen to the spot. Then a blind, unreasoning fury filled him. He ran up the stairs to Kenneth’s room and got the revolver he knew Kenneth kept there. Without hat or coat he ran down the stairs. Out the door and down the street. Mamie and her mother were roused by his action. Mamie, lying on the floor with her head in her mother’s lap, her clothes torn and bloody, her face and body bruised, struggled to her feet. She ran to the open door through which Bob had disappeared. An even greater terror, if such was possible, was on her face.
“Bob! Bob! Come back! Come back!” she cried in ever louder cries.
“Bob! Bob!”
But Bob was too far away to hear her.
In front of Ewing’s Store there sat a group of nine or ten men and boys. They were gathered around one who seemed to be relating a highly interesting and humorous story. Every few minutes there’d be a loud laugh and a slapping of each other on the back. Suddenly, silence. A hatless and coatless figure was running down the street toward them. The group opened as its members started to scatter. In the middle of it there stood Jim Archer and Charley Allen. The former had been telling the story.
Bob walked straight up to Jim Archer, whose face had turned even paler than its usual pasty colour. He turned to run but it was too late. Without saying a word, his eyes burning with a deadly hatred, Bob raised the revolver he had in his hand and fired once—twice—into Archer’s breast. Charley Allen rushed upon Bob to overpower him. He met head-on the two bullets that came to meet him, and fell gasping and coughing on the ground at Bob’s feet.