Far across the meadow, now under the slanting rays of the sun, he saw old Uncle Richmond, bowlegged and short, waddling along through the dewy grass and weeds, his head bowed, his long arms swinging at his sides.
“Huh!” was Pete's slow comment, “so somebody done already settled Abe Johnson's hash. I know in reason it was Sam Dudlow, en I reckon ef dat rampacious gang er white men lays hands on 'im—ef dey lays hands on 'im—” He was recalling certain details of the recent riots in Atlanta, and an unconscious shudder passed over him. “Well,” he continued to reflect, “Abe Johnson was a hard man on black folks, but his wife was er downright good 'oman. Ever'body say she was, en she was. It was a gre't pity ter kill her dat way, but I reckon Sam was afeard she'd tell it on 'im en had ter kill um bofe. Yes, Miz Johnson was er good 'oman—good ter niggers. She fed lots of 'em behind dat man's back, en wished 'em well; en now, po', po' 'oman!”
Pete went back to the fireplace and with the blade of his knife turned the curling white and brown strips of bacon, and with the toe of his coarse, worn shoe pushed fresher coals against his coffee-pot. Then for a moment he stood gravely looking at the fire.
“Well,” he mused, with a shrugging of his shoulders. “I wish des one thing, I wish Marse Carson was here. He wouldn't let 'em tech me. He's de best en smartest lawyer in Georgia, en he would tell 'em what er lot er fools dey was ter say I done it, when I was right dar'n my baid. My! dat bacon smell good! I wish I had er few fresh hen aigs ter drap in dat brown grease. Huh! it make my mouf water.”
There was no table in the room, and so when he had taken up his breakfast he sat down on the floor and ate it with supreme relish. Through all the meal, however, in spite of the arguments he was mentally producing, there were far under the crust of his being certain elemental promptings towards fear and self-preservation.
“Well, dar's one thing,” he mused. “Marse Hillyer done laid me out my task ter do in de old fiel' en I ain't ergoin' to shirk it, 'ca'se Marse Carson gwine ter ax 'im, when he go in town, how I'm gittin' on, en I wants er good repo't. No, I ain't goin' ter shirk it, ef all de dogs en white men in de county come yelpin' on de hunt for Sam Dudlow.”