“Dar's one thing sho,” he finally concluded; “dat white man looked powerful funny when he seed me, en he said he heard I'd run off. I'll bet my hat he's makin' a bee-line fer dat sto' ter tell 'em whar I is right now. I wish one thing. I wish Marse Carson was here; he'd sen' 'em 'bout deir business mighty quick.” With a shrug of indecision, the boy set to work. His back happened to be turned towards the store, barely visible over the swelling ground in the distance, and so he failed to note the rapid approach across the meadow of two men till they were close upon him. One was Jeff Braider, the sheriff of the county, a stalwart man of forty, in high top-boots, a leather belt holding a-long revolver, a broad-brimmed hat, and coarse gray suit; his companion was a hastily deputized citizen armed with a double-barrelled shot-gun. “Put down that hoe, Pete!” the sheriff commanded, sharply, as the negro turned with it in his hand. “Put it down, I say! Drop it!” “What I gwine put it down for?” the negro asked, in characteristic tone. “Huh! I got ter do my work.” “Drop it, and don't begin to give me your jaw,” the sheriff said. “You've got to come on with us. You are under arrest.” “What you 'rest me fer?” Pete asked, still doggedly. “You are accused of killing the Johnsons last night, and if you didn't do it, I'm here to say you are in the tightest hole an innocent man ever got in. King and I are going to do our level best to put you in safety in the Gilmore jail so you can be tried fairly by law, but we've got to get a move on us. The whole section is up in arms, and we'll have hard work dodging 'em. Come on. I won't rope you, but if you start to run we'll shoot you down like a rabbit, so don't try that on.” “My Gawd, Mr. Braider, I didn't kill dem folks!” Pete said, pleadingly. “I don't know a thing about it.” “Well, whether you did or not, they say you threatened to do it, and your life won't be worth a hill of beans if you stay here. The only thing to do is to get you to the Gilmore jail. We may make it through the mountains if we are careful, but we've got to git horses. We can borrow some from Jabe Parsons down the road, if he hasn't gone crazy like all the rest. Come on.” “I tell you, Mr. Braider, I don't know er thing 'bout dis,” Pete said; “but it looks ter me lak mebby Sam Dudlow--” “Don't make any statement to me,” the officer said, humanely enough in his rough way. “You are accused of a dirty job, Pete, and it will take a dang good lawyer to save you from the halter, even if we save you from this mob; but talkin' to me won't do no good. Me'n King here couldn't protect you from them men if they once saw you. I tell you, young man, all hell has broke loose. For twenty miles around no black skin will be safe, much less yours. Innocent or guilty, you've certainly shot off your mouth. Come on.”