“I heard some of ’em talking this morning, some respectable-looking gentlemen from Georgia, and saying that they had been told that this had been all to break up a nest of thieves and robbers—that the people in Baconsville was that, and that Capt. Doc is a rowdy, and the Militia Company is a band o’ thieves; and Hanson Baker said that is a fact and just so.” “I never heard anything like that in all the years I’ve lived here,” said Springer, the oldest resident except Uncle Jesse, who assented to his testimony. “They talked about Pompey Conner’s robbing market wagons, and even hauled up that old graveyard affair, more than three years old; and they know the Republican niggers are after every thief they know of, and punishes ’em too. Pompey took his turn in jail, and so did that old republican nigger that dug them three graves open; the democratic one got away, but I’ve seen him back just the other day. I don’t believe they cared anything for the graves; they only thought there was some money buried somewhere in the graveyard during the war.” “That mean democratic nigger that lives over back of the hill there, was in town yesterday, and some of ’em said that he told the white folks where to find men—where their houses were, and if that is true it is just contemptible!” said Springer. “The fact is,” said Ben, the niggers are getting a bad name everywhere, with these old white aristocrats, and especially since this fuss.” Ben was young, and his honest, expressive face glowed as he spoke, with animation which subsided immediately into grave thoughtfulness. “What has become of Capt. Doc?” “Don’t know; nobody knows. He’s sharp though, and I hope he has got away. If they were to get him they would think he must be drawn and quartered, I expect,” said Ben. “Springer, you said Marmor is among the missing?” said Uncle Jesse. “We don’t know what has become of him. Old man Baker was in Dan’s house a good part of the night, Pincksney says; and the houses join, you know; and the last seen of Marmor, he was jumping the fence into Dan’s back yard. Dan’s folks are there this morning, but don’t seem to want to see nor speak to anybody. There’s a mystery about it somehow.” “Dan is a kind of a queer dark man, you know. Jews mostly is,” said Tim Grassy. “Dan is a likely sort of fellow,” said Mr. Roome, “I wish he didn’t sell so much whiskey.” “Between twelve and one o’clock,” resumed the host, “I heard Col. Baker (at least I took it to be his voice). Some of them just opposite here had said the house was afire, and I heard him sing out to the crowd, ‘Put that fire out! nothing like that shall go on; I don’t want any burning.’ Soon after that I heard firing again, and I heard somebody else holler. I don’t know who it was, but I suppose it was Moses Parker.” “Who shot him?” “That I don’t know.” “Where was Watta killed? Poor fellow! I knowed he’d be killed, if anybody was.”