The clown, however, was pressing his joke.  He was pretending great fear, and was shouting out in his loose minstrel voice: 

“Hey, don’ shoot down dis way, black man, tull I makes my exit!” And a voice, rich with contempt, called back: 

“You needn’t be skeered, you fool rabbit of a nigger!”

Peter turned with a qualm.  Quite close to him, and in another direction from which he had been looking, stood Tump Pack.  The ex-soldier looked the worse for wear after his jail sentence.  His uniform was frayed, and over his face lay a grayish cast that marks negroes in bad condition.  At his side, attached by a belt and an elaborate shoulder holster, hung a big army revolver, while on the greasy lapel of his coat was pinned his military medal for exceptional bravery on the field of battle.

“Been lookin’ fuh you fuh some time, Peter,” he stated grimly.

Peter considered the formidable figure with a queer sensation.  He tried to take Tump’s appearance casually; he tried to maintain an air of ordinariness.

“Didn’t know you were back.”

“Yeah, I’s back.”

“Have you—­been looking for me?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t you know where I was staying?”

“Co’se I did; up ‘mong de white folks.  You know dey don’ ’low no shootin’ an’ killin’ ’mong de white folks.”  He drew his pistol from the holster with the address of an expert marksman.

[Illustration:  “Naw yuh don’t,” he warned sharply.  “You turn roun’ an’ march on to niggertown”]

Peter stood, with a quickening pulse, studying his assailant.  The glade, the air, the sunshine, seemed suddenly drawn to a tension, likely to, break into violent commotion.  His abrupt danger brought Peter to a feeling of lightness and power.  A quiver went along his spine.  His nostrils widened unconsciously as he calculated a leap and a blow at Tump’s gun.

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.