“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.
The rest of the crowd had fled.
Without hurrying, Bob stepped into a Ford delivery truck that had been left at the curb, its engine running. Before the crowd which with miraculous suddenness filled the street could stop him, he drove straight down Lee Street, turned into Oglethorpe Avenue, and headed for the country beyond the town. …
Three miles out of town the Ford spluttered, coughed, shook mightily, and stopped. Its gasolene tank was empty. Shoving it into the underbrush on the side of the road, far enough to be out of sight, Bob ran on. If he could only get across country as far as the railroad going North, he might be able to get to Macon, where he could hide. When the excitement died down, he could go on farther North. Perhaps he could eventually reach Canada. He fought his way through brushes, across vast fields of cotton that seemed to have no end. Near midnight he could go no farther. He had eaten nothing since breakfast—he had been too excited over his packing to eat any dinner. Bitterly he thought of the change a few hours had brought forth. Twelve hours before, he had been eagerly planning to leave for school. Now, his sister ruined, he a murderer twice over—fleeing for his life! He hoped that he had killed both of them! It would be too ironical a fate for them to live. … He thought for a moment of what would happen if they caught him. He put the thought away from him. God, that was too terrible! Mustn’t think of that! I’ll lose my nerve. …
What was that? Lord, he must have fallen asleep! What is that? Dogs? Bloodhounds! Great God!
I must get away! How did they get away from bloodhounds in books? That was it! Water!
He’d find a stream and wade in it. Then the damned dogs would lose the scent.
The thought of water reminded him suddenly that he was thirsty—terribly thirsty. God, but his throat was dry! Felt like ten thousand hot needles were sticking in it!
His legs and thighs ached. He dragged them along like a paralysed man. He thought petulantly of a paralysed man he had seen once in Atlanta. What was his name? Bill? No, that wasn’t it. Jim? No, not that either. Some sort of a name like that.
Wonder how Mamie was? Mamie? Who’s Mamie? What had happened to her? He racked his brain to remember. At last he gave it up. No use trying. Old—old—brain don’t work right.
Wonder what’s the matter with it?
His delirious brain was suddenly cleared by an ominous baying close at hand. Those damned dogs again. They’d never take him alive! He felt in his pockets to see if the gun was still there. It was. He felt in the other pocket to count the cartridges there while he ran. One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight! All there! Seven for the mob! One—for—Bob!
An old barn suddenly loomed up before him in the rapidly approaching light of dawn. He dragged himself into it and barred the door. Not much protection! But—a little! Just a little! Better’n none! He sat down on an old box by the door, There was a knothole farther over. He dragged the box in front of it. Reloaded the revolver. One—two—three—four cartridges! Two that hadn’t been used! That left six in the gun! And four more! Listen! The dogs sound like they’re near!
There they are! He wouldn’t waste his precious bullets on dogs! Oh, no! He’d save them for the human dogs! God damn ’em! He’d show ’em a “damned nigger” knew how to die! Like a man! Here they come! God, but it was tough to have to die! Just when life seemed so sweet! Wonder who’d sit in his seat
