“Now, none o' that, boys! None o' that! You'll prob'ly hit the gal if you shoot, an' I'll pick you off lak three black skunks.”
He brandished his revolver at them, but the gesture was barely seen, and instantly concealed by the cloud of dust following the motor. Next moment it enveloped the negroes and hid them even from one another.
It was only after Peter was lost in the dust-cloud that the mulatto really divined what was meant by Cissie's strange appearance with the constable, her chalky face, her frightened brown eyes. The significance of the scene grew in his mind. He stood with eyes screwed to slits staring into the apricot-colored dust in the direction of the vanishing noise.
Presently Tump Pack's form outlined itself in the yellow obscurity, groping toward Peter. He still held his pistol, but it swung at his side. He called Peter's name in the strained voice of a man struggling not to cough:
“Peter—is Mr. Bobbs done—'rested Cissie?”
Peter could hardly talk himself.
“Don't know. Looks like it.”
The two negroes stared at each other through the dust.
“Fuh Gawd's sake! Cissie 'rested!” Tump began to cough. Then he wheezed:
“Mine an' yo' little deal's off, Peter. You gotta he'p git her out.” Here he fell into a violent fit of
