The second officer searched him, while the other kept the big automatic
rubbed against his stomach. "Nothin' doin', Jim."
"What was that shot back there?"
Ed Cole's wits came back to him. "A white gen'lman, suh, he shot me, an'
Ah shot back at him."
"I've a mind to kill you now. Let's give him twenty feet, Jim, then let
him have it!"
Cole's arteries seemed frozen. "It was--it was dat union feller,
suh--Mr. Dawson. He drawed a gun on me fu'st."
A peculiar look passed from one policeman to another, an expression
significant with doubt. There was more in this than mere murder. "Come
with us, nigger. If you try any tricks----" The pistol bored into his
back.
"Lawd knows, boss," the whites of his eyes tumbled in desperation, "Ah
ain' gwinter do no tricks."
The policemen, with two others who had come up, examined the room
carefully. One phoned for the wagon, another located the pistol thrown
into the littered lot beside.
"Ah was so scared," Cole admitted, his shifty eyes reassured by the
attitude of the police, "Ah jus' th'owed dat gun anywhar."
The first officer picked up the weapon beside the chair, sprung the
cylinder, and revealed the dented shell. He threw out the charge; each
shell had been emptied.
"You say he shot at you first? Don't lie to me, nigger."
"Dat's de Lawd's trufe, sir. Ah ain' lie to no policeman."
Ed Cole was hurried off to the city lock-up, to await removal to the
county jail, charged with murder in the first degree.