The Forged Note. Micheaux Oscar

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СКАЧАТЬ furthest end from where Wyeth's office was now located, he observed a man one day. He was standing in front of the bank. He was a white man, and was tall and slender, while his complexion was sandy, his hair red and awry. His eyes were keen and piercing. "A collector," thought Sidney, for there were so many about the building, especially on Monday, and this was the day. He lurked in the entry on Tuesday, when Wyeth passed that way. "Must be a contractor, the way he is studying the inside of the bank," mumbled Wyeth, as he took the elevator upward.

      Wednesday came, gray and gloomy, and then it rained. It was four o'clock and thirty minutes in the afternoon. Sidney passed through the entry to the elevator on his way to the office of Dickson, and again the man stood there. He had drawn no conclusion as to what was the occasion of this presence, when from behind came a sound. He did something else then. So did others about him.

      "Throw up your hands, nigger, and get into that vault!" came a command.

      It was from the man he had seen, and he was holding up the bank.

      There was a silence, followed by a scuffle, then a lull, and a shot, and still later,—for the shot went wild, landing in the ceiling where it cracked the plastering, and made bits of it fall upon a score of frightened Negroes—a thud. This had not gone amiss. There was a groan and a dull sound, as some one sank to the floor. This part was witnessed by Wyeth and others. It was the teller, and the son of the bank's president. On the floor he lay bleeding, while the other was standing frightened over him. Then he looked up. Open-mouthed like dumb creatures, Negros of all shades, including the green, stood about. And then the man seemed to awaken to the emergency, and the danger.

      Those Negroes would not be dumb for all time. He sensed this aright. And then he took initiative, action. With a flash, he fired off the huge gun, and with a leap and a bound, he came forth, while Negroes, black and brown, yellow and green, and some white, fell back upon each other, in a hurry. He had plenty of room, for a time, and made use of it. Out into the hallway he must perforce come on his way to the street, and freedom. He started, but one little moment he hesitated. Then, firing again, he made his great rush. Through the hallway he dashed, and entered the street through a side door that was open before him. A moment later he was gone.

      But so were the others.

      They were led by a barber, who shaved black faces next door. He was a mulatto with a flat nose, which made his appearance grotesque. With a roar like that of a mad guerilla, he ran in hot pursuit. Away they went, all of them now, including Wyeth.

      The barber led the others by far, and in his hand, open for action, was a razor. It seemed quite large to Wyeth as it glistened in the sunlight, for the day had cleared. Perhaps he was seeing double, but he followed while the "victim"—which we shall call the other—preceded the other only slightly. The barber was breaking wind now, but gaining nevertheless.

      As Wyeth followed in that dark pursuit, a picture of the possible consequences rose before him. This Negro, scion of two races, embittered by an instance in our history that will never die, was wild. Blood, blue blood, it was he thirsted. All the hatred of a thousand or more years was now privileged, by the unwritten law, to give vent. This other has attempted crime—the robbery of the people's where-with-all. To kill him now was to get revenge, revenge upon those who have long since died—and go scott free!

      Perhaps the other appreciated this point of view.

      He rushed pellmell, wildly through the street he came into, and turned at the end up another that led, whither, he did not take time to think or to consider. It seemed impossible for the man to escape dire consequences, as Sidney Wyeth saw him now. He wished he could save him, but he did not know how. Only a few steps ahead, the culprit led the other. It was only a question of minutes—a minute. And then—horrors!

      Up this new street, which happened to be Herald, they went, and closer and closer the Negro came to the victim. He was breaking wind fearfully. A block had been covered, when, ahead to the left stood a laundry with doors wide open. Then, suddenly, when abreast of it, the victim plunged into it, but so did the barber. Others followed, and workers fell back amazed. To the rear the chase led, and then, lo! A brick wall faced the victim, with a closed door only. This door could not be opened in time! That appeared to settle it! The poor creature, frightened out of his wits, fell to the floor, and then rose to one knee, with hands stretched Heavenward. At last the end had come. The Negro now, the picture of which our pen cannot describe, stood over him with razor upraised, and eyes dancing with murder like huge coals of fire. "Don't cut me with that razor, Mister," the victim whimpered. He pushed the other back until he was against the door. For the first time in his life, Sidney Wyeth was to see a man killed. One moment he looked. The sunlight played through a transom window, falling strangely upon the blade of that poised razor. He closed his eyes to shut out the fearful sight. The next moment, he opened them as he heard a noise—a momentous instant. It was the opening of the door, against which the victim had been pushed.

      A moment later, the two went over the steps a-tumble, below; but the razor had flown in a direction which they had not gone, and the tension was relieved.

      Soon, the victim emerged from the rear, and another chase began; but the razored Negro was then far to the rear. He eluded his pursuers for a moment during the mix-up. But suddenly in chorus they cried:

      "Dere 'e goes, cetch 'im!"

      The crowd had now grown to a mob, a sullen mob. They cried out in loud tones for blood, blue blood; but the culprit was illusive. A street car was passing, and into it he vaulted. "I've shot a coon," he cried; "and the niggers are after me!" The car lunged forward as the mob reached the door, whereupon they looked into the muzzle of a revolver held in the hand of the conductor, as he commanded: "Stand back!" They did, but 'ere he had gone far, there came to his ears from the crowd in the rear:

      "'S robbed d' bank! 'Es robbed d' bank!"

      The conductor immediately rang to stop. The victim rang to go forward. The motorman obeyed the former, and the car slowed down. The victim leaped off before it came to a halt, while at the rear, the mob, howling like a bunch of savages, came on in mad fury.

      Then he tore across the street to where an old man, with bent shoulders and flowing white beard, sat half asleep in a buggy. He rushed to the side of this, and permitted the old relic to smell the muzzle, as he cried: "Unload!" The old man did, in a pile. The victim jumped in, and, jerking the whip from the socket, brought the old horse, half asleep also, to appreciate the state of affairs, by dealing him a blow that made his tail stick out, as his legs speeded up the street. The crowd roared diabolically, as they saw themselves being left to the rear; but many on bicycles gave chase, and followed in close pursuit. He suddenly drew his revolver, and let go the trigger, which made a flash, point blank in their midst. That settled it. One fell to the street with a sad, sickening cry, an arm limp at his side. The others gave up, turned back, and quickly went the other way.

      And then he disappeared.

      Wyeth had returned to the scene of the opening—so had the rest. And the crowd, combined with those who had gathered about the bank in the meantime, filled Audubon Avenue the entire length of the building, a block and a half on the side. All was uproar. Report followed report, and each flashed through the crowd with much comment. He had, so the news ran, been captured here, and everywhere. As it stood, he had not been captured at all. Opinions, expressions, conclusions and rejections were in order on all sides. One was to the effect that the big banks uptown, conducted by "whi' fo'kes," had conspired the deal on account of fear, "'cause nigga's 's a-gittin so rich 'n 'a-posit'n they money in the cullud bank, ontell dem whi' fo'kes done 'trigued' and got dat low down po' whi' man t' come and tri' t' frustrate us 'spectable cullud fo'kes." And again there came to the ears of Sidney another report, and this was one of graver concern.

      "Robbers СКАЧАТЬ