A little later It was Patrick Higgins’ turn. He was the night-watchman Of the Maryland bridge, a tough little Irishman With a canny, humorous face, and a twist in his speech. He came humming his way to his job. “Halt!” ordered a voice. He stopped a minute, perplexed. As he told men later, “Now I didn’t know what ‘Halt!’ mint, any more Than a hog knows about a holiday.” There was a scuffle. He got away with a bullet-crease in his scalp And warned the incoming train. It was half-past-one. A moment later, a man named Shepherd Heyward, Free negro, baggage-master of the small station, Well-known in the town, hardworking, thrifty and fated, Came looking for Higgins. “Halt!” called the voice again, But he kept on, not hearing or understanding, Whichever it may have been. A rifle cracked. He fell by the station-platform, gripping his belly, And lay for twelve hours of torment, asking for water Until he was able to die. There is no stone,