A storm was gathering and the sheriff thought by hard riding he
might reach the nearest railway station before it broke. He knew his
prisoner’s life depended upon his getting him to a place of safety with
all speed. The whole country was alive with armed men.
Far off the ordnance of the sky boomed as the battle of the elements
began. The lightning cut the clouds and soon the rain came, a dark
falling wall. As far as the eye could bore into the darkness, only one
light could be seen. They dared not take shelter under the roof of any
man. So the sheriff and his men rode on through the storm, picking
their way as best they could.
Drenched and fagged, they reached the station only to find that the
Elkhorn trestle had sustained some damage and in consequence delayed
the Georgetown train. It would probably be three hours before the wreck
could be repaired.
The position of the sheriff was now serious; he could not think of such
folly as remaining there at the mercy of the telegraph wires; he must
try to make the trip by the river road and that, too, before daybreak.
A pint of whiskey was brought from the little corner saloon and the
party determined to start out again. The horses still bearing marks of
hard riding stood in waiting. As they set off the rain ceased, the
clouds broke and the moon came out brightly. Soon the sheriff thought
he heard the sound of a gun, the signal that the searchers were on his
track. They quickened their pace.
“We are treed, I am afraid,” he said to his companions, and he could
almost see the mob surrounding them, and their pitiless joy after the
humiliation of having for awhile lost the trail.
The prisoner began to show signs of anxiety. Every sound startled him
and he kept looking expectantly about. The men urged their horses and
rode on in a state of nervous tension to the ford where they must cross
the river. It was away out of its banks. They halted and there was a
moment’s silence.
“She looks pretty high. What do you say?” asked the sheriff of one of
his deputies.
The man shook his head forbiddingly. To attempt to cross the river
would be running a frightful risk.
“There goes a gun again.”
It required no longer an effort of the imagination to hear it. It was
a fact and with all the terror that reality possesses, the prisoner
shuddered, his restless eyeballs full of fear rolling wildly.
The sheriff tried to collect his startled thoughts and resist the
strange certainty which possessed him. His own frame felt the shudder
that convulsed the form behind him.
“Well!” he asked, once more addressing his deputy, “what say you?”
“We’ll take the danger before us,” the other answered and, touching
their horses, they plunged in. Half way across, the sheriff
convulsively seized his horse’s neck for he could not swim. He was
struggling desperately against the waves, clinging frantically around
the neck of his swimming horse, when he heard a cry:
“Great God, he’s gone!” and turning to look behind him, he saw that the
negro had disappeared into the water. All eyes turned toward the spot
where the manacled wretch had gone down.
The drowning man arose to the surface a dizzy moment then sank again
as quickly. Not a cry, not a word could be heard. The river went on
booming heavily, its hoarse roar rising to a deafening intensity. The
chief deputy, meanwhile, had managed to slip from his horse and float
down stream, and with a violent swinging movement he succeeded in
thrusting one arm between the negro’s handcuffed ones and sustaining
him, just as he rose for the last time. Supporting him against his
horse an instant he tightened his hold, that he might keep both heads
above water. He was taking desperate chances against tremendous odds.
With an indescribable feeling, the sheriff looked on but could render
no assistance. The swimmer fought hard, but, after pulling some
distance, it seemed clear that he had miscalculated his strength. Inch
by inch, the two swept downward, notwithstanding the almost superhuman
efforts of the desperate deputy. Gradually his stroke became more
feeble and he saw the gap between them and the bank grow wider, the
lost inches grew to feet, the feet to yards, and finally with utter
despair, he thought the whole world had turned to water. He felt
terrified. Exhaustion could be distinguished in all his limbs and his
arms felt miserably dragged. He was going, not forward, but round and
round, and with dizziness came unconsciousness.
The next thing he remembered was an awful stiffness in every joint and
muscle, a scent of whiskey, and the sheriff kneeling beside him upon
the wet ground, forcing the warm liquid through his lips. As he gazed
about him, he slowly asked:
“Did that d----d nigger die after all?”
The sheriff had not time to tell him that the negro was safe, for the
next minute there came a volley of yells and sounds of oaths with the
dull thunder of rapidly advancing hoofbeats, and before either man
could speak again, a party of armed riders reined up in front of the
ford.
“Stop! men, stop!” The sheriff’s voice was heard eagerly hailing those
on the opposite side. “You will risk your lives to try to cross here.”
The quivering negro, terrified by the idea that the pursuers were upon
them, made an effort to rise.
“My God! don’t let them take me! Don’t give me up!”
There was something savage and frenzied in the accent that went with
those words. He clutched at the sheriff’s knees, his eyes became wild
and fixed and filled with terror.
“We must have your prisoner,” someone shouted. “Will you surrender him?”
“Not yet,” was the sheriff’s answer. “I deliver him only to the law.”
“You’ll give him up!” cried a score of determined voices.
“Never! Never!”
“Then we will fire on him!”
Like a flash, the sheriff jumped in front of his prisoner. “Fire
ahead,” he said.
The next instant, there were a number of reports. All but one had fired
in the air.
“Cowards!” yelled the leader, “kill ’em all!”
“Look here,” answered one, “that sheriff lives neighbor to me.”
“We’re out for the nigger, not a white man!” said another. “Wait boys,
we’ll get him yet!”
The sheriff calmly mounted, forming a bar between the rifles and his
prisoner and rode away, leaving the mob to await the fall of the
stream. Half an hour later they reached the jail.
“Chloe Carr,” the sheriff distinctly pronounced her name, as he
summoned the negro cook, “did you ever see this man before?”
“Yas, sah.”
“Will you tell me when and where?”
The prisoner made a desperate sign, his fiendish face blazing with
mingled rage and terror. Wildly he shook his head. “She lies!” he
growled, with a sudden threatening movement. “She never saw me before.”
An animal-like snarl came from his throat. His face was shining with
sweat, the veins of his neck were twisted and knotted. His body shook
with savage fear, and the woman trembled.
She said excitedly: “He’s de one I saw pass de do’ awhile befo’ Miss
Dor’thy was found dead. I give him a drink ov water.”
The prisoner was in a frenzy now. Fiercely he glared like a great
black beast, caged. The woman saw the officers fairly carry him into
the cell, but she felt less fear than sorrow now, as her heart was
full of the memory of the girl she had loved and had watched from the
cradle-side.