leveling his pistols as he approached. “When I count five I’ll begin to
shoot!”
He was a serious and stalwart figure as he approached, and the crowd
fell back a little.
“Git out o’ this now!” he yelled. “One--Two----”
The company turned completely and retreated, Davies among them.
“We’ll foller him when he gits further on,” said one of the men in
explanation.
“He’s got to do it,” said another. “Let him git a little ways ahead.”
The sheriff returned to his wagon and drove on. He seemed, however, to
realize that he would not be obeyed and that safety lay in haste alone.
His wagon was traveling fast. If only he could lose them or get a good
start he might possibly get to Clayton and the strong county jail by
morning. His followers, however, trailed him swiftly as might be,
determined not to be left behind.
“He’s goin’ to Baldwin,” said one of the company of which Davies was a
member.
“Where’s that?” asked Davies.
“Over west o’ here, about four miles.”
“Why is he going there?”
“That’s where he lives. I guess he thinks if he kin git ’im over there
he kin purtect ’im till he kin git more help from Clayton. I cal’late
he’ll try an’ take ’im over yet to-night, or early in the mornin’
shore.”
Davies smiled at the man’s English. This countryside lingo always
fascinated him.
Yet the men lagged, hesitating as to what to do. They did not want to
lose sight of Matthews, and yet cowardice controlled them. They did
not want to get into direct altercation with the law. It wasn’t their
place to hang the man, although plainly they felt that he ought to be
hanged, and that it would be a stirring and exciting thing if he were.
Consequently they desired to watch and be on hand--to get old Whitaker
and his son Jake, if they could, who were out looking elsewhere. They
wanted to see what the father and brother would do.
The quandary was solved by one of the men, who suggested that they
could get to Baldwin by going back to Pleasant Valley and taking the
Sand River pike, and that in the meantime they might come upon Whitaker
and his son en route, or leave word at his house. It was a shorter cut
than this the sheriff was taking, although he would get there first
now. Possibly they could beat him at least to Clayton, if he attempted
to go on. The Clayton road was back via Pleasant Valley, or near it,
and easily intercepted. Therefore, while one or two remained to trail
the sheriff and give the alarm in case he did attempt to go on to
Clayton, the rest, followed by Davies, set off at a gallop to Pleasant
Valley. It was nearly dusk now when they arrived and stopped at the
corner store--supper time. The fires of evening meals were marked by
upcurling smoke from chimneys. Here, somehow, the zest to follow seemed
to depart. Evidently the sheriff had worsted them for the night. Morg
Whitaker, the father, had not been found; neither had Jake. Perhaps
they had better eat. Two or three had already secretly fallen away.
They were telling the news of what had occurred so far to one of the
two storekeepers who kept the place, when suddenly Jake Whitaker, the
girl’s brother, and several companions came riding up. They had been
scouring the territory to the north of the town, and were hot and
tired. Plainly they were unaware of the developments of which the crowd
had been a part.
“The sheriff’s got ’im!” exclaimed one of the company, with that
blatance which always accompanies the telling of great news in small
rural companies. “He taken him over to Baldwin in a wagon a coupla
hours ago.”
“Which way did he go?” asked the son, whose hardy figure, worn,
hand-me-down clothes and rakish hat showed up picturesquely as he
turned here and there on his horse.
“’Cross Sellers’ Lane. You won’t git ’em that-a-way, though, Jake. He’s
already over there by now. Better take the short cut.”
A babble of voices now made the scene more interesting. One told how
the negro had been caught, another that the sheriff was defiant, a
third that men were still tracking him or over there watching, until
all the chief points of the drama had been spoken if not heard.
Instantly suppers were forgotten. The whole customary order of the
evening was overturned once more. The company started off on another
excited jaunt, up hill and down dale, through the lovely country that
lay between Baldwin and Pleasant Valley.
By now Davies was very weary of this procedure and of his saddle. He
wondered when, if ever, this story was to culminate, let alone he
write it. Tragic as it might prove, he could not nevertheless spend
an indefinite period trailing a possibility, and yet, so great was
the potentiality of the present situation, he dared not leave. By
contrast with the horror impending, as he now noted, the night was so
beautiful that it was all but poignant. Stars were already beginning
to shine. Distant lamps twinkled like yellow eyes from the cottages in
the valleys and on the hillsides. The air was fresh and tender. Some
peafowls were crying afar off, and the east promised a golden moon.
Silently the assembled company trotted on--no more than a score in
all. In the dusk, and with Jake ahead, it seemed too grim a pilgrimage
for joking. Young Jake, riding silently toward the front, looked as
if tragedy were all he craved. His friends seemed considerately to
withdraw from him, seeing that he was the aggrieved.
After an hour’s riding Baldwin came into view, lying in a sheltering
cup of low hills. Already its lights were twinkling softly and there
was still an air of honest firesides and cheery suppers about it which
appealed to Davies in his hungry state. Still, he had no thought now of
anything save this pursuit.
Once in the village, the company was greeted by calls of recognition.
Everybody seemed to know what they had come for. The sheriff and his
charge were still there, so a dozen citizens volunteered. The local
storekeepers and loungers followed the cavalcade up the street to the
sheriff’s house, for the riders had now fallen into a solemn walk.
“You won’t get him though, boys,” said one whom Davies later learned
was Seavey, the village postmaster and telegraph operator, a rather
youthful person of between twenty-five and thirty, as they passed his
door. “He’s got two deputies in there with him, or did have, and they
say he’s going to take him over to Clayton.”
At the first street corner they were joined by the several men who had
followed the sheriff.
“He tried to give us the slip,” they volunteered excitedly, “but he’s
got the nigger in the house, there, down in the cellar. The deputies
ain’t with him. They’ve gone somewhere for help--Clayton, maybe.”
“How do you know?”
“We saw ’em go out that back way. We think we did, anyhow.”
A hundred feet from the sheriff’s little white cottage, which backed up
against a sloping field, the men parleyed. Then Jake announced that he
proposed to go boldly up to the sheriff’s door and demand the negro.
“If he don’t turn him out I’ll break in the door an’ take him!” he said.
“That’s right! We’ll stand by you, Whitaker,” commented several.
By now the throng of unmounted natives had gathered. The whole village
was up and about, its one street alive and running with people. Heads
appeared at doors and windows. Riders pranced up and down, hallooing. A
few revolver shots were heard. Presently the mob gathered even closer
to the sheriff’s gate, and Jake stepped forward as leader. Instead,
however, of going boldly up to the door as at first it appeared he
would, he stopped at the gate, calling to the sheriff.
“Hello, Mathews!”
“Eh, eh, eh!” bellowed the crowd.
The call was repeated. Still no answer. Apparently to the sheriff
delay appeared to be his one best weapon.
Their coming, however, was not as unexpected as some might have
thought. The figure of the sheriff was plainly to be seen close to
one of the front windows. He appeared to be holding a double-barreled
shotgun. The negro, as it developed later, was cowering and chattering
in the darkest corner of the cellar, hearkening no doubt to the voices
and firing of the revolvers outside.
Suddenly, and just as Jake was about to go forward, the front door of
the house flew open, and in the glow of a single lamp inside appeared
first the double-barreled end of the gun, followed immediately by the
form of Mathews, who held the weapon poised ready for a quick throw to
the shoulder. All except Jake fell back.
“Mr. Mathews,” he called deliberately, “we want that nigger!”
“Well, you can’t git ’im!” replied the sheriff. “He’s not here.”
“Then what you got that gun fer?” yelled a voice.
Mathews made no answer.
“Better give him up, Mathews,” called another, who was safe in the
crowd, “or we’ll come in an’ take him!”
“No you won’t,” said the sheriff defiantly. “I said the man wasn’t
here. I say it ag’in. You couldn’t have him if he was, an’ you can’t
come in my house! Now if you people don’t want trouble you’d better go
on away.”
“He’s down in the cellar!” yelled another.
“Why don’t you let us see?” asked another.
Mathews waved his gun slightly.
“You’d better go away from here now,” cautioned the sheriff. “I’m
tellin’ ye! I’ll have warrants out for the lot o’ ye, if ye don’t mind!”
The crowd continued to simmer and stew, while Jake stood as before. He
was very pale and tense, but lacked initiative.
“He won’t shoot,” called some one at the back of the crowd. “Why don’t
you go in, Jake, an’ git him?”
“Sure! Rush in. That’s it!” observed a second.
“He won’t, eh?” replied the sheriff softly. Then he added in a
lower tone, “The first man that comes inside that gate takes the
consequences.”
No one ventured inside the gate; many even fell back. It seemed as if
the planned assault had come to nothing.
“Why not go around the back way?” called some one else.
“Try it!” replied the sheriff. “See what you find on that side! I told
you you couldn’t come inside. You’d better go away from here now before
ye git into trouble,” he repeated. “You can’t come in, an’ it’ll only
mean bloodshed.”
There was more chattering and jesting while the sheriff stood on guard.
He, however, said no more. Nor did he allow the banter, turmoil and
lust for tragedy to disturb him. Only, he kept his eye on Jake, on
whose movements the crowd seemed to hang.
Time passed, and still nothing was done. The truth was that young Jake,
put to the test, was not sufficiently courageous himself, for all his
daring, and felt the weakness of the crowd behind him. To all intents
and purposes he was alone, for he did not inspire confidence. He
finally fell back a little, observing, “I’ll git ’im before mornin’,
all right,” and now the crowd itself began to disperse, returning to
its stores and homes or standing about the postoffice and the one
village drugstore. Finally, Davies smiled and came away. He was sure he
had the story of a defeated mob. The sheriff was to be his great hero.
He proposed to interview him later. For the present, he meant to seek
out Seavey, the telegraph operator, and arrange to file a message, then
see if something to eat was not to be had somewhere.
After a time he found the operator and told him what he wanted--to
write and file a story as he wrote it. The latter indicated a table
in the little postoffice and telegraph station which he could use. He
became very much interested in the reporter when he learned he was from
the _Times_, and when Davies asked where he could get something to eat
said he would run across the street and tell the proprietor of the only
boarding house to fix him something which he could consume as he wrote.
He appeared to be interested in how a newspaper man would go about
telling a story of this kind over a wire.
“You start your story,” he said, “and I’ll come back and see if I can
get the _Times_ on the wire.”
Davies sat down and began his account. He was intent on describing
things to date, the uncertainty and turmoil, the apparent victory of
the sheriff. Plainly the courage of the latter had won, and it was all
so picturesque. “A foiled lynching,” he began, and as he wrote the
obliging postmaster, who had by now returned, picked up the pages and
carefully deciphered them for himself.
“That’s all right. I’ll see if I can get the _Times_ now,” he commented.
“Very obliging postmaster,” thought Davies as he wrote, but he had so
often encountered pleasant and obliging people on his rounds that he
soon dropped that thought.
The food was brought, and still Davies wrote on, munching as he did so.
In a little while the _Times_ answered an often-repeated call.
“Davies at Baldwin,” ticked the postmaster, “get ready for quite a
story!”
“Let ’er go!” answered the operator at the _Times_, who had been
expecting this dispatch.
As the events of the day formulated themselves in his mind, Davies
wrote and turned over page after page. Between whiles he looked out
through the small window before him where afar off he could see a
lonely light twinkling against a hillside. Not infrequently he stopped
his work to see if anything new was happening, whether the situation
was in any danger of changing, but apparently it was not. He then
proposed to remain until all possibility of a tragedy, this night
anyhow, was eliminated. The operator also wandered about, waiting for
an accumulation of pages upon which he could work but making sure to
keep up with the writer. The two became quite friendly.
Finally, his dispatch nearly finished, he asked the postmaster to
caution the night editor at K---- to the effect, that if anything more
happened before one in the morning he would file it, but not to expect
anything more as nothing might happen. The reply came that he was to
remain and await developments. Then he and the postmaster sat down to
talk.
About eleven o’clock, when both had about convinced themselves that
all was over for this night anyhow, and the lights in the village had
all but vanished, a stillness of the purest, summery-est, country-est
quality having settled down, a faint beating of hoofs, which seemed
to suggest the approach of a large cavalcade, could be heard out on
the Sand River pike as Davies by now had come to learn it was, back or
northwest of the postoffice. At the sound the postmaster got up, as did
Davies, both stepping outside and listening. On it came, and as the
volume increased, the former said, “Might be help for the sheriff, but
I doubt it. I telegraphed Clayton six times to-day. They wouldn’t come
that way, though. It’s the wrong road.” Now, thought Davies nervously,
after all there might be something to add to his story, and he had so
wished that it was all over! Lynchings, as he now felt, were horrible
things. He wished people wouldn’t do such things--take the law, which
now more than ever he respected, into their own hands. It was too
brutal, cruel. That negro cowering there in the dark probably, and the
sheriff all taut and tense, worrying over his charge and his duty, were
not happy things to contemplate in the face of such a thing as this.
It was true that the crime which had been committed was dreadful, but
still why couldn’t people allow the law to take its course? It was so
much better. The law was powerful enough to deal with cases of this
kind.
“They’re comin’ back, all right,” said the postmaster solemnly, as he
and Davies stared in the direction of the sound which grew louder from
moment to moment.
“It’s not any help from Clayton, I’m afraid.”
“By George, I think you’re right!” answered the reporter, something
telling him that more trouble was at hand. “Here they come!”
As he spoke there was a clattering of hoofs and crunching of saddle
girths as a large company of men dashed up the road and turned into the
narrow street of the village, the figure of Jake Whitaker and an older
bearded man in a wide black hat riding side by side in front.
“There’s Jake,” said the postmaster, “and that’s his father riding
beside him there. The old man’s a terror when he gets his dander up.
Sompin’s sure to happen now.”
Davies realized that in his absence writing a new turn had been given
to things. Evidently the son had returned to Pleasant Valley and
organized a new posse or gone out to meet his father.
Instantly the place was astir again. Lights appeared in doorways and
windows, and both were thrown open. People were leaning or gazing
out to see what new movement was afoot. Davies noted at once that
there was none of the brash enthusiasm about this company such as had
characterized the previous descent. There was grimness everywhere, and
he now began to feel that this was the beginning of the end. After the
cavalcade had passed down the street toward the sheriff’s house, which
was quite dark now, he ran after it, arriving a few moments after the
former which was already in part dismounted. The townspeople followed.
The sheriff, as it now developed, had not relaxed any of his vigilance,
however; he was not sleeping, and as the crowd reappeared the light
inside reappeared.
By the light of the moon, which was almost overhead, Davies was able to
make out several of his companions of the afternoon, and Jake, the son.
There were many more, though, now, whom he did not know, and foremost
among them this old man.
The latter was strong, iron-gray, and wore a full beard. He looked very
much like a blacksmith.
“Keep your eye on the old man,” advised the postmaster, who had by now
come up and was standing by.
While they were still looking, the old man went boldly forward to the
little front porch of the house and knocked at the door. Some one
lifted a curtain at the window and peeped out.
“Hello, in there!” cried the old man, knocking again.
“What do you want?” asked a voice.
“I want that nigger!”
“Well, you can’t have him! I’ve told you people that once.”
“Bring him out or I’ll break down the door!” said the old man.
“If you do it’s at your own risk. I know you, Whitaker, an’ you know
me. I’ll give ye two minutes to get off that porch!”
“I want that nigger, I tell ye!”
“If ye don’t git off that porch I’ll fire through the door,” said the
voice solemnly. “One--Two----”
The old man backed cautiously away.
“Come out, Mathews!” yelled the crowd. “You’ve got to give him up this
time. We ain’t goin’ back without him.”
Slowly the door opened, as if the individual within were very well
satisfied as to his power to handle the mob. He had done it once before
this night, why not again? It revealed his tall form, armed with his
shotgun. He looked around very stolidly, and then addressed the old man
as one would a friend.
“Ye can’t have him, Morgan,” he said. “It’s ag’in’ the law. You know
that as well as I do.”
“Law or no law,” said the old man, “I want that nigger!”
“I tell you I can’t let you have him, Morgan. It’s ag’in’ the law. You
know you oughtn’t to be comin’ around here at this time o’ night actin’
so.”
“Well, I’ll take him then,” said the old man, making a move.
“Stand back!” shouted the sheriff, leveling his gun on the instant.
“I’ll blow ye into kingdom come, sure as hell!”
A noticeable movement on the part of the crowd ceased. The sheriff
lowered his weapon as if he thought the danger were once more over.
“You-all ought to be ashamed of yerselves,” he went on, his voice
sinking to a gentle neighborly reproof, “tryin’ to upset the law this
way.”
“The nigger didn’t upset no law, did he?” asked one derisively.
“Well, the law’s goin’ to take care of the nigger now,” Mathews made
answer.
“Give us that scoundrel, Mathews; you’d better do it,” said the old
man. “It’ll save a heap o’ trouble.”
“I’ll not argue with ye, Morgan. I said ye couldn’t have him, an’ ye
can’t. If ye want bloodshed, all right. But don’t blame me. I’ll kill
the first man that tries to make a move this way.”
He shifted his gun handily and waited. The crowd stood outside his
little fence murmuring.
Presently the old man retired and spoke to several others. There was
more murmuring, and then he came back to the dead line.
“We don’t want to cause trouble, Mathews,” he began explanatively,
moving his hand oratorically, “but we think you ought to see that it
won’t do any good to stand out. We think that----”
Davies and the postmaster were watching young Jake, whose peculiar
attitude attracted their attention. The latter was standing poised at
the edge of the crowd, evidently seeking to remain unobserved. His eyes
were on the sheriff, who was hearkening to the old man. Suddenly, as
the father talked and when the sheriff seemed for a moment mollified
and unsuspecting, he made a quick run for the porch. There was an
intense movement all along the line as the life and death of the deed
became apparent. Quickly the sheriff drew his gun to his shoulder. Both
triggers were pressed at the same time, and the gun spoke, but not
before Jake was in and under him. The latter had been in sufficient
time to knock the gun barrel upward and fall upon his man. Both shots
blazed harmlessly over the heads of the crowd in red puffs, and then
followed a general onslaught. Men leaped the fence by tens and crowded
upon the little cottage. They swarmed about every side of the house and
crowded upon the porch, where four men were scuffling with the sheriff.
The latter soon gave up, vowing vengeance and the law. Torches were
brought, and a rope. A wagon drove up and was backed into the yard.
Then began the calls for the negro.
As Davies contemplated all this he could not help thinking of the negro
who during all this turmoil must have been crouching in his corner in
the cellar, trembling for his fate. Now indeed he must realize that his
end was near. He could not have dozed or lost consciousness during the
intervening hours, but must have been cowering there, wondering and
praying. All the while he must have been terrified lest the sheriff
might not get him away in time. Now, at the sound of horses’ feet and
the new murmurs of contention, how must his body quake and his teeth
chatter!
“I’d hate to be that nigger,” commented the postmaster grimly, “but you
can’t do anything with ’em. The county oughta sent help.”
“It’s horrible, horrible!” was all Davies could say.
He moved closer to the house, with the crowd, eager to observe every
detail of the procedure. Now it was that a number of the men, as eager
in their search as bloodhounds, appeared at a low cellar entryway at
the side of the house carrying a rope. Others followed with torches.
Headed by father and son they began to descend into the dark hole. With
impressive daring, Davies, who was by no means sure that he would be
allowed but who was also determined if possible to see, followed.
Suddenly, in the farthest corner, he espied Ingalls. The latter in his
fear and agony had worked himself into a crouching position, as if he
were about to spring. His nails were apparently forced into the earth.
His eyes were rolling, his mouth foaming.
“Oh, my Lawd, boss,” he moaned, gazing almost as one blind, at the
lights, “oh, my Lawd, boss, don’t kill me! I won’t do it no mo’. I
didn’t go to do it. I didn’t mean to dis time. I was just drunk,
boss. Oh, my Lawd! My Lawd!” His teeth chattered the while his mouth
seemed to gape open. He was no longer sane really, but kept repeating
monotonously, “Oh, my Lawd!”
“Here he is, boys! Pull him out,” cried the father.
The negro now gave one yell of terror and collapsed, falling prone. He
quite bounded as he did so, coming down with a dead chug on the earthen
floor. Reason had forsaken him. He was by now a groveling, foaming
brute. The last gleam of intelligence was that which notified him of
the set eyes of his pursuers.
Davies, who by now had retreated to the grass outside before this
sight, was standing but ten feet back when they began to reappear after
seizing and binding him. Although shaken to the roots of his being, he
still had all the cool observing powers of the trained and relentless
reporter. Even now he noted the color values of the scene, the red,
smoky heads of the torches, the disheveled appearance of the men, the
scuffling and pulling. Then all at once he clapped his hands over his
mouth, almost unconscious of what he was doing.
“Oh, my God!” he whispered, his voice losing power.
The sickening sight was that of the negro, foaming at the mouth,
bloodshot as to his eyes, his hands working convulsively, being
dragged up the cellar steps feet foremost. They had tied a rope about
his waist and feet, and so had hauled him out, leaving his head to hang
and drag. The black face was distorted beyond all human semblance.