the city jail. There is no use your trying to escape, because my two
boys'll be about here all day with their repeating rifles, and they can
shoot.”
“Yes, suh.”
“And whoever unlocks this door and tells you to come out, you do it, and do
it quick.”
“Yes, suh.”
Locking the door, the sheriff turned to his son. “You and Charlie must
watch that door all day, Willie,” he said; “but you musn't seem to watch
it; and keep your guns handy, and if that nigger tries to get away, kill
him; don't hesitate. I must go back to the jail and make out like he's
there. And tell Charlie to feed the horse and hitch him to the buggy, and
let him stand ready in the stable, for when I'll want him I'll want him
quick. Above all things, don't let anybody know that the nigger's here. But
keep the cellar key in your pocket, and shoot if he tries to run. If your
uncle Jim comes, do whatever he tells you, but nobody else, lessen they
bring a note from me. Now remember. I'm trusting you, boy; and don't you
make any mistake about killing the nigger if he tries to escape.”
“All right,” the boy answered, cheerfully, and the father went away. He
almost ran to the jail, and entering once more by the back door, found
things undisturbed. Presently his brother called to him, and the gates and
doors being opened, came in, bringing a waiter of hot food and coffee.
“I told Jinnie you'd not like to leave the jail,” he said, “an' she fixed
this up.”
“Jinnie's mighty good,” the sheriff answered, “and sometimes a woman's
mighty handy to have about--sometimes; but I'd not leave one out in the
country like Mr. Morris did; no, sir, not in these days. We could do it
before the war and during the war, but not now. The old niggers were taught
some decency; but these young ones! God help us, for I don't see any safety
for this country 'cept Judge Lynch. And I'll tell you this is my first an'
last term as sheriff. The work's too dirty.”
“Buck Thomas was a boss sheriff,” his brother answered; “he found the
niggers all right, but the niggers never found the jail, and the niggers
were 'fraid to death of him.”
“Maybe Buck was right,” the sheriff said, “and 'twas heap the easiest way;
but here comes the town.”
The two men went to the window and saw a crowd of people advancing down the
road, led by Mr. Morris and his friends on horseback.
“I b'lieve you're the only man in this town that'll stand by me, Jim,” the
sheriff said. “I swore in six last night, and I see 'em all in that crowd.
Poor Mr. Morris! in his place I'd do just what he's doin'. Blest if yonder
ain't Doty Buxton comin' to help me! I'll let him in; but see here, Jim,
I'm goin' to send Doty to telegraph to the city for Judge More, and I want
you to slip out the back way right now, and run to my house, and tell
Willie to give you the buggy and the nigger, and you drive that nigger into
the city. Of course you'll kill him if he tries to escape.”
“The nigger ain't here!”
“I'm no fool, Jim. And I'll hold this jail, me and Doty, as long as
possible, and you drive like hell! You see?”
“I didn't know you really _wanted_ to save the nigger,” his brother
remonstrated; “nobody b'lieves that”
“I don't, as a nigger. But you go on now, and I'll send Doty with the
telegram, and make time by talkin' to Mr. Morris. I don't think they've
found anything; if they had, they'd have come a-galloping, and the devil
himself couldn't have stopped 'em. Gosh, but it's awful! Who knows what
that nigger's done When I look at Mr. Morris, I wish you fellers had
overpowered me last night and had fixed things.”
He let his brother out at the back, then went round to the front gate,
where he met the man whom he called Doty Buxton.
“Go telegraph Judge More the facts of the case,” he said, “an' ask him to
come. I don't believe I'll need any men if he'll come; and besides, he and
Mr. Morris are friends.”
As the man turned away, one of the horsemen rode up to the sheriff.
“We demand that negro,” he said.
“I supposed that was what you'd come for, Mr. Mitchell,” the sheriff
answered; “but you know, sir, that as much as I'd like to oblige you, I'm
bound to protect the man. He swears that he's never touched Mrs. Morris.”
“Great God, sheriff! how can you mention the thing quietly? You know--”
“Yes, I know; and I know that I'll never do the dirty work of a sheriff a
day after my term's up. But we haven't any proof against this nigger except
that he ran away--”
“Isn't that enough when the lady can't be found, nor a trace of her?”
“I found the hatchet.”
“And--!”
“It was clean, thank God!”
Mr. Mitchell jerked the reins so violently that his horse, tired as he was,
reared and plunged.
“Mr. Morris declines to speak with you,” he went on, when the horse had
quieted down, “but he's determined that the negro shall not escape, and the
whole county'll back him.”
“I know that,” the sheriff answered, patiently, “and in his place I'd do
the same thing; but in my place I must do my official duty. I'll not let
the nigger escape, you may be sure of that, and I've telegraphed for Judge
More to come out here. I've telegraphed the whole case. Surely Mr.
Morris'll trust Judge More?”
Mitchell dragged at his mustache. “Poor Morris is nearly dead,” he said.
“Of course; won't he go and eat and rest till Judge More comes? Every house
in the town'll be open to him.”
“No; he'll not wait nor rest; and we're determined to hang that negro.”
“It'll be mighty hard to shed our blood--friends and neighbors,”
remonstrated the sheriff--“and all over a worthless nigger.”
“That's your lookout,” Mr. Mitchell answered. “A trial and a big funeral is
glory for a negro, and the penitentiary means nothing to them but free
board and clothes. I tell you, sheriff, lynching is the only thing that
affects them.”
“You won't wait even until I get an answer from Judge More?”
“Well, to please you, I'll ask.” And Mitchell rode back to his companions.
The conference between the leaders was longer than the sheriff had hoped,
and before he was again approached Doty Buxton had returned, saying that
Judge More's answer would be sent to the jail just as soon as it came.
“You'll stand by me, Doty?” the sheriff asked.
“'Cause I like you, Mr. Partin,” Doty answered, slowly; “not 'cause I want
to save the nigger. I b'lieve in my soul he's done drowned the po' lady's
body.”
“All right; you go inside and be ready to chain the gate if I am run in.”
Then he waited for the return of the envoy.
John Morris sat on his horse quite apart even from his own friends, and
after a few words with him, Mitchell had gone to the group of horsemen
about whom the townsmen were gathered. The sheriff did not know what this
portended, but he waited patiently, leaning against the wall of the jail
and whittling a stick. He knew quite well that all these men were friendly
to him; that they understood his position perfectly, and that they expected
him to pretend to do his duty to a reasonable extent, and so far their
good-nature would last; but he knew equally well that in their eyes the
negro had put himself beyond the pale of the law; that they were determined
to hang him and would do it at any cost; and that the only mercy which the
culprit could expect from this upper class to which Mr. Morris belonged was
that his death would be quick and quiet. He knew also that if they found
out that he was in earnest in defending the prisoner he himself would be in
danger not only from Mr. Morris and his friends, but from the townsmen as
well. Of course all this could be avoided by showing them that the jail was
empty; but to do this would be at this stage to insure the fugitive's
capture and death. To save the negro he must hold the jail as long as
possible, and if he had to shoot, shoot into the ground. All this was quite
clear to him; what was not clear was what these men would do when they
found that he had saved the negro, and they had stormed an empty jail.
He was an old soldier, and had been in many battles; he had fought hardest
when he knew that things were most hopeless; he had risked his life
recklessly, and death had been as nothing to him when he had thought that
he would die for his country. But now--now to risk his life for a negro,
for a worthless creature who he thought deserved hanging--was this his
duty? Why not say, “I have sent the negro to the city”? How quickly those
fierce horsemen would dash away down the road! Well, why not? He drew
himself up. He was not going to turn coward at this late day. His duty lay
very plain before him, and he would not flinch. And he fixed his eyes once
more on the little stick he was cutting, and waited.
Presently he saw a movement in the crowd, and the thought flashed across
him that they might capture him suddenly while he stood there alone and
unarmed. He stepped quickly to the gate, where Doty Buxton waited, and
standing in the opening, asked the crowd to stand back, and to send Mr.
Mitchell to tell him what the decision was. There was a moment's pause;
then Mitchell rode forward.
“Mr. Morris says that Judge More cannot help matters. The negro must die,
and at once. We don't want to hurt you, and we don't want to destroy public
property, but we are going to have that wretch if we have to burn the jail
down. Will you stop all this by delivering the prisoner to us?”
The sheriff shook his head. “I can't do that, sir. But one thing I do ask,
that you'll give me warning before you set fire to the jail.”
“If that'll make you give up, we'll set fire now.”
“I didn't say it'd make me surrender, but only that I'd like to throw a few
things out--like Doty Buxton, for instance,” smiling a little.
“All right; when we stop trying to break in, we'll be making ready to smoke
you out. The jail's empty but for this negro, I hear.”
“Yes, the jail's empty; but don't you think you oughter give me a little
time to weigh matters?”
“Is there any chance of your surrendering?”
“To be perfectly honest,” the sheriff answered, “there isn't.” Then, seeing
the crowd approaching, he slipped inside the heavy gate, and Doty Buxton
chained it. “Now, Doty,” he said, “we'll peep through these auger-holes and
watch 'em; and when you see' em coming near, you must shoot through these
lower holes. Shoot into the ground just in front of 'em. It's nasty to have
the dirt jumpin' up right where you've got to walk. I know how it feels. I
always wanted to hold up both feet at once. I reckon they've gone to get a
log to batter down the gate. They can do it, but I'll make 'em take as long
as I can. We musn't hurt anybody, Doty, but we must protect the State
property as far as we're able. Here they come! Keep the dirt dancin', Doty.
See that? They don't like it. I told you they'd want to take up both feet
at once. When bullets are flying round your head, you can't help yourself,
but it's hard to put your feet down right where the nasty little things are
peckin' about. Here they come again! Keep it up, Doty. See that? They've
stopped again. They ain't real mad with me, yet, the boys ain't; only Mr.
Morris and his friends are mad. The boys think I'm just pretending to do my
duty for the looks of it; but I ain't. Gosh! Now they've fixed it! With Mr.
Morris at the front end of that log, there's no hope of scare. He'd walk
over dynamite to get that nigger. Poor feller! Here they come at a run!
Don't hurt anybody, Doty. Bang! Wait; I'll call a halt by knocking on the
gate; it'll gain us a little more time.”
“What do you want?” came in answer to the sheriff's taps.
“I'll arrest every man of you for destroying State property,” the sheriff
answered.
“All right; come do it quick,” was the response. “We're waitin', but we
won't wait long.”
“I reckon we'll have to go inside, Doty,” the sheriff said; then to the
attacking party, “If you'll wait till Judge More comes, I promise you the
nigger'll hang.”
For answer there was another blow on the gate.
“Remember, I've warned you!” the sheriff called.
“Hush that rot,” was the answer, followed by a third blow.
The sheriff and Doty retreated to the jail, and the attack went on. It was
a two-story building of wood, but very strongly built, and unless they
tried fire the sheriff hoped to keep the besiegers at bay for a little
while yet. He stationed Doty at one window, and himself took position at
another, each with loaded pistols, which were only to be used as before--to
make “the dirt jump.”
“To tell you the truth, Doty,” the sheriff said, “if you boys had had any
sense, you'd have overpowered me last night, and we'd not have had all this
trouble.”
“We wanted to,” Doty answered, “but you're new at the business, an' you
talked so big we didn't like to make you feel little.”
“Here they come!” the sheriff went on, as the stout gate swayed inwards.
“One more good lick an' it's down. That's it. Now keep the dirt dancin',
Doty, but don't hurt anybody.”
Mr. Morris was in the lead, and apparently did not see the “dancin' dirt,”
for he approached the jail at a run.
“It's no use, Doty,” the sheriff said; “all we can do is to wait till they
get in, for I'm not going to shoot anybody. It may be wrong to lynch, but
in a case like this it's the rightest wrong that ever was.” So the sheriff
sat there thinking, while Doty watched the attack from the window.
According to his calculations of time and distance, the sheriff thought
that the prisoner was now so far on his way as to be almost out of danger
by pursuit, and his mind was busy with the other question as to what would
happen when the jail was found to be empty. He had not heard from Judge
More, but the answer could not have reached him after the attack began. He
felt sure that the judge would come, and come by the earliest train, which
was now nearly due.
“The old man'll come if he can,” he said to himself, “and he'll help me if
he comes; and I wish the train would hurry.”
He felt glad when he remembered that he had given the keys of the cells to
his brother, for though he would try to save further destruction of
property by telling the mob that the jail was empty, he felt quite sure
that they would not believe him, and in default of keys, would break open
every door in the building; which obstinacy would grant him more time in
which to hope for Judge More and arbitration. That it was possible for him
to slip out once the besiegers had broken in never occurred to him; his
only thought was to stay where he was until the end came, whatever that
might be. They were taking longer than he had expected, and every moment
was a gain.
Doty Buxton came in from the hall, where he had gone to watch operations.
“The do' is givin',” he said; “what'll you do?”
“Nothin',” the sheriff answered, slowly.
“Won't you give 'em the keys?”
“I haven't got 'em.”
“Gosh!” and Doty's eyes got big as saucers.
Very soon the outer door was down, and the crowd came trooping in, all save
John Morris, who stopped in the hallway. He seemed to be unable even to
look at the sheriff, and the sheriff felt the averted face more than he
would have felt a blow. “We want the keys,” Mitchell said.
The sheriff, who had risen, stood with his hands in his pockets, and his
eyes, filled with sympathy, fastened on Mr. Morris, standing looking
blankly down the empty hall.
“I haven't got the keys, Mr. Mitchell,” he answered.
“Oh, come off!” cried one of the townsmen. “Rocky!” cried another. “Yo'
granny's hat!” came from a third; while Doty Buxton said, gravely, “Give
up, Partin; we've humored this duty business long enough.”
“Do I understand you to say that you won't give up the keys?” Mitchell
demanded, scornfully.
“No,” the sheriff retorted, a little hotly, “you don't understand anything
of the kind. I said that I didn't have the keys; and further,” he added,
after a moment's pause, “I say that this jail is empty.”
There was silence for a moment, while the men looked at one another
incredulously; then the jeering began again.
“There is nothing to do but to break open the cells,” Morris said, sharply,
but without turning his head. “We trusted the sheriff last night, and he
outwitted us; we must not trust him again.”
The sheriff's eyes flashed, and the blood sprang to his face. The crowd
stood eagerly silent; but after a second the sheriff answered, quietly,
“You may say what you please to me, Mr. Morris, and I'll not resent it
under these circumstances, but I'll swear the jail's empty.”
For answer Morris drove an axe furiously against the nearest cell door, and
the crowd followed suit. There were not many cells, and as he looked from a
window the sheriff counted the doors as they fell in, and listened for the
whistle of the train that he hoped would bring Judge More. The doors were
going down rapidly, and as each yielded the sheriff could hear cries and
demonstrations. What would they do when the last one fell?
Presently Doty Buxton, who had been making observations, came in, pale and
excited. “You'd better git yo' pistols,” he said, “an' I'll git mine, for
they're gittin' madder an' madder every time he ain't there.”
“Well,” the sheriff answered, “I want you to witness that I ain't armed. My
pistols are over there on the table, unloaded. Thank the good Lord!” he
exclaimed, suddenly; “there's the train, an' Judge More! I hope he'll come
right along.”
“An' there goes the last do'!” said Doty, as, after a crash and a momentary
silence, oaths and ejaculations filled the air. He drew near the sheriff,
but the sheriff moved away.
“Stand back,” he said; “you've got little children.”
In an instant the crowd rushed in, headed by Morris, whose burning eyes
seemed to be starting from his drawn white face. Like a flash Doty sprang
forward and wrenched an axe from the infuriated man, crying out, “Partin
ain't armed!”
For answer a blow from Morris's fist dropped the sheriff like a dead man. A
sudden silence fell, and Morris, standing over his fallen foe, looked about
him as if dazed. For an instant he stood so, then with a violent movement
he pushed back the crowding men, and lifting the sheriff, dragged him
toward the open window.
“Give him air,” he ordered, “and go for the doctor, and for cold water!” He
laid Partin flat and dragged open his collar. “He's not dead--see there; I
struck him on the temple; under the ear would have killed him, but not
this, not this! Give me that water, and plenty of it, and move back. He's
not dead, no; and I didn't mean to kill him; but he has worked against me
all night, and I didn't think a white man would do it.”
“He's comin' round, Mr. Morris,” said Doty, who knelt on the other side of
the sheriff; “an' he didn't bear no malice against you--don't fret; but
it's a good thing I jerked that axe outer yo' hand! See, he's ketchin' his
breath; it's all right,” as Partin opened his eyes slowly and looked about
him.
A sound like a sigh came from the crowd, then a voice said, “Here comes
Judge More.”
Morris was still holding his wet handkerchief on the sheriff's head when
the old judge came in.
“My dear boy!” he said, laying his hand on John Morris's shoulder. But
Morris shook his head.
“Let's talk business, Judge More,” he said, “and let's get Partin into a
chair where he can rest; I've just knocked him over.”
Then Morris left the room, and Mitchell with him, going to the far side of
the jail-yard, where they walked up and down in silence. It was not long
before Judge More and the sheriff joined them.
“The evidence was too slight for lynching,” the judge said, looking
straight into John Morris's eyes.
“Great God!” Morris cried, and struck his hands together.
“What more do you want?” Mitchell demanded, angrily. “His wife has
disappeared, and the negro ran away.”
“True, and I'll see to the case myself; but I'm glad that you did not hang
the negro.”
A boy came up with a telegram.
“From Jim, I reckon,” the sheriff said, taking it. “No; it's for you, Mr.
Morris.”
It was torn open hastily; then Morris looked from one to the other with a
blank, scared face, while the paper fluttered from his hold.
Mitchell caught it, and read aloud slowly, as if he did not believe his
eyes:
“'Am safe. Will be out on the ten o'clock train. ELEANOR.'”
Morris stood there, shaking, and sobbing hard, dry sobs.
“It'll kill him!” the sheriff said. “Quick, some whiskey!”
A flask was forced between the blue, trembling lips.
“Drink, old fellow,” and Mitchell put his arm about Morris's shoulders.
“It's all right now, thank God!”
Morris was leaning against his friend, sobbing like a woman. The sheriff
drew his coat-sleeve across his eyes, and shook his head.
“What made the nigger run away?” he said, slowly--adding, as if to himself,
“God help us!”
A vehicle was borrowed, and the judge and the sheriff drove with John
Morris over to the station to meet the ten-o'clock train. The sheriff and
the judge remained in the little carriage, and the station agent did his
best to leave the whole platform to John Morris. As the moments went by the
look of anxious agony grew deeper on the face of the waiting man. The
sheriff's ominous words, falling like a pall over the first flash of his
happiness, had filled his mind with wordless terrors. He could scarcely
breathe or move, and could not speak when his wife stepped off and put her
hands in his. She looked up, and without a query, without a word of
explanation, answered the anguished questioning of his eyes, whispering,
“He did not touch me.”
Morris staggered a little, then drawing her hand through his arm, he led
her to the carriage. She shrank back when she saw the judge and the sheriff
on the front seat; but Morris saying, “They must hear your story, dear,”
she stepped in.
“We are very thankful to see you, Mrs. Morris,” the judge said, without
turning his head, when the sheriff had touched up the horse and they moved
away; “and if you feel able to tell us how it all happened, it'll save time
and ease your mind. This is Mr. Partin, the sheriff.”
Mrs. Morris looked at the backs of the men in front of her; at their heads
that were so studiously held in position that they could not even have
glanced at each other; then up at her husband, appealingly.
“Tell it,” he said, quietly, and laid his hand on hers that were wrung
together in her lap. “You sent Aggie to catch the chickens, and the dog
went with her?”
“Yes,” fixing her eyes on his; “and I sent”--she stopped with a shiver, and
her husband said, “Abram”--“to cut some bushes to make a broom,” she went
on. “I had been for a walk to the old house, and as I came back I laid my
gloves and a bit of vine on the steps, intending to return at once; but I
wished to see if the boat was safe, for the water was rising so rapidly.”
She paused, as if to catch her breath, then, with her eyes still fixed on
her husband, she went on, “I did not think that it was safe, and I untied
the rope and picked up the paddle that was lying on the dam, intending to
drag the boat farther up and tie it to a tree.” She stopped again. Her
husband put his arm about her.
“And then?” he said.
“And then--something, I don't know what; not a sound, but
something--something made me turn, and I saw him--saw him coming--saw him
stealing up behind me--with the hatchet in his hand, and a look--a
look”--closing her eyes as if in horror--“such an awful, awful look! And
everybody gone. Oh, John!” she gasped, and clinging to her husband, she
broke into hysterical sobs, while the judge gripped his walking-stick and
cleared his throat, and the sheriff swore fiercely under his breath.
“I was paralyzed,” she went on, recovering herself, “and when he saw me
looking he stopped. The next moment he threw the hatchet at me, and began
to run toward me. The hatchet struck my foot, and the blow roused me, and I
sprang into the boat. There were no trees just there, and jumping in, I
pushed the boat off into the deep water. He picked up the hatchet and shook
it at me, but the water was too deep for him to reach me, and he ran back
along the dam and turned toward the railroad embankment. I was so terrified
I could scarcely breathe; I pushed frantically in and out between the
trees, farther and farther into the swamp. I was afraid that he would go
round to the bridge and come down the bank to where the outlet from the
swamp is and catch me there, but in a little while I saw where the rising
water had broken the dam, and the current was rushing through and out to
the river. The current caught the boat and swept it through the break. Oh,
I was so glad! I'm so afraid of water, but not then. I used the paddle as a
rudder, and to push floating timber away. My foot was hurting me, and I
looked at last and saw that it was cut.”
A groan came from the judge, and the sheriff's head drooped.