9205
S the prisoner's counsel, Carson had no difficulty in seeing him. At the outer door of the red brick structure, with its slate roof and dormer windows, Dwight met Burt Barrett, the jailer, a tall though strong young man, who had once lived in the mountains and had been a moonshiner, and was noted for his grim courage in any emergency.
“I understand the trial is set for to-morrow,” he remarked, as he opened the outer door which led into a hallway at the end of which was the portion of the house in which he lived with his wife and children.
“Yes,” Carson replied; “the judge has telegraphed that he will come without fail.”
The jailer shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “I feel a sight better over it than I did last night. I understand that the mob is going to let us alone till they can catch Sam Dudlow; if they lay hands on that scamp they certainly will barbecue 'im alive. As for Pete, I can't make up my mind about him; he's a trifling nigger and no mistake. He's got a good, old-time mammy and daddy, and none of Major Warren's niggers have ever been in the chain-gang, but this boy has talked a lot and been in powerful bad company. If you can keep him out of the clutch of the mob you may save his neck, but you've got a job before you.”
“I want to ask what you think about putting a guard round the jail,” Carson said, when they were at the foot of the stairs leading to the cells on the floor above.
“As far as I'm concerned, I hope you won't have it done,” said Barrett. “To save your neck, you couldn't summon men that wouldn't be prejudiced agin the nigger, an' if the report went out that we had put a force on at the jail it would only make the mob madder, and make them act quicker. A hundred armed citizens wouldn't stop a lynching gang—not a shot would be fired by white men at white men, so what would be the use?”
“That's what the sheriff thinks exactly, Burt,” Carson replied. “I presume the only thing to do is to treat the arrest as usual. I'm doing all I can to assure the people that there is to be a fair and speedy trial.”
They had reached the top of the stairs and were near Pete's cell, when the jailer turned and asked, in an undertone, “Are you armed?”
“Why, no,” Carson said, in surprise.
“Good Lord! I wouldn't advise you to go inside the cell then. I've known niggers to kill their best friends when they are desperate.”
“I'm not afraid of this one,” Dwight laughed. “I must get inside. I want to know the whole truth, and I can't talk to him through the grating. Is he in the cell on the right?”
“No, the first on the left; it's the only doublebarred one in the jail.”
In one corner of the fairly “well lighted room stood a veritable cage, the sides, top and bottom consisting of heavy steel lattice-work. As the jailer was unlocking the massive door, Carson peered through one of the squares and a most pitiful sight met his eye, for at the sound of the key in the lock Pete, in his tatters and gashed and swollen face, had crouched down on his dingy blanket and remained there quaking in terror.
“Get up!” the jailer ordered, in a not unkindly tone; “it's Carson Dwight to see you.”
At this the negro's face lighted up, his eyes blazed in the sudden flare of relief, and he rose quickly. “Oh, Marse Carson, I was afeared—”
“Lock us in,” Dwight said to the jailer; “when I'm through I'll call you.”
“All right, you know him better than I do,” Barrett said. “I'll wait below.”
“Pete,” Carson said, gently, when they were alone, “your mother says she wants me to defend you under the charge brought against you. Do you wish it, too?”
“Yasser, Marse Carson; but, Marse Carson, I don't know no mo' about dat thing dan you do. 'Fo' God, Marse Carson, I'm telling you de trufe. Lawsy, Marse Carson, you kin git me out o' here ef you'll des tell 'em ter let me go. Dey all know you, Marse Carson, en dey know none er yo' kind er black folks ain't er gwine ter do er nasty thing lak dat. Look how dey did las' night! Shucks! dey wouldn't er lef' enough o' my haar fer er hummin'-bird's nest, ef I hadn't got ter you in de nick er time. Dat pack er howlin' rapscallions was tryin' ter tear me ter mince-meat when you fired off dat big speech en made 'em all feel lak crawlin' in holes. You tell 'em, Marse Carson—you tell de jailer ter le' me out. Dat man know you ain't no fool; he know you is de biggest lawyer in de Souf. Ain't I heard old marster say you gwine up, en up, en up, till you set in de jedge's seat in de cote? Las' night, when you 'gun on 'em, en let out dat way, I knowed I was safe, but I don't see what yo'-all waitin' fer; I want ter go home ter mammy, Marse Carson. Look lak she been sick, en she cried en tuck on here, en so did young miss. Marse Carson,what's de matter wid me?What I done? I ain't er bad nigger. Unc' Richmond, on de farm, toi' me 'twas' ca'se I made threats ergin dat white man 'ca'se he whipped me. I did talk er lot, Marse Carson, but I never meant no harm. I was des er li'l mad, en—”
“Stop, Pete!” There was a crude wooden stool in the cell and Carson sat down on it. His heart was overflowing with pity for the simple, trusting creature before him as he went on gently and yet firmly: “You don't realize it, Pete, but you are in the most dangerous position you were ever in. I am powerless to release you. You'll have to be taken to court and seriously tried by law for the crime of which you are charged. Pete, I'm going to defend you, but I can't do a thing for you unless you tell me the whole truth. If you did this thing you must tell me—me, do you understand. We are alone. No one can hear you, and if you confess it to me it will go no further. Do you understand?”
Dwight's glance was fixed on the floor. To this point he had steeled himself against a too impulsive faith in the negro's words that he might logically satisfy himself beyond any doubt as to the innocence or guilt of his client. There was silence. He dared not look into the gashed face before him, dreading to read what might be written there by the quivering hand of self-condemnation. The sheer length of the ensuing pause sent cold darts of fear through him. He waited another moment, then raised his eyes to the staring ones fixed upon him. To his astonishment they were full of tears; the great, heavy lip of the negro was quivering like that of a weeping child.
“Why, MarseCarson!” he sobbed; “my God, I thought you knowed I didn't do it! When you tol' 'em all las' night dat I wasn't de right one, I thought you meant it. I never once thought you—youwas gwine ter turn ergin me.”
Carson restrained himself by an effort as he went on, still calmly, with the penetrating insistency of grim justice itself.
“Then do you know anything about it?” he asked;—“anything at all?”
“Nothing I could swear to, Marse Carson,” Pete replied, wiping his eyes on his torn and sleeveless arm.
“Do you suspect anybody, Pete?”
“Yasser, I do, Marse Carson. Somehow, I b'lieve dat Sam Dudlow done it. I b'lieve it 'ca'se folks say he's run off; en what he run off fer lessen he's de one? Oh, Marse Carson, I 'lowed I was havin' er hard 'nough time lak it is, but efyougwine jine de rest uv um en—”
“Stop; think!” Carson went on, almost sternly, so eager was he to get vital facts bearing on the situation. “I want to know, Pete, why you think Sam Dudlow killed the Johnsons. Have you any other reason except that he has left?”
Pete hesitated a moment, then he answered: “I think he de one, Marse Carson, 'ca'se one day while me'n him en some more niggers was loadin' cotton at yo' pa's warehouse, some un was guyin' me 'bout de stripes Johnson en Willis lef' on my back, en I was—I was shootin' off my mouf. I didn't mean er thing, Marse Carson, but I was talkin' too much, en Sam come ter me, he did, en said: 'Yo' er fool, nigger; yo' sort never gits even fer er thing lak dat. It's de kind dat lay low en do de wuk right.' En, Marse Carson, w'en I hear dem folks was daid I des laid it ter Sam, in my mind.”
“Pete,” Dwight said, as he rose to leave, “I firmly believe you are innocent.”
“Thank God, Marse Carson! I thought you'd b'lieve me. Now, w'en you gwine let me out?”
“I can't tell that, Pete,” Dwight answered, as cheerfully as possible. “You need a suit of clothes. I'll send you one right away.”
“One er yo's, Marse Carson?” The gashed face actually glowed with the delight of a child over a new toy.
“I was going to order a new one,” Carson answered. “I'd ruther have one er yo's ef you got one you thoo with,” Pete said, eagerly. “Dar ain't none in dis town lak dem you git fum New York. Is you quit wearin' dat brown checked one you got last spring?”
“Oh yes, you can have that, Pete, if you wish, and I'll send you some shoes and other things.”
“My God! will yer, boss? Lawd, won't I cut er shine at chu'ch next Sunday! Say, Marse Carson, you ain't gwine ter let um keep me in here over Sunday, is you?”
“I'll do the best I can for you, Pete,” the young man said, and when the jailer had opened the door he descended the stairs with a heavy, despondent tread.
“Poor, poor devil!” he said to himself. “He's not any more responsible than a baby. And yet our laws hold him, in his benighted ignorance, more tightly, more mercilessly than they do the highest in the land.”
9212
ESPITE the news Pole Baker had brought to town regarding the disposition of the mountaineers to let justice take its formal trend in the case of the negro already arrested, as the day wore on towards its close the whole town took on an air of vague excitement. Men who now lived at Darley, but had been former residents of the country, and were supposed to know the temper and character of the aggrieved people, shook their heads and smiled grimly when the subject of Pete's coming trial was mentioned. “Huh!” said one of these men, who kept a small grocery store on the main street, “that nigger'll never see the door of the court-house.”
And that opinion grew and seemed to saturate the very garment of approaching night. The negroes at work in various ways about the business portion of the town left their posts early, and with no comment to the whites or even to their own kind, they betook themselves to their homes—or elsewhere. The negroes who had held the interrupted meeting at Neb Wynn's house had been all that day less in evidence than any of the others. The attempt to stimulate law and order, to meet the white race on common ground, had been crudely and yet sincerely made. They had done all they could within their restricted limitations; it now behooved them personally to avoid the probable overflow of the coming crisis. Their meeting in secret, they feared, was not understood. The present prisoner, in fact, had to all appearances, at least, been knowingly harbored by them. To explain would be easy enough; convincing an infuriated, race-mad mob of their friendly, helpful intentions would be impossible. Hence it was that long-headed, now silent-tongued, Neb Wynn locked up his domicile, and with his wife and children stole through the darkest streets and alleys to the house of a citizen who had owned his father.
“Marse George,” he said. “I want you ter take me 'n my folks in fer ter-night.”
“All right, Neb,” the white man answered; “we've got plenty of room. Go round to the kitchen and get your suppers. I didn't know it was as bad as that, but it may be well to be on the safe side.”
Just after dark Carson went home to supper. As he drew near the front gate he noticed that the Warren house was lighted both in the upper and lower portions and that a group of persons were standing on the veranda. He noticed the towering form of old Lewis and the bowed, bandanna-clad head of Linda, and with them, evidently offering consolation, stood Helen, the Major, Sanders, and Keith Gordon.
Carson was entering the gate when Keith through the twilight recognized him and signalled him to wait. And leaving the others Keith came over to him.
“I must see you, Carson,” he said, in a voice that had never sounded so grave. “Can we go in? If Mam' Linda sees you she'll be after you. She's terribly upset.”
“Come into the library,” Carson said. “I see it's lighted. We'll not be disturbed there.”
Inside the big, square room, with its simple furnishings and drab tints, Carson sank, weary from his nervous strain and loss of sleep, into an easy-chair and motioned his friend to take another, but Keith, nervously twirling his hat in his hands, continued to stand.
“It's awful, old man, simply awful!” he said. “I've been there since sundown trying to pacify that old man and woman, but what was the use?”
“Then she's afraid—” Carson began.
“Afraid? Good God! how could she help it? The negro preacher and his wife came to her and Lewis and frankly tried to prepare them for the worst. Uncle Lewis is speechless, and Linda is past the tear-shedding stage. Hand in hand the old pair simply pace the floor like goaded brutes with human hearts and souls bound up in them. Then Helen—the poor, dear girl! Isn't this a beautiful homecoming for her? I feel like fighting, and yet there's nothing to hit but empty, heartless air. I don't care if you know it, Carson.” Keith sank into a chair and leaned forward, his eyes glistening with the condensed dew of tense emotion. “I don't deny it. Helen is the only girl I ever cared for. She's treated me very kindly ever since she discovered my feeling, and given me to understand in the sweetest way the utter hopelessness of my case, but I still feel the same. I thought I was growing out of it, but seeing her sorrow to-day has shown me what she is to me—and what she always will be. I'll love her all my life, Carson. She's suffering terribly over this. She loves her old mammy as much as if they were the same flesh and blood. Oh, it was pitiful, simply pitiful! Helen was trying to pacify her just now, and the old woman suddenly laid her hand on her breast and cried out: 'Don't talk ter me, honey child, I nursed bofe you en Pete on dis here breast, an' dat boy'sme—my own self, heart en soul, en ef God let's dem men hang 'im ter-night, I'll curse 'Im ter my grave.'”
“Poor old woman!” Carson sighed. “If it has to come to her, it would be better to have it over with. It would have been better if I had stood back last night and let them have their way.”
“Oh no,” protested Keith; “that's Linda's sole comfort. She hardly draws a breath that doesn't utter your name. She still believes that her only hope rests in you. She says you'll yet think of something—that you'll yet do something to prevent the thing. She cries that out every now and then. Oh, Carson, I don't amount to anything, but before God I can truthfully say that I'd give my life to have Linda talk that way about me—before Helen.”
Carson groaned, his tense hands were locked like prongs of steel in front of him, his face was deathly pale. “You wouldn't like any sort of talk or idle compliments if you were bound hand and foot as I am,” he said. “It's mockery. It's vinegar rubbed into my wounds. It's hell!”
He tore himself from his chair and began to stride about the room like a restless tiger in a cage. His walk took him into the hall utterly forgetful of the presence of his friend. There a colored maid came to him and said, “Your mother wants you, sir.”
He stared at the girl blankly for a moment, then he seemed to pull himself together. “Has my mother heard—?”
“No, sir, your father told us not to excite her.”
“All right, I'll go up,” Carson said. “Tell Mr. Gordon, in the library, to wait for me.”
“I was wondering if you had come,” the invalid said, as he bent over her bed, took her hand, and kissed her. “I presume you have been very busy all day over Pete's case?”
“Yes, very busy, mother dear.”
“And is it all right now? Your father tells me the trial is set for to-morrow. Oh, Carson, I'm very proud of you. I heard your speech last night, and it seemed to lift me to the very throne of God. Oh, you are right, you are right! It is our duty to love and sympathize with those poor creatures. They are still children in the cradles of their past slavery. They can't act for themselves. Their crimes are due chiefly to the lack of the guiding hands they once had. Oh, my son, your father is angry with you for spoiling your political chances by such a radical stand, but even if you lose the race by it, I shall be all the prouder of you, for you have shown that you won't sell yourself. I wish I could go to the courthouse to-morrow, but the doctor won't let me. He says I mustn't have another shock like that last night, when I heard that shot, saw you reel, and thought you were killed. Son, are you listening?”
“Why, yes, mother. I—” His mind was really elsewhere. He had dropped her hand, and was standing with furrowed brow and tightly drawn lips in the shadow thrown by the lamp on a table near by and the high posts of the old-fashioned bedstead.
“I thought you seemed to be thinking of something else,” said the invalid, plaintively.
“I really was troubled about leaving Keith downstairs by himself,” Carson said. “Perhaps I'd better run down now, mother.”
“Oh yes, I didn't know he was there. Ask him to supper.”
“All right, mother,” and he left the room with a slow step, finding Gordon on the veranda below fitfully puffing at a cigar as he walked to and fro.
“Helen called me to the fence just now,” Keith said. “She's all broken to pieces. She is relying solely on you now. She sent you a message.”
“Me?”
“Yes, with the tears streaming down her cheeks she simply said, 'Tell Carson that I am praying that he will think of some way to avert this disaster.”
“She said that!” Carson turned and stared through the gathering shadows towards the jail. There was a moment's pause, then he asked, in a tone that was harsh, crisp, and rasping: “Keith, could you get together to-night fifteen men who would stick to me through personal friendship and help me arrive at some decision as to—to what is best?”
“Twenty, Carson—twenty who would risk their lives at a word from you.”
“They might have to sacrifice—”
“That wouldn't make a bit of difference; I know the ones you can depend on. You've got genuine friends, the truest and bravest a man ever had.”
“Then have as many as you can get to meet me at Blackburn's store at nine o'clock. We may accomplish nothing, but I want to talk to them. God knows it is the only chance. No, I can't explain now. There is not a moment to lose. Tell Blackburn to keep the doors shut and let them assemble in the rear as secretly and quietly as possible.”
“All right, Carson. I'll have the men there.”
9219
HEN Carson reached the front door of Blackburn's store about nine o'clock that evening, he found it closed. For a moment he stood under the Crude wooden shed that roofed the sidewalk and looked up and down the deserted street. It was a dark night, and from the aspect of the heavy, troubled clouds high winds seemed in abeyance beyond the hills to the west. He was wondering how he had best make his presence known to his friends within the store, when he heard a soft whistle, and Keith Gordon, the flaring disk of a cigar lighting his expectant face, stepped out of a dark doorway.
“I've been waiting for you,” he said, in a cautious undertone. “They are getting impatient. You see, they thought you'd be here earlier.”
“I couldn't get away while my mother was awake,” Carson said. “Dr. Stone was there and warned me not to leave at night. She can't stand any more excitement. So I had to stay with her. I read to her till she fell asleep. Who's here?”
“The gang and fully fifteen other trusty fellows—you'll see them on the inside, every man of them with a gun. At the last moment I heard Pole Baker was down at the wagon-yard, and I nabbed him.”
“Good; I'm glad you did. Now let's go in.”
“Not yet, old man,” Keith objected. “Blackburn gave special orders not to open the door if any person was in sight. Let's walk to the corner and look around.”
They went to the old bank building on the corner, and stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to the den. No one was in sight. Across the numerous tracks of the switch-yard hard by there was a steam flouring mill which ground day and night, and the steady puffing of the engine beat monotonously on their ears. In a red flare of light they saw the shadowy form of the engineer stoking the fire.
“Now the way is clear,” said Keith; “we can go in, but I want to prepare you for a disappointment, old man.”
Carson stared through the darkness as arm in arm they moved back to the store. “You mean—”
“I'll tell you, Carson. The meeting of these fellows to-night is a big proof of the—the wonderful esteem in which they hold you. No other man could have got them together at such a time; but, all the same, they are not going to allow you to—you see, Carson, they have had time to talk it over in there, and have unanimously agreed that to make any opposition by force would be worse than folly. Pole Baker brought some reliable news, reliable and terrible. Why, he told us just now—however, wait. He will tell you about it.”
Giving a rap on the door that was recognized within, they were admitted by Blackburn, who stood back in the shadow and quickly closed the shutter and locked it again. In the uncertain light of a lamp with a murky chimney, on the platform in the rear, seated on boxes, nail kegs, chairs, table, and desk, Dwight beheld a motley gathering of his friends and supporters. Kirk Fitzpatrick, the brawny, black-handed tinner, who had a jest for every moment, was there; Wilson, the shoemaker; Tobe Hassler, the German baker; Tom Wayland, the good-hearted drug clerk, whose hair was as red as blood; Bob Smith, Wade Tingle, and, nestled close to the lamp, and looking like a hunchback, crouched Garner, so deep in a newspaper that he was utterly deaf and blind to sounds and things around him. Besides those mentioned, there were several other ardent friends of the candidate.
“Well, here you are at last,” Garner cried, throwing down his paper. “If I hadn't had something to read I'd have been asleep. I don't know any more than a rabbit what you intend to propose, but whatever it is, we are late enough about it.”
Hurriedly Carson explained the cause of his delay and took the chair which the tinner, with the air of a proud inferior, was pushing towards him. As he sat down and the lamplight fell athwart his careworn face, the group was overwhelmed with sympathy and a strange, far-reaching respect they could hardly understand. To-night they were, more than usual, under the spell of that inner force which had bound them one and all to him and which, they felt, nothing but dishonor could break. And yet there they sat so grimly banded together against him that he felt it in their very attitudes.
“The truth is”—Garner broke the awkward pause—“we presume you got us together to-night to offer open opposition—in case, of course, that the mob means harm to your client. That seems the only thing a body of men can do. But, my dear boy, there are two sides to this question. For reasons of your own, chief among which is a most beautiful principle to see the humblest stamp of man get justice—for these reasons you call on your friends to stand to you, and they will stand, I reckon, to the end, but it's for you, Carson, to act reasonably and think as readily of the interests of all of us as for those of the unfortunate prisoner. To meet that mob by opposition to-night would—well, ask Pole Baker for the latest news. When you have heard what he knows to be true, I am sure you will see the utter futility of any movement whatsoever.”
All eyes were now turned on the gaunt mountaineer, who was sitting on an inverted nail keg whittling to a fine point a bit of wood which now and then he thrust automatically between his white front teeth.
“Well, Carson,” he began, in drawling tones, “I lowed you-uns would want to know just how the land lays, and as I had a sort of underground way of gettin' at first-hand facts, I raked in all the information I could an' come on to town. I'd heard about how low your mother was, an' easy upset by excitement, an' so I didn't go up to your house. I met Keith, an' he told me I could see you at this meetin', an' so I waited. Carson, the jig is certainly up with that coon. No power under high heaven could save his neck. The report that was circulated this morning, was deliberately sent out to throw the authorities off their guard. Only about thirty men are still on Sam Dudlow's trail—the rest, hundreds and hundreds, in bunches an' factions, each faction totin' a flag to show whar they hail from, an' all dressed in white sheets, is headed this way.”
“Do you mean right at this moment?” Carson asked, as he started to rise.
Pole motioned to him to sit down.
“They won't be here till about twelve o'clock,” he said. “They've passed the word about amongst 'em, and agreed to meet, so that all factions can take part, at the old Sandsome place, two miles out on the Springtown road. They will start from there at half-past eleven on the march for the jail. It will be after twelve before they get here. Pete's got that long to make his peace, but no longer. And right here, Carson, before I stop, I want to say that thar ain't a man in this State I'd do a favor for quicker than I would for you, but many of us here to-night are family men, and while that nigger may, as you think, be innocent, still his life is just one life, while—well”—Baker snapped his dry fingers with a click that was as sharp as the cocking of a revolver—“I wouldn't givethatfor our lives if we opposed them men. They are as mad as wounded wild-cats. They believe he done it; they know on reliable testimony that he said he'd kill Johnson; an' they want his blood. Five hundred such as we are wouldn't halt 'em a minute. I want to help, but I'm tied hand an' foot.”
There was silence after Pole's voice died away. Then Garner rapped on the table with his small hand and tossed back the long, thick hair from his massive brow.
“You may as well know the truth, Carson,” he said, calmly. “We put it to a vote just before you came, and we all agreed that we would—well, try to bring you round to some sort of resignation; try to get you to throw it off your mind and stop worrying.”
To their surprise Carson took up the lamp and rose. “Wait a moment,” he said, and with the lamp in hand he crossed the elevated part of the floor and went down the steps into the cellar. They were left in darkness for a moment, the rays of the lamp flashing now only on the front wall and door of the long building.
“Huh, there ain't anybody hiding there!” Blackburn cautiously called out. “I looked through the full length of it, turned over every box and barrel, before you came. I wasn't going to run any risk of having a stray tramp in a caucus like this.”
There was some fixed quality in Dwight's drawn face as he emerged, carrying the lamp before him, ascended the steps, and again took his place at the table.
“You thought somebody might be hiding there,” the store-keeper said; “but I was careful to—”
“No, it wasn't that,” Carson said. “I was wondering—I was trying to think—”
He paused as if submerged in thought, and Garner turned upon him almost sternly. He had never before used quite such a harsh tone to his partner.
“You've gone far enough, Carson,” he said. “There are limits even to the deepest friendship. You can't ask your best friends to make their wives widows and their children orphans in a blind effort to save the neck of one miserable negro, even if he's as innocent as the angels in heaven. As for yourself, your heroism has almost led you into a cesspool of reckless absurdity. You have let that old man and woman up there, and Miss—that old man and woman,anyway—work on your sympathies till you have lost your usual judgment. I'm your friend and—”
“Stop! Wait!” Carson stood up, his hands on the edge of the table, the lamp beneath him throwing his mobile face into the shadow of his firm, massive jaw. “Stop!” he repeated. “You say you have given up. Boys, I can't. I tell you Ican't. I simply can't let them kill that boy. Every nerve in my body, every pulsation of my soul screams out against it. I have set my heart on averting this horror. Ten years ago I could have gone to my bed and slept peacefully, as many good citizens of this town will to-night, under the knowledge that the verdict of mob law was to be executed, but in the handling of this case I've had a new birth. There is no God in heaven if—I say if—He has not made itpossiblefor the mind and will of man to prevent this horror. There must be a way; thereisa way, and if I could put my ideas into your brains to-night—my faith and confidence into your souls—we'd prevent this calamity and set an example for our fellows to follow in future.”
“Your ideas into our brains!” Garner said, in a tone of amused resentment. “Well, I like that, Carson; but if you can see a ghost of a chance to save that boy's neck with safety to our own, I'd like to have you plug it through my skull, if you have to do it with a steel drill. At present I'm the senior member of the firm of Garner & Dwight, but I'll take second place hereafter, if you can do what you are aiming at.”
“I don't mean to reflect on your intelligences,” Dwight went on, passionately, his voice rising higher, “but Idosee a way, and I am praying God at this moment to make you see it as I do and be willing to help me carry it out.”
“Blaze away, old hoss,” Pole Baker piped up from his seat on the nail keg. “I'm not a nigger-lover by a long shot, but somehow, seeing how you feel about this particular one an' his connections, I'm as anxious to save 'im as if I owned 'im in the good old day an' his sort was fetchin' two thousand apiece. You go ahead. I feel kind o' sneakin', anyway, for votin' agin you while you was up thar nursin' yore sick mammy. By gum! you give me the end of a log I kin tote, an' I'll do it or break my back.”
“I want it understood, Carson,” said Wade Tingle at this juncture, “that I was only voting against our trying to stop that mob by force, and, to do myself justice, I was voting in the interests of the family men here to-night. God knows, if you can see anyotherpossible way—”
“We have no time to lose,” Carson said. “If we are to accomplish anything we must be about it. Gentlemen, what I may propose may, in a way, be asking you to make a sacrifice almost as great as that of open resistance. I am going to ask you, law-abiding citizens that you are, to break the law, as you understand it, but not law as the best wisdom of man intended it to be. This section is in a state of open lawlessness. The law I'm going to ask you to break is already broken. The highest court might hold that we would be no better, infact, than the army of law-breakers headed this way with the foam of race hatred on their lips, its insane blaze in their eyes that till recently beamed only in gentleness and human love. But I'm going to ask you to chose between two evils—to let an everlasting injustice be done at the hand of a hate that will drown in tears of regret in time to come, or the lesser evil of breaking an already broken law. You are all good citizens, and I tremble and blush over my audacity in asking you to do what you have never in any form done before.”
Carson paused. Wondering silence fell on the group. Upon each face struggled evidences of an almost painful desire to grasp his meaning. That it was momentous no man there doubted. Even the ever equable Garner was shaken from, his habitual stoic attitude, and with his delicate fingers rigidly supporting his great head he stared open-mouthed at the speaker.
“Well, well, what is it?” he presently asked.
“There is only one chance I see,” and Dwight stood erect, his arms folded, and stepped back so that the light of the lamp fell full upon his tense features. The patch of sticking plaster stood out from his pale skin, giving his perspiring brow an uncanny look. “There is only one thing to do, my friends, and without your help I stand powerless. I suggest that we form ourselves into a supposed mob of disguised men, that we go ahead of the others to the jail, and actuallyforce Burt Barrett to turn the prisoner over to us.”
“Great God!” Garner, stood up, and leaned on the table. “Thenwhat—what would you do? Good Lord!”
Carson pointed steadily to the cellar-door and swallowed the lump of excitement in his throat. “I would, unseen by any one, if possible, bring him here and imprison him, in that cellar, guarded by us only till—till such a time as we could safely deliver him to a court of justice.”
“By God, youarea wheel-hoss!” burst from Pole Baker's lips. “That's as easy as failin' off a log.”
“Do you mean to make Burt Barrett believe we are—are actually bent on lynching the negro?” demanded Keith Gordon, new-born enthusiasm bubbling from his eyes and voice.
“Yes, that would be the only way,” said Carson. “Barrett is a sworn officer of the law, and his position is his livelihood. Even if we could persuade him to join us, it wouldn't be fair to him, for he would be shouldering more responsibility than we would. The only way is to thoroughly disguise ourselves and compel him to give in as he will be compelled by the others if we don't act first. I know he would not fire upon us.”
“It looks to me like a dandy idea,” spoke up Blackburn. “As for me I want to reward originality by doing the thing if possible. As for that cellar, it's as strong as an ancient fortress anyway and, Carson, Pete would not try to escape if you ordered him not to. As for disguises, I can lend you all the bleached sheeting you want. I got in a fresh bale of it yesterday. I could cut it into ten-yard pieces which would not hurt the sale of it. Remnants fetch a better price than regular stuff anyway. Boys, let's vote on it. All in favor stand up.”
There was a clatter of shoes and rattling of chairs, boxes, kegs and other articles which had been used for seats. It was an immediate and unanimous tribute to the sway Carson Dwight's personality had long held over them. They stood by him to a man. Even Garner suddenly, and strangely for his crusty individuality, relegated himself to the rank of a common private under the obvious leader.
“Hold on, boys!” exclaimed one not so easily relegated to any position not full of action, and Pole Baker was heard in a further proposal. “So far the arrangements are good and sound but you-uns haven't looked far enough ahead. When we git to the jail thar's got to be some darned fine talkin' of exactly the right sort, or Burt Barrett will smell a mouse and refuse our demands. In a case like this silence is a sight more powerful than a lot o' gab. Now, I propose to have one man, and one manonlyto do the talking.”
“Yes, and you are the man,” said Carson. “You must do it.”
“Well, I'm willin',” agreed Baker. “The truth is, folks say I'm good at just that sort o' devilment, an' I'd sort o' like the job.”
“You are the very man,” Carson said, with a smile.
“You bet he is,” agreed Blackburn. “Now come down in the store an' let me rig you spooks up. We haven't any too much time to lose.”
“Thar's another thing you-uns don't seem to have calculated on,” said Baker, as Blackburn was leading them down to the dry-goods counter. “It may take time to quiet public excitement, even if we put this thing through to-night. You propose to let the impression go out that thar was a lynchin'. How will you keep 'em from thinkin' it's a fake unless they see some'n' hangin' to a tree-limb in the mornin'? If they thought we'd put up a job on 'em, they would nose around till they was onto the whole business, an' then thar would be the devil to pay.”
“You are right about that,” said Garner. “If we could convince the big mob that Pete has been lynched in some secret way or place, by some other party, who don't want to be known in the matter, the excitement would die down in a day or so.”
“A bang-up good idea!” was Pole's ultimatum. “Leave it to me and I'll study up some way to put it to Burt—by gum! How about tellin' 'im that, for reasons of our own, we intend to hide the body whar the niggers can't git at it to give it decent burial? I really believe that would go down.”
“Splendid, splendid!” said Garner. “Work that fine enough, Pole, and it will give us more time for everything.”
“Well, I can work it all right if I am to do the talkin',” Pole said, as he reached out for his portion of the sheeting.
9231
IFTEEN minutes later a spectral group in all truth filed out through the rear door of the store and paused for further orders in the shadow of the wall of the adjoining bank building. The sky was still darkly overcast and a drizzle as fine as mist was in the air.
With Carson and Pole in the lead, the party marched grimly two and two, a weird sight even to themselves. Straight down the alley behind the stores along the railway they moved, keeping step like trained military men. Pole, for visual effect, carried a coil of new hemp rope, and he swung it about in his white, winglike clutch with the ease of a cow-boy, as he gutturally gave orders as to turns and tentative pauses. Now and then he would leave the others standing and stride ahead through the darkness and signal them to come on up. In this way they progressed with many a halt, and many a cautious détour to avoid the light that steadily gleamed through some cottage window or chink in a door or some watchman at his post at some mill or factory, till finally they reached the grounds surrounding the court-house and jail.
“I don't know how soft-hearted you are, Carson,” Baker whispered in the young man's ear, “but thar's one thing a man full of feelin' like you seem to be ought to be ready to guard against.”
“What is that, Pole?”
“Why, you know, if we git the poor devil out he'll be sure he's done for, an' he'll be apt to raise an' awful row, beggin' an' prayin' an' no tellin' what else. But for all you do, don't open yore mouth. Let 'im bear it—tough as it will be—till we kin git to a safe place. Thar'll be folks listenin' in the houses along the way to the store, an' ef you was to speak one kind word the truth might leak out. To all appearances we are lynchers of the most rabid brand.”
“I understand that, Pole,” said Carson. “I won't interfere with your work.”
“Don't call itmywork,” said Baker, admiringly. “I've been through a sight of secret things in my time, but I never heard of a scheme as slick an' deep-laid as this. If she goes through safe I'll put you at the top of my list. It looks like it will work, but a body never kin tell. Burt Barrett is the next hill to climb. I don't know him well enough to foresee what stand he'll take. Boys, have yore guns ready, an' when I order you to take aim, you do it as if you intend to make a hole in whatever is in front of you. Our bluff is the biggest that ever was thought of, but it has to go. Now, come on!”
Through the open gateway they marched across the public lawn covered with fresh green grass to the jail near by. A dog chained in a kennel behind the house waked and snarled, but he did not bark. There was a little porch at the entrance to the building, and along this the ghostly band silently arranged themselves.
“Hello in thar, Burt Barrett!” Pole suddenly cried out, in sharp, stern tones, and there was a pause. Then from the darkness within came the sound of some one striking a match. A flickering light flared up in the room on the right of the entrance; then the voice of a woman was heard.
“Burt, what is it?” she asked, in a startled tone.
“I don't know; I'll see,” a coarser voice made answer. Another pause and a door on the inside was opened, then the heavier outer one, and Burt Barrett, half dressed, stood staring at the grewsome assemblage before him.