HE went back to the veranda through the unlighted hall, and stood looking across the lawn toward the gate. There was no moon; but the stars were out, and cast a soft radiance over the undulating landscape. Along the steep side of the nearest mountain forest fires in irregular lines pierced the thicker darkness of the distance, and their blue smoke drifted in lowering wisps over the level fields.
“Some'n's surely up, if Trawley wants to see me to-night,” Hoag mused. “I wonder if my men—” He saw a horse and rider emerge from the gloom down the road leading on to Grayson. There was no sound of hoofs, for the animal was moving slowly, as if guided with caution. Nearer and nearer the horse approached, till it was reined in at the barnyard gate.
“That's him,” Hoag muttered, and with a furtive look into the hall behind him he tiptoed softly down the steps, and then, his feet muffled by the grass, he strode briskly down to the gate. As he drew near the horseman, who was a slender young man in a broad-brimmed slouch hat, easy shirt, and wide leather belt, and with a heavy blond mustache, dismounted and leaned on the top-rail of the fence.
“Hello, Cap,” was his greeting. “'Fraid you might not be at home. Henry didn't know whether you would be or not, but I come on—wasn't nothin' else to do. The klan is all worked up in big excitement. They didn't want to move without your sanction; but if you'd been away we'd 'a' had to. Business is business. This job has to go through.”
“What's up now?” Hoag asked, eagerly.
“They've caught that nigger Pete Watson.”
“Who has—my boys?”
“No; the sheriff—Tom Lawler an' three o' his deputies.”
“You don't say; where?”
“In the swamp, in the river-bottom just beyond Higgins's farm. Ten of the klan happened to be waiting at Larkin's store when Lawler whizzed by with 'em in a two-hoss hack.”
Hoag swore; his voice shook with excitement. “An' you fellers didn't try to head 'em off, or—”
“Head 'em off, hell! an' them with three cocked Winchesters 'cross their laps an' it broad daylight. Besides, the boys said you'd be mad—like you have been every time they've moved a peg without orders. You remember how you cursed an' raved when—”
“Well, never mind that!” Hoag fumed. “Where did they take the black devil?”
“To jail in Grayson; he's under lock an' key all right. We followed, and saw 'im put in. He's the blue-gum imp that killed old Rose. Lawler told some o' our boys that he hain't owned up to it yet, but he's guilty. Sam and Alec Rose are crazy—would 'a' gone right in the jail an' shot everything in sight if we all hadn't promised 'em you'd call out the klan an' take action at once.”
“I see, I see.” Hoag's head rose and fell like a buoy on a wave of self-satisfaction. “The boys are right. They know nothin' can be done in any sort o' decent order without a leader. You know yourself, Sid, that every time they've gone on their own hook they've had trouble, an' fetched down public criticism.”
“We all know that well enough, Cap,” Trawley said, “an' the last one of the gang is dependent on you. It is wonderful how they stick to you, an' rely on yore judgment. But, say, we hain't got a minute to lose. The thing is primed an' cocked. We kin pass the word along an' have every man out by twelve o'clock. I just need your sanction; that's all I'm here for.”
In the starlight the lines, protuberances, and angles of Hoag's face stood out as clearly as if they had been carved from stone. He stroked his mustache, lips, and chin; he drew himself erect and threw his shoulders back with a sort of military precision. He felt himself to be a pivot upon which much turned, and he enjoyed the moment.
“Wait,” he said, “let me study a minute. I—”
“Study hell! Look here, Jim Hoag—”
“Stop!” Hoag broke in sternly, and he leaned on the fence and glared at Trawley. “You know you are breakin' rules—you know the last one of you has sworn never to speak my name at a time like this. I was to be called 'Captain,' an' nothin' else; but here you go blurtin' out my name. There is no tellin' when somebody may be listenin'.”
“Excuse me, Cap, you are dead right. I was wrong; it was a slip o' the lip. I won't let it happen again.”
Hoag's anger was observable even in the dim light. It trembled in his tone and flashed in his eyes.
“Beggin' pardon don't rectify a mistake like that when the damage is done,” he muttered. “You fellers ain't takin' any risk. I'd be the one to hold the bag if the authorities got onto us. They would nab the leader first.”
“You are too shaky and suspicious,” the other retorted, in sanguine contempt of caution. “We hain't got a man but would die ruther than turn traitor, an' thar ain't no court or jury that could faze us. As you said in yore speech at the last regular meetin', we are a law unto ourselves. This is a white man's country, Cap, an' we ain't goin' to let a few lazy niggers run it.”
“The boys sort o' liked that speech, didn't they?” Hoag's voice ran smooth again.
“It was a corker, an' tickled 'em all,” Trawley smiled. “They will put you in the legislature by a big vote whenever you say the word.”
“I don't want it—I ain't that sort,” Hoag said, grandiloquently. “I'm satisfied if I can help a little here at home—sorter hold you boys together an' make you cautious. A thing like this to-night has to be managed in a cool-headed way that will convince the public that there is a power that can be relied on outside o' the tardy one that costs taxpayers so much to keep up. It would tickle a black whelp like Pete Watson to be tried at our expense. He'd love the best in the world to set up in court an' be looked at as some'n out o' the general run, an' incite others o' his stripe to go an' kill helpless white men an' insult white women. The rope, the torch, an' our spooky garb an' masks are the only things niggers are afraid of.”
“You think that is it, do you?” Trawley said, with a low, pleased laugh.
“More'n anything else,” affirmed Hoag, “along with our swift action. Say, I've been thinkin' over some'n Sid. You said when you fust rid up that the klan won't act without a leader, an' my business sometimes calls me off to Atlanta or Augusta—now it is important, in case I'm away at any time, to have some sort o' head, an' I've been thinkin' that, as you are sech an active member, you ought to be made my lieutenant—”
“You don't mean that, do you, Cap—you don't surely—” Trawley's voice seemed submerged in a flood of agreeable surprise.
“I do, an' I'm goin' to propose it at the next full meetin'. I want a young man like you that I can confer with now and then an' chat over matters. A feller can't always git at a big body like ours by hisself, an' you seem to be better fitted to the office than any other member.”
“I'm much obliged, Cap.” Trawley beamed, and his voice was round and full. “I'd like to stand in with you an' I'll do my best. I promise you that. The whole thing is fun to me.”
“You've been more help to me already than anybody else,” Hoag said, “and I'm goin' to propose yore name an' see that it goes through. Now, we haven't got any time to lose in this job to-night. Send the word along the line, Tell all hands to meet at Maxwell's cove by eleven o'clock—that will give us plenty o' time to git things in shape.”
The dawn of the following day was on the point of breaking when Henry Hoag crossed the garden behind the farm-house, stealthily unlocked the front door, and crept up the stairs to his room. He had been out “skylarking” with some of his friends, and did not want his parents to know the hour of his return home. He did not light the candle on his bureau, but proceeded to undress in the dark. Suddenly he paused, as he sat on the edge of his bed removing his shoes, and listened. It was a soft footfall on the steps of the veranda, the gentle turning of a key in the lock of the door, the creaking of the hinges, followed by the clicking of the latch as the door was closed. A moment later a clumsy tread slurred along the lower corridor to Hoag's room.
Henry chuckled. “Got in by the skin of my teeth,” he said. “If he knew I watched that thing from start to finish he'd beat me 'in an inch o' my life. He tried to change his voice, but he was too excited to hide it. Gee! didn't that poor nigger beg? Ugh, I'm afraid I'll see 'im in my sleep, and hear that last gurgle.”
Henry cautiously lowered a shoe to the floor and sat still for a moment. “Poor old Pete!” he mused. “He swore he didn't do it, and somehow it seemed to me that he wasn't lyin'. I'd have turned him loose and risked it. Poor fellow! Poor fellow!”
HOAG was in a reflective mood as he rode along his field-road in the crisp morning air. The sockets of his eyes were puffed out, and he looked like a man who had lost much sleep, and was braced up for the duties of the day by drink. Within certain material limits he was satisfied with himself. The dew seemed to have added succulence to his fat corn-stalks and sugar-cane; his wheat and cotton were in prime condition, especially the latter, of which his judgment had prompted an unusually large planting, and according to the market reports the staple would bring a fine price.
The affair of the preceding night had gone off with quiet, order, and dignity. His followers had listened to his usual speech with respect and close attention, and he was sure he had never spoken better. His threat that if his wishes were disobeyed in the slightest he would renounce the leadership had had the desired effect of proving that he was not a man to be trifled with. He told them he was giving his valuable time to the office, and had held himself in duty bound to answer every call, and would continue to do so as long as they realized the importance of his advice and services.
As he rode into Grayson he saw the sheriff and Budd Tibbs, the village marshal, on a one-horse dray, followed by a motley group of men, women, and children afoot, and Hoag knew that they were bound for the spot where the body of the lynched man was still hanging. The sheriff would cut the rope, an inquest would be held, and the corpse would be taken away for burial. On the street-corners at the Square stood groups of storekeepers without their hats and coats, blandly gazing after the dray and officers. The thought came to Hoag that some of the men on the street might wonder why he did not stop and chat about the matter, as would be natural for an ordinary citizen to do, who, living out of the village, might only just have heard of the happening; but Hoag was not in the mood for the adroit part he would have to play. His brain felt heavy and his thoughts were sluggish. The sight of the grave faces stirred a vague, unaccountable discontent within him, and he urged his horse to move faster. Suddenly the crude sign of a boot and shoe painted on a swinging board over the door of Silas Tye's shop caught his attention, and reminded him of something he wanted to say to the cobbler, so he dismounted at the door, hitched his horse to a post in front, and went into the shop.
Silas was at work putting a half-sole on a shoe which he held tightly clamped between his knees, and looked up over his murky spectacles and nodded.
“Good momin', Brother Hoag,” he said. “Some'n I kin do for you?”
“Not at present, Uncle Si.” Hoag sat down in a chair, thrust his hand into his hip-pocket, and taking out a piece of plug-tobacco, bit off the corner and rolled it about in his mouth. “No, I hain't got no work for you to-day. In fact, I come to sponge on you—to see if you can't give me a piece o' business advice. They say every man to his line, an' I reckon you know as much about ready-made shoes as anybody else at Grayson.”
“Oh, I don't know; I don't know much about manufactured stuff.” Silas shook his bald head gently. “I kin tell good leather by the feel, look, an' smell of it; but mendin' has got to be my chief work now, an' mendin' shoddy goods at that. I kin make as good a boot as you or any other man would wear, but not at the machine-made price. A pair o' my boots will outwear any three from a box sold over a counter, but nobody round here will believe it.”
“I don't doubt it—I don't doubt it for a minute,” Hoag agreed, “and this is what I want to consult you about. I want your opinion. You know I've got that tannery, and I sometimes tan bigger quantities of hides, Uncle Si, than I am willin' to let go at the average price offered in Atlanta by the jobbers. So you see, in turnin' it over in my mind, it struck me all at once that I might put up a little factory on my place for makin' plain shoes by machinery, an' in that way work off surplus stock, increase my output of leather, and make the middleman's profit. If you will look out on the Square any day you'll see it perfectly black with idle niggers, an' I could put some of 'em to work, an'—”
The shoemaker glanced up and smiled faintly. “I reckon you won't see many in sight this momin',” he sighed, as he resumed his work. “The pore devils are scared out o' their senses by that thing last night. It's awful, awful!”
There was a pause. Hoag's eyelashes fluttered. “Yes, yes, I reckon so,” he said. “I was goin' on to say—”
But some sound in the street had caught Tye's attention and, forgetful of his customer, he rose and stood at the door and looked out. The wrinkles on his brow and about his kindly eyes were drawn and deepened as he peered over the brass rims of his glasses. Hoag heard him sigh again, and saw him rubbing the sole of the shoe absent-mindedly.
“What's goin' on?” the tanner asked, without moving from his chair.
“It's that poor nigger Pete Watson's wife an' daughters,” was the answer. “They've come to claim the body—Dick Morgan is showin' 'em which way to go. Lord, Lord, they do look pitiful! They ain't even cryin'—niggers seldom do at sech a time. Looks like they won't shed tears before the whites for fear it will make 'em mad. They learnt who the'r masters was before the war, an' they ain't over it. I knowed Pete Watson—I've mended shoes for 'im. He was always a civil nigger, an' clever enough. I've had talks with 'im, an' I've been astonished to hear what sensible ideas he had. He appeared to me to be a Christian—a Christian that understood what the Lord really meant when he was here on earth, an' that's rare even among the whites.”
Silas came back to his bench and slowly sat down. “Lord, Lord, what a pity, what a pity!” he continued to mutter.
“They say he was undoubtedly guilty.” Hoag felt his anger rising, and yet he realized that he must restrain himself. “That is the current report, anyway,” he said.
“It alwaysisthe report,” Silas said. “Even if a mistake was made the public would never know it. The gang that did the work would see to that.”
“We are gittin' away from what we was talkin' about,” Hoag said. “I was asking you what you thought about me startin' a little shoe-plant?”
“I'm afraid it wouldn't pay,” Silas said, deliberately. “They make shoes a sight cheaper in the big works up North than you possibly could down here in the backwoods with untrained help. It's been tried, without success, several times here an' thar. The Yankees understand the knack o' splittin' leather an' usin' both halves, an' even the middle, for different purposes. You can't make shoes right an' put in good stock at the prices Northern made-up goods fetch.” Silas selected a woman's shoe from a pile on the floor, and with his blackened thumb pried the worn bottom open. “Look at that—stuffed with leather shavin's an' glue! That's what you'd have to contend with. When folks go to buy they go by looks, not quality. Then yore help would fall down on you. You can't turn easy-goin', jolly singin' an' dancin' black boys an' gals into drudgin' machines all at once. They come from a drowsy, savage race an' a hot climate, an' you can't make 'em over in a day. La, la—” The shoemaker bent sideways to look out of the doorway toward the spot where the lynching had occurred. “That's why that thing seems so pitiful.”
Hoag felt his ire rising, but he curbed himself. “They say—folks say, I'm told—that the nigger wasguilty,” he muttered. “When the neighbors first went to his house they found the old hat Rose had on when he was murdered. That fact may not be generally known.”
“Yes, it is,” Silas replied; “but if that's all the mob acted on they acted on powerful flimsy evidence. I've heard men say so this mornin'—good lawyers right here in town. Besides, I myself heard—why, a man set right whar you are a-settin' at this minute, Brother Hoag, an' told me not ten minutes ago that he seed Pete with his own eyes pick up the hat on the side o' the road long after the killin'. Now, you see, the fact that Pete had Rose's hat wouldn't actually condemn 'im in a court of law, while it would be proof enough for a drunken gang o' hotheaded nigger-haters. For all we know, somebody else done the killin' an' thro wed the hat down. I myself don't believe that even afoolnigger would kill a man an' tote his hat along a public road for everybody to see, an' take it home an' give it to one o' his boys to wear. It don't stand to reason.”
A grim look of blended anger and chagrin had settled on Hoag's face, He crossed his legs and tapped the heel of his boot with the butt of his riding-whip.
“I'm not takin' up for the—the men that did the job,” he said. “I have no idea who they are or whar they come from—all abouts in the mountains, I reckon; but any man with an eye in his head can see that the niggers in this country are gettin' out of all bounds. Thar is not a day that some white woman ain't mistreated or scared out o' her senses. I wouldn't trust a nigger an inch. I've seed the best of 'em—psalm-singers an' exhorters in meetin'—turn right round an' commit acts that only hell itself could devise.”
“I know, I know,” Silas sighed; “an' in my opinion that's exactly why we need law—an' good law at that. Niggers are natural imitators of the whites; they see lawlessness, an' they git lawless. Mob law stirs up the worst that's in 'em. They see injustice done—the wrong man lynched, for instance—an' they brood over it in secret an' want to hit back, an' they do it the first chance. I don't see you at meetin' often, Brother Hoag, an' you may not depend much on Scripture—many busy men don't, these days; but it is my chief guide, an' our Lord an' Master laid down rules of conduct that if they was half obeyed thar wouldn't be a speck o' strife betwixt white an' black. Lovin' the humblest—'the least of these,' as our Saviour put it—an' turnin' t'other cheek as a daily practice wouldn't leave an openin' for such as that last night.”
Silas put some wooden pegs into his mouth, and began to make holes in the shoe-bottom with an awl and a flat-headed hammer. Hoag glared steadily at the bald pate for a moment, and then, shrugging his shoulders, he stood up. There was a red spot on each of his cheeks, a sullen, thwarted sort of flare in his eyes.
“Well, I'll have to be goin',” he said, winding his pliant whip around his hand. “I see you won't help me build that shoe-factory. I may do it, an' I may not. Thar is another deal I may put the money in, but that's plumb out o' your line. So long.”
The cobbler raised his eyes and muttered an inarticulate something from his peg-filled mouth, and watched Hoag as he went out and unhitched his horse.
“He's one o' the big men o' the county,” Silas mused, “an' yet he don't seem to have the slightest inkling o' what rail justice means. I reckon the almighty dollar has plumb blinded him. He wasn't any more concerned with what I told 'im about that pore darky than if I'd been talkin' about a dead hog. Well, they say he's give up believin' in a God or a future life, an' if he has he's livin' up to his lights, ordownto 'em—I don't know which.”
IN morbid ill-humor, and vaguely discontented under an intangible something that seemed to press upon him from external sources, Hoag went to his horse. At another time the conviction that a mere cobbler had convinced him of his lack of judgment in regard to a business venture would have irritated him beyond expression; but, strange to say, Silas had said other things that were even more objectionable, and Hoag had been obliged to sit and listen, and by his silence leave the impression on the stupid lout that he was right. The fellow was no doubt talking that way to others, and others were talking to him in the same vein.
Diagonally across the street was the front entrance to a big livery-stable. It had a high board front, on which was painted a horse in a racing-gig and a driver in a jockey's cap leaning forward whip in hand, feet firmly braced. Beneath the picture were the words:
And thither Hoag led his horse. On the edge of the sidewalk a negro was washing the dust from a new buggy with a sponge and a pail of water. Another negro close by was trimming the mane and tail of a horse with a big pair of clicking shears. They had been conversing in low, earnest tones, but they ceased and applied themselves vigorously to work as the tanner approached.
“Hold my hoss,” he said to the man with the pail. “Is Sid about?”
“Back inside, boss.” The negro touched his hat, swept a broad, flat foot backward, and took the bridle. “Leastwise, he was, suh, des er minute ergo. He was talkin' ter er gipsy dat had er muel ter swap. Dey didn't come ter no trade, dough. I know, kase de gipsy rid his muel off up de street.”
Hoag turned into the stable, which was a spacious structure with wide doors at each end, bare, brown rafters overhead, and a storm-shattered shingle roof, which in places let in rifts of sunshine and exposed bits of sky. On either side of a wide passage, from end to end of the building, were stalls, some occupied by horses, and all smelling of manure and musty hay. There was a sound of the champing of feeding animals, the swishing of tails, for the flies were plentiful, and the satisfied accompaniment of pawing hoofs on the soggy ground.
In the rear doorway stood a man who had just stepped into view from the yard in the rear. It was Trawley. He had a stick of soft pine in his hand, and was nervously whittling with a big pocket-knife, his broad, slouch hat pushed back on his head and turned up in front. Sid was quite as well known for the good stable he ran as for his fighting tendencies, the quick use of a “gun,” and general habits of brave recklessness.
Toward him, with a forced smile of companionship, Hoag walked, cautiously looking into the stalls as he passed.
“They are all in front,” Trawley said, reassuringly when they met; “but we don't want to be seen confabbin' together, to-day of all days.” He jerked his knife toward the yard. “Come out here whar it's quiet.”
With a steady stare of awakening wonder over Sid's unwonted caution Hoag followed, first into the open glare of the sun and then under the roof of a wagon-shed.
“If you hadn't come in, I was goin' to ride out to see you,” Trawley said, with a frown which lay heavily on his sharp-cut features. “I reckon you've heard—bad news travels fast.”
“News? I hain't heard nothin'.” Hoag held the butt of his whip against his lower lip and stared questioningly. “Say, what's up?”
“Enough, God knows—hell's to pay. We've got to git together right away an' take action o' some sort. Say—wait a minute.”
The negro who had been cleaning the buggy was drawing it through the stable toward them, and his master strode angrily to the rear door.
“Leave that buggy thar,” he ordered, “an' go back to the front an' stay till I come.”
With a blank look of astonishment the negro dropped the tongue of the buggy, and turned back to the front. Hoag heard Trawley softly grumbling as he came back.
“I'll break a board over that nigger's head one o' these days,” he growled. “He was try in' to get back here to see what me'n you are up to.”
“Oh, I reckon not—I reckon not,” Hoag said, his gaze anxiously fixed on Trawley's face. “Just now you said somethin' about news.”
“You'll think it's news when you hear it,” the stable-man said, taking off his hat and mopping his hot brow with a soiled handkerchief. “Cap, the last thing me or you could possibly expect has done happened. The sheriff of Canton County has just telegraphed that he's got the man that killed old Rose.”
“Got the man that—bosh! Whywe—” The words fell from Hoag's lips like bits of metal, and he broke off with a low oath. For a moment neither he nor Trawley spoke. Hoag laughed defiantly, mechanically, and without mirth. Then his face glowed faintly. “Oh, I see, the sheriff over thar don't know what—what took place here last night. He's nabbed some triflin' nigger that had a suspicious look, an' is holdin' 'im for—”
“'Twasn't no nigger,” Trawley said. “It is a tramp—a white man that the sheriff says passed Rose's farm yesterday afoot.”
“Well, what o' that?” Hoag showed irritability. “We'll have to wire the sheriff to turn the man loose—that's all—that's all!”
“If thatwasall, itwouldbe easy; but it ain't, by a long shot,” Trawley sniffed. “The tramp had Rose's old silver watch with his name cut on it!”
“You mean—” But Hoag knew well what he meant, and was in no mood for idle remarks. When thwarted in anything, justly or unjustly, he became angry; he felt his rage rising now over his sheer inability to cope with a situation which certainly demanded all his poise, all his mental forces.
“We are simply in a hole,” Trawley muttered, still wiping the sweat from his brow. “In a hole, an' a deep one at that.”
“What makes you think so?” Hoag was glaring into the eyes of his companion, as a man in dense darkness trying to see.
“Because we are,” Trawley answered. “The sheriff over thar in Canton won't want to admit he's made a mistake with the proof he holds. He'll bring his man to trial an' the fellow will be convicted. The fact that we—that us boys in this county strung up a nigger for the crime won't make any difference over thar, but it will make a lot here.”
“I don't see how.”
“Well, I do, if you don't, Cap. We are in, an' we are in deep. You have a curious way about you—you git so mad when things go ag'in' you that you won't admit facts when they are before you. As for me, I've been here thinkin' over it all momin'. It is nasty—the whole damn thing is nasty. The niggers are gittin' bold enough anyway, along with what the Atlanta papers have been sayin' in their favor, an' the Governor talkin' about orderin' troops out, an' the like, an' now this will simply stir up the State. We kin keep the main body of niggers down by what we done—what was done last night; but thar are some sly ones with white blood an' hell in 'em. We are all in danger. Look at this stable.” Trawley waved his damp handkerchief toward the big building and surrounding wagon-sheds. “One of the devils could sneak up here any night and set fire to all I got an' burn it to the ground. It is so dry it would go up like powder. I've got several thousand dollars' worth of vehicles, to say nothin' of live-stock that can't be driv' out at such a time, an' I don't carry insurance, because the rate is too high, owin' to the risk bein' so heavy; Land as for you—your tannery, house, cotton-gin, warehouse, an'—”
“Thar's no good talkin' about allthat!” Hoag broke in, with a lowering frown. “We've got to do something, an' do it quick.”
“Wait a minute,” Trawley said. “I hear one o' them niggers whistlin' for me; it may be one o' our—one of—may be somebody lookin' for us now. Thar'll be excitement, big excitement, when it spreads about through the mountains.”
There was an oak in the yard which shaded the well, and Hoag went to the well and sat down on the end of a long dug-out watering-trough. He was beginning to perspire freely, and he took off his hat and fanned himself in a nervous, jerky fashion. His hands were damp, and on their red backs, and along his heavy wrists, the hairs stood like dank reeds in a miniature swamp. He was in high dudgeon; everything seemed to have turned against him. Tye's unconscious lecture and crude object-lessons, combined with the old man's spiritual placidity and saintly aloofness from the horrors he shrank from, were galling in the extreme. Then Trawley's fears that certain property might be destroyed by way of retaliation were worth considering; and, lastly, there was the humiliation of such a grave mistake becoming public, even though the perpetrators themselves might not be known. From where Hoag sat he could look into the stable, and he saw Trawley going from stall to stall showing the horses to a well-dressed stranger, who looked like a traveling salesman of the better class. Presently the man left the stable, and Trawley, still holding his stick and knife in hand, came back to Hoag.
“Damn fool from up North,” he explained, angrily. “Wanted to hire a rig an' hosses to go over the mountain, whar he's got some lumber interests. He talked to me like—I wish you'd a-heard 'im. I couldn't hardly pin 'im down to business, he was so full o' the hangin'. He happened to see 'em cut down the body an' haul it away. Of course, he had no idea that I—he seemed to lay it to a gang o' cutthroats from over whar he was to go, an' wondered if it would be safe for a Northern man to drive out unarmed an' without a bodyguard.”
“Why didn't you slap his jaw?” Hoag growled, inconsistently.
“Yes, an' had 'im ax what it was to me,” Trawley snarled. “I did, in a roundabout way, try to show up our side, an' what we have to contend with; but he just kept groanin', 'My Lord, my Lord,' an' sayin' that old woman an' her children was the pitifulest sight he ever saw! He said”—Trawley shrugged his shoulders and made a grimace as he tugged at his mustache—“he said all of uscivilizedcitizens—them was his words—ought to band together an' 'force law an' order—that it was killin' our interests. He had been countin' on locatin' here, he said, but was afeard, when the thing got in the papers, his company would back out an' not develop their property. He seemed awfully put out. I tried to tell 'im that if he knowed niggers as we do he'd see it our way; but the truth is, I was so bothered over that dang tramp's arrest that—”
“I've been studyin' over that.” Hoag dismissed the stranger from his mind with a fierce frown. “There is only one thing to do. Set down here—set down!”
Sid complied. “If you can think of any way out o' the mess you can beat me,” he said, dejectedly.
“Thar is just one thing for us to do.” Hoag was to some extent regaining his self-possession, his old autocratic mien had returned. “You fellows are all goin' to git rattled an' somebody's got to keep a clear head an' plan how to act. The klan will naturally look to me; it is really on my shoulders; we'll sink or fall by my judgment. Some of us have got to git together to-night an' march over thar to the Canton jail an' take that tramp out.”
“An' lynch 'im? Good Lord, Cap—”
“No, fool, not lynch 'im—that wouldn't do—that never would do in the world; we must send 'im about his business—hustle 'im out o' the country an'—an' circulate the report that he was arrested by mistake, which—which I've no doubt he was. Pete Watson sold 'im the watch. That's plain enough.”
“Oh, ah, I see—by gum, I see; but what about the sheriff over thar? Fellers o' that sort are sometimes proud o' makin' an arrest in a case like that.”
“That's the only hill to climb an' we may fail; but we've got to try it. I know 'im purty well. He expects to be re-elected, an' half of our boys live in his county an' vote thar. We must show 'im the damage the thing would work among the niggers, an' sort o' make a—a political issue of it; show 'im that he'll git beat, an' beat bad, if he goes ag'in' so many.”
“By gum, youarea corker, Cap—you sure are.” Hoag's eyes gleamed, a look of pride settled on his face; he crossed his legs and tapped the spur on his heel with the butt of his whip till the little pronged wheel spun like a circular saw, “When I'm driv' clean to the wall like this I generally see a loophole,” he said. “Now, let's set to work; you send out the word in the usual way, an' have 'em meet at the Cove.”
“Good, good! It's worth tryin', anyway.” Trawley breathed more freely. “I'll notify most o' the boys—especially them that live in Canton County.”
“Order out as many as you can,” Hoag said. “At night it will be hard for the sheriff to know who they all are, an' the bigger the crowd the better; but, say—I've just thought of something important. You'll have to leave Sam an' Alec Rose out. You see it stands to reason that they'd never consent to let the tramp off, an'—an'—well, we can't kill 'im. He's got to go free.”
“Yes, Sam an' Alec will have to be left out—they are crazy enough as it is. I'll caution the other boys not to let 'em know a thing about it.”
“That's the idea.” Hoag was starting away, when Trawley, still seated on the trough, called him back.
“Wait; thar was something else I had on my mind to tell you, but it has clean slipped away. I intended to tell you last night, but we had so much to do, an' thar was so much excitement. Lemme see—oh yes, now I remember!” Trawley stood up and caught the lapel of Hoag's thin coat. “Say, Cap, I want to warn you, as a friend, you are goin' to have more trouble with Jeff Warren. He hain't never been satisfied since you an' him had that fight last spring. He says he licked you, an' that you've been denying it. He was here at the stable yesterday talkin' about what he was goin' to do with you when he meets you. He's heard some'n he claims you said about him an' Ralph Rundel's wife. I reckon he is actin' the fool about 'er, an' maybe he is takin' advantage of a sick man; but nobody knows, for sure. Some think Jeff is honorable. Anyway, you'll have to look out an' not let 'im git the drop on you. He's a bloodthirsty devil when he's mad, an' he hain't got sense enough to know that he'd compromise the woman worse by fightin' for her than lettin' the matter blow over.”
Hoag stood silent, facing his companion. His countenance became rigid and his heavy brows fell together; there was a peculiar twitching about his nostrils. “I don't know what I said about him an' her, an' I care less.” He spoke in halting, uncertain tones. “I've got no use for 'im, an' never had.”
“Well, I thought there'd be no harm in puttin' you on yore guard.” Trawley looked at his chief as if perplexed over his mood. “He's a hot-headed devil, that will shoot at the drop of a hat.”
Hoag stood rigid. There was a fixed stare in his eyes. His lips quivered, as if on the verge of utterance, and then he looked down at the ground. Trawley eyed him in slow surprise for a moment, then he said:
“I hope, Cap, you don't think I am meddlin' in yore private business. It is not often that I tote any sort o' tale betwixt two men; but Jeff is such a rampant daredevil, an' so crazy right now, that—”
“I'm not afraid of 'im. Good God, don't think that!” Hoag was quite pale. “It was only—say, Sid, it's like this: do you think that a man like me, with all I've got at stake, one way or another, can afford to—to take even chances with a shiftless fool like Jeff Warren?”
“It ain't what you, or me, or anybody canaffordto do,” the stable-owner returned, “orwantto do, for that matter; when a chap like Jeff is loaded for bear an' on our trail we've either got to git ready for 'im or—or swear out a peace-warrant, an' me or you'd rather be hung than do the like o' that. As for me, in all rows I treat everybody alike. If a black buck nigger wants satisfaction out o' me he can git it—you bet he can.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Hoag said, his eyes shifting restlessly in their deep sockets, his fingers fumbling his whip. “I was just wondering; did he—did you notice whether Warren was totin' a gun or not?”
“I think he was; that's why I mentioned the matter to you. In fact, he was inquiring if anybody had seen you—said he knowed enough law to know that if he went to yore house on such serious business that he'd be held accountable, wharas, if you an' him met on a public highway it would be all right, beca'se it was your unjustified remark ag'in' a woman that started the thing.”
Hoag stared into the face of his companion for another minute. It was as if he wanted some sort of advice and did not know how to ask for it. He shrugged his shoulders, lashed the hot air with his whip, cleared his throat, and said:
“I hope you don't think I'm afraid o' the dirty puppy, Sid?”
“Afraid, oh no!” Trawley replied, indifferently. “Of course not. You kin shoot as straight as he can. Besides, if it come to the worst—if he did happen to git the best of it—you are in as good a shape to die as any man I know. You'd leave your wife an' family well provided for. Take my advice and don't give 'im a chance to draw a gun. Pull down, and pull down quick!”
Trawley led the way back into the stable, and at the front the two men parted. Hoag was on the sidewalk when Trawley called to him, and came to his side.
“If you hain't got a gun on you, you kin take mine,” he said, in a low tone.
“I've got one,” Hoag answered, a far-off look in his eyes, and he slid a hand over his bulging hip-pocket. “I never go without it.”
“Well, if nothin' happens, then I'll meet you tonight,” Trawley reminded him. “We must put that thing through.”
Hoag nodded. “All right,” he returned, abstractedly. “All right—all right.”
“If nothin' happens!” The words fairly stung his consciousness as he walked away. “If nothin' happens!” His feet and legs felt heavy. There was a cold, tremulous sensation in the region of his pounding heart.
HOAG had some important business to transact in the little bank on one of the comers of the Square, and he was detained there half an hour or more. The thought flashed on him, as he sat alone at the banker's desk in the rear, that a prudent man at such a time would make a will; but the idea chilled him, horrified him. This feeling was followed by a desperate sort of anger over the realization that a low, shiftless clodhopper could so materially upset a man of his importance. He had recalled the idle remark which had reached Warren's ears, and knew it was the kind of thing the man would fight to the death about. And there was no way out of it—no way under the sun. He could not—as Trawley had said—appeal to the law for protection; such a course would make him the laughing-stock of all his followers, who thought him to be a man of unquestioned courage. Hoag drew a sheet of paper to him and began to write, but was unable to fix his mind on the matter in hand. It seemed utterly trivial beside the encroaching horror. Jeff Warren might walk in at any moment and level his revolver; Jeff Warren would kill the traducer of a woman in a church or in a group of mourners over a new grave and feel that he had done his duty. Hoag crumpled up the sheet of paper and dropped it into a waste-paper basket under the desk. He thrust his hand behind him and drew out his revolver and looked at it. He noticed, as he twirled the polished cylinder, that his fingers shook. He ground his teeth, uttered a low oath, and put the revolver back into his pocket. How could he defend himself with nerves such as the combination of tobacco and whisky had given him? He rose and went through the bank to the street, returning the banker's smiling salutation from the little grated window as he passed out.
He drew a breath of relief when he reached the sidewalk, for Warren was not in sight. To Hoag an irrelevant sort of mocking placidity rested on the scene. Storekeepers, clerks, and cotton-buyers were moving about without their coats, pencils behind their ears. Countrymen from the mountains in white-hooded wagons were unloading grain, potatoes, apples, chickens in coops, and bales of hay, with their hearts in their work, while he, the financial superior of them all, was every minute expecting to grapple with a bloody and ignominious death. He had a deed to record at the Court House, and he went into the big, cool building and turned the document over to the clerk with instructions to keep the paper till he called for it. Two lank, coatless farmers, seated near the desk, were playing checkers on a worn, greasy board.
“Ah, ha!” one of them said, “cap that un, an' watch me swipe the balance.”
Hoag was going out when he saw, carelessly leaning in the doorway at the front of the hall, the man he was dreading to meet. For an instant he had an impulse to fall back into the clerk's office, and then the sheer futility of such a course presented itself. Besides, the tall, slender man, with dark hair and eyes and waxed mustache, who had no weapon in sight, was calmly addressing him.
“I want to see you, Jim Hoag,” he said. “Suppose we step back in the yard at the end o' the house?”
“Oh, hello, Warren, how are you?” Hoag said, forcing a desperate smile to his stiff mouth and chilled cheeks.
“I'll try to show you how I am in a few minutes,” Warren answered, coldly, and he led the way down the hall, his high-heeled boots ringing on the bare floor, toward the door at the end. “Or maybe it will be t'other way—you may show me. Well, if you can, you are welcome.”
“I see you are lookin' for trouble, Jeff,” Hoag began. “I heard you wanted to see me, an' I heard you was mad at some fool lie or other that—”
“You step out here on the grass,” Warren said. “I never seed the day I wouldn't give even a bloated skunk like you a fair chance. Draw your gun. You've got more money 'an I have, Hoag; but, by God! my honor an' the honor of a respectable lady of my acquaintance is worth as much to me as—”
“Look here, Jeff, I ain't armed.” Hoag lied flatly as he saw Warren thrust his hand behind him. “You say you want to act fair, then be fair—be reasonable. The truth is—”
“Oh, I see—well, if you ain't ready, that alters it! No man can't accuse me of pullin' down on a feller that ain't fixed. I know you ain't a-goin' to back down after what I've said to your teeth, an' I'll set here on this step an' you go across to the hardware store an' fix yourself. Mine's a thirty-eight. I don't care what size you git. I want you to be plumb satisfied. Don't tell anybody, either. We don't want no crowd. This is our affair.” Hoag moved a step nearer to the offended man. He smiled rigidly. His voice fell into appealing, pleading gentleness.
“Looky here, Jeff, you an' me 've had differences, I know, an' thar's been plenty o' bad blood betwixt us; but as God is my judge I never had any deep ill-will ag'in' you. I've always known you was a brave man, an' I admired it in you. You are mad now, an' you are not seein' things straight. You've heard some'n or other; but it ain't true. Now, I don't want any trouble with you, an—”
“Trouble!” Warren's dark eyes flashed; his voice rang like steel striking steel. It was an odd blending of threat and laughter. “If we don't have trouble the sun won't set to-night. I'm talkin' about what you said at the post-office t'other day to a gang about me an' a certain neighbor's wife.”
“I think I can guess what you are talkin' about, an' you've got it plumb crooked, Jeff.” Hoag bent toward the man and laid a bloodless hand full of soothing intent on his shoulder. “You say you are a fair man, Jeff, an' I know you are, an' when a man like me says he's sorry and wants to fix things straight—without bloodshed—be reasonable. I didn't mean to reflect on the lady. I just said, if I remember right, that it looked like she admired you some. An' if you say so, I'll apologize to her myself. No man could ask more than that.”
The fierce dark eyes blinked; their glare subsided. There was a momentous pause.
“I wouldn't want 'er to hear a thing like that,” Warren faltered. “Too much has been said anyway, one way an' another, by meddlin' gossips, an' it would hurt her feelin's. I didn't want to fight about it, but couldn't hold in. An' if you say you didn't mean nothin' disrespectful, why, that will have to do. We'll drop it. I don't want bloodshed myself, if I kin get around it.”
“I don't want any either, Jeff,” Hoag said, still pacifically, and yet his fury, contempt for himself, and hatred for the man before him were already returning, “so we'll call it settled?”
“All right, all right,” Warren agreed; “it will have to do. When a man talks like you do nothin' more is to be said. I never yet have whipped a man that didn't want to fight. I'd as soon hit a suckin' baby.” They parted, Warren going into the Court House and Hoag to the stable for his horse. Trawley was at the front waiting for him.
“Hello,” he cried, “I see he didn't plug you full o' holes. I watched 'im follow you into the Court House, an' expected to hear a whole volley o' shots.”
“Hedidwant to see me,” Hoag sneered, loftily. “In fact, he come while I was havin' a paper recorded an' wanted to see me. He tried to git me to admit I was slanderin' that woman, an' I gave 'im a piece o' my mind about it. Her son works for me, an' I think a lot of the boy. I wouldn't have Paul hear a thing like that for anything. He's all right an' is tryin' hard to make his way. I told Jeff if he wanted bloodshed to git up some other pretext an' I'd give 'im all he wanted. A triflin' scamp like he is can't stamp me in public as a traducer of women.”
“I see, I see,” said Trawley, in vague approval. “Well, that's out of the way, an' we can attend to the other matter. It's a serious thing, Jim Hoag. The sheriff over in Canton may tell us to mind our own rat-killin', and then wewouldbe in a box.”
“We've got to bring all our force to bear an' pull 'im round,” Hoag said. “I'm goin' to see a few of our main men here in town, an' sorter map out a plan. If we go at it right, we'll pull it through. I'll meet you all at the Cove to-night.”