It was an ordinary frame house standing on brick legs, and situated on a barren knoll, which, because of the dead level of marsh and swamp and deserted fields from which it rose, seemed to achieve the loneliness of a real height. The south and west sides of the house looked out on marsh and swamp; the north and east sides on a wide stretch of old fields grown up in broom-grass. Beyond the marsh rolled a river, now quite beyond its banks with a freshet; beyond the swamp, which was a cypress swamp, rose a railway embankment leading to a bridge that crossed the river. On the other two sides the old fields ended in a solid black wall of pine-barren. A roadway led from the house through the broom-grass to the barren, and at the beginning of this road stood an outhouse, also on brick legs, which, save for a small stable, was the sole out-building. One end of this house was a kitchen, the other was divided into two rooms for servants. There were some shattered remnants of oak-trees out in the field, and some chimneys overgrown with vines, showing where in happier times the real homestead had stood.

It was toward the end of February; a clear afternoon drawing toward sunset; and all the flat, sad country was covered with a drifting red glow that turned the field of broom-grass into a sea of gold; that lighted up the black wall of pine-barren, and shot, here and there, long shafts of light into the sombre depths of the cypress swamp. There was no sign of life about the dwelling-house, though the doors and windows stood open; but every now and then a negro woman came out of the kitchen and looked about, while within a dog whined.

Shading her eyes with her hand, this woman would gaze across the field toward the ruin; then down the road; then, descending the steps, she would walk a little way toward the swamp and look along the dam that, ending the yard on this side, led out between the marsh and the swamp to the river. The over-full river had backed up into the yard, however, and the line of the dam could now only be guessed at by the wall of solemn cypress-trees that edged the swamp. Still, the woman looked in this direction many times and also toward the railway embankment, from which a path led toward the house, crossing the heap of the swamp by a bridge made of two felled trees.

But look as she would, she evidently did not find what she sought, and muttering “Lawd! Lawd!” she returned to the kitchen, shook the tied dog into silence, and seating herself near the fire, gazed sombrely into its depths. A covered pot hung from the crane over the blaze, making a thick bubbling noise, as if what it contained had boiled itself almost dry, and a coffee-pot on the hearth gave forth a pleasant smell. The woman from time to time turned the spit of a tin kitchen wherein a fowl was roasting, and moved about the coals on the top of a Dutch oven at one side. She had made preparation for a comfortable supper, and evidently for others than herself.

She went again to the open door and looked about, the dog springing up and following to the end of his cord. The sun was nearer the horizon now, and the red glow was brighter. She looked toward the ruin; looked along the road; came down the steps and looked toward the swamp and the railway path. This time she took a few steps in the direction of the house; looked up at its open windows, at the front door standing ajar, at a pair of gloves and a branch from the vine at the ruin, that lay on the top step of the piazza, as if in passing one had put them there, intending to return in a moment. While she looked the distant whistle of a locomotive was heard echoing back and forth about the empty land, and the rumble of an approaching train. She turned a little to listen, then went hurriedly back to the kitchen.

The rumbling sound increased, although the speed was lessened as the river was neared. Very slowly the train was moving, and the woman, peeping from the window, watched a gentleman get off and begin the descent of the path.

“Mass Johnnie!” she said. “Lawd! Lawd!” and again seated herself by the fire until the rapid, firm footstep having passed, she went to the door, and standing well in the shadow, watched.

Up the steps the gentleman ran, pausing to pick up the gloves and the bit of vine. The negro groaned. Then in the open door, “Nellie!” he called, “Nellie!”

The woman heard the call, and going back quickly to her seat by the fire, threw her apron over her head.

“Abram!” was the next call; then, “Aggie!”

She sat quite still, and the master, running up the kitchen steps and coming in at the door, found her so.

“Aggie!”

“Yes, suh.”

“Why didn't you answer me?”

The veiled figure rocked a little from side to side.

“What the mischief is the matter?” walking up to the woman and pulling the apron from over her face. “Where is your Miss Nellie?”

“I dun'no', suh; but yo' supper is ready, Mass Johnnie.”

“Has your mistress driven anywhere?”

“De horse is in de stable, suh.” The woman now rose as if to meet a climax, but her eyes were still on the fire.

“Did she go out walking?”

“Dis mawnin', suh.”

“This morning!” he repeated, slowly, wonderingly, “and has not come back yet?”

The woman began to tremble, and her eyes, shining and terrified, glanced furtively at her master.

“Where is Abram?”

“I dun'no', suh!” It was a gasping whisper.

The master gripped her shoulder, and with a maddened roar he cried her name —“Aggie!”

The woman sank down. Perhaps his grasp forced her down. “'Fo' Gawd!” she cried—“'fo Gawd, Mass Johnnie, I dun'no'!” holding up beseeching hands between herself and the awful glare of his eyes. “I'll tell you, suh, Mass Johnnie, I'll tell you!” crouching away from him. “Miss Nellie gimme out dinner en supper, den she put on she hat en gone to de ole chimbly en git some de brier what grow dey. Den she come back en tell Abram fuh git a bresh broom en sweep de ya'd. Lemme go, Mass Johnnie, please, suh, en I tell you better, suh. En Abram teck de hatchet en gone to'des de railroad fuh cut de bresh. 'Fo' Gawd, Mass Johnnie, it's de trute, suh! Den I tell Miss Nellie say de chicken is all git out de coop, en she say I muss ketch one fuh unner supper, suh; en I teck de dawg en gone in de fiel' fuh look fuh de chicken. En I see Miss Nellie put 'e glub en de brier on de step, en walk to'des de swamp, like 'e was goin' on de dam—'kase de water ent rise ober de dam den—en den I gone in de broom-grass en I run de chicken, en I ent ketch one tay I git clean ober to de woods. En when I come back de glub is layin' on de step, en de brier, des like Miss Nellie leff um—” She stopped, and her master straightened himself.

“Well,” he said, and his voice was strained and weak.

The servant once more flung her apron over her head, and broke into violent crying. “Dat's all, Mass Johnnie! dat's all! I dun'no' wey Abram is gone; I dun'no' what Abram is do! Nobody ent been on de place dis day—dis day but me—but me! Oh, Lawd! oh, Lawd en Gawd!”

The master stood as if dazed. His face was drawn and gray, and his breath came in awful gasps. A moment he stood so, then he strode out of the house. With a howl the dog sprang forward, snapping the cord, and rushed after his master.

The woman's cries ceased, and without moving from her crouching position she listened with straining ears to the sounds that reached her from the stable. In a moment the clatter of horses' hoofs going at a furious pace swept by, then a dead silence fell. The intense quiet seemed to rouse her, and going to the door, she looked out. The glow had faded, and the gray mist was gathering in distinct strata above the marsh and the river. She went out and looked about her as she had done so many times during that long day. She gazed at the water that was still rising; she peered cautiously behind the stable and under the houses; she approached the wood-pile as if under protest, gathered some logs into her arms and an axe that was lying there; then turning toward the kitchen, she hastened her steps, looking back over her shoulder now and again, as if fearing pursuit. Once in the kitchen she threw down the wood and barred the door; she shut the boarded window-shutter, fastening it with an iron hook; then leaning the axe against the chimney, she sat down by the fire, muttering, “If dat nigger come sneakin' back yer now, I'll split 'e haid open, sho.”

Recovering a little from her panic, she was once more a cook, and swung the crane from over the fire, brushed the coals from the top of the Dutch oven, and pushed the tin kitchen farther from the blaze. “Mass Johnnie'll want sump'h'n to eat some time dis night,” she said; then, after a pause, “en I gwine eat now.” She got a plate and cup, and helped herself to hominy out of the pot, and to a roll out of the oven; but though she looked at the fowl she did not touch it, helping herself instead to a goodly cup of coffee. So she ate and drank with the axe close beside her, now and then pausing to groan and mutter—“Po' Mass Johnnie!—po' Mass Johnnie!—Lawd! Lawd!—if Miss Nellie had er sen' Abram atter dat chicken—like I tell um—Lawd!” shaking her head the while.

Through the gathering dusk John Morris galloped at the top speed of his horse. Reaching the little railway station, he sprang off, throwing the reins over a post, and strode in.

“Write this telegram for me, Green,” he said; “my hand trembles.

“To Sam Partin, Sheriff, Pineville:

“My wife missing since morning. Negro, Abram Washington, disappeared. Bring men and dogs. Get off night train this side of bridge. Will be fire on the path to mark the place.

“JOHN MORRIS.”

“Great God!” the operator said, in a low voice. “I'll come too, Mr. Morris.”

“Thank you,” John Morris answered. “I'm going to get the Wilson boys, and Rountree and Mitchell,” and for the first time the men's eyes met. Determined, deadly, sombre, was the look exchanged; then Morris went away.

None of the men whom Morris summoned said much, nor did they take long to arm themselves, saddle, and mount, and by nine o'clock Aggie heard them come galloping across the field; then her master's voice calling her. There was little time in which to make the signal-fire on the railroad embankment, and to cut light-wood into torches, even though there were many hands to do the work. John Morris's dog followed him a part of the way to the wood-pile, then turned aside to where the water had crept up from the swamp into the yard. Aggie saw the dog, and spoke to Mr. Morris.

“Dat's de way dat dawg do dis mawnin', Mass Johnnie, an' when I gone to ketch de chicken, Miss Nellie was walkin' to'des dat berry place.”

An irresistible shudder went over John Morris, and one of the gentlemen standing near asked if he had a boat.

“The bateau was tied to that stake this morning,” Mr. Morris answered, pointing to a stake some distance out in the water; “but I have another boat in the top of the stable.” Every man turned to go for it, showing the direction of their fears, and launched it where the log bridge crossed the head of the swamp, and where now the water was quite deep.

The whistle was heard at the station, and the rumble of the on-coming train. The fire flared high, lighting up the group of men standing about it, booted and belted with ammunition-belts, quiet, and white, and determined.

Many curious heads looked out as the sheriff and his men—six men besides Green from the station—got off; then the train rumbled away in the darkness toward the surging, turbulent river, and the crowd moved toward the house.

Mr. Morris told of his absence in town on business. That Abram had been hired first as a field-hand; and that later, after his marriage, he had taken Abram from the field to look after his horse and to do the heavier work about the house and yard.

“And the woman Aggie is trust-worthy?”

“I am sure of it; she used to belong to us.”

“Abram is a strange negro?”

“Yes.”

Then Aggie was called in to tell her story. Abram had taken the hatchet and had gone toward the railroad for brush to make a broom. She had taken the dog and gone into the broom-grass to catch a fowl, and the last she had seen of her mistress she was walking toward the dam, which was then above the water.

“How long were you gone after the chicken?”

“I dun'no', suh; but I run um clean to de woods 'fo' I ketch um, en I walk back slow 'kase I tired.”

“Were you gone an hour?”

“I spec so, suh, 'kase when I done ketch de chicken I stop fuh pick up some light-wood I see wey Abram been cuttin' wood yistiddy.”

“And your mistress was not here when you came back—nor Abram?”

“No, suh, nobody; en 'e wuz so lonesome I come en look in dis house fuh Miss Nellie, but 'e ent deyyer; en I look in de bush fuh Abram, but I ent see um nudder. En de dawg run to de water en howl en ba'k en ba'k tay I tie um up in de kitchen.”

“And was the boat tied to the stake this morning?”

“Yes, suh; en when I been home long time en git scare, den I look en see de boat gone.”

“You don't think that your mistress got in the boat and drifted away by accident?”

“No, suh, nebber, suh; Miss Nellie 'fraid de water lessen Mass Johnnie is wid um.”

“Is Abram a good boy?”

“I dun'no', suh; I dun'no' nuffin 'tall 'bout Abram, suh; Abram is strange nigger to we.”

“Did he take his things out of his room?”

“Abram t'ings? Ki! Abram ent hab nuttin' ceppen what Miss Nellie en Mass Johnnie gi' um. No, suh, dat nigger ent hab nuttin' but de close on 'e back when 'e come to we.”

The sheriff paused a moment. “I think, Mr. Morris,” he said at last, “that we'd better separate. You, with Mr. Mitchell and Mr. Rountree, had better take your boat and hunt in the swamp and marsh, and along the river-bank. Let Mr. Wilson, his brothers, and Green take your dog and search in the pine-barren. I'll take my men and my dogs and cross the railroad. The signal of any discovery will be three shots fired in quick succession. The gathering-place'll be this house, where a member of the discovering party'll meet the other parties and bring 'em to the discovery. And I beg that you'll refrain from violence, at least until we can reach each other. We've no proof of anything—”

“Damn proof!”

“An' our only clew,” the sheriff went on, “the missing boat, points to Mrs. Morris's safety.” A little consultation ensued; then agreeing to the sheriff's distribution of forces, they left the house.

The sheriff's dogs—the lean, small hounds used on such occasions—were tied, and he held the ropes. There was an anxious look on his face, and he kept his dogs near the house until the party for the barren had mounted and ridden away, and the party in the boat had pushed off into the blackness of the swamp, a torch fastened at the prow casting weird, uncertain shadows. Then ordering his six men to mount and to lead his horse, he went to the room of the negro Abram and got an old shirt. The two lean little dogs were restless, but they made no sound as he led them across the railway. Once on the other side, he let them smell the shirt, and loosed them, and was about to mount, when, in the flash of a torch, he saw something in the grass.

“A hatchet!” he said to his companions, picking it up; “and clean, thank God!”

The men looked at each other, then one said, slowly, “He coulder drowned her?”

The sheriff did not answer, but followed the dogs that had trotted away with their noses to the ground.

“I'm sure the nigger came this way,” the sheriff said, after a while. “Those others may find the poor young lady, but I feel sure of the nigger.”

One of the men stopped short. “That nigger's got to die,” he said.

“Of course,” the sheriff answered, “but not by Judge Lynch's court. This circuit's got a judge that'll hang him lawfully.”

“I b'lieve Judge More will,” the recalcitrant admitted, and rode on. “But,” he added, “if I know Mr. John Morris, that nigger's safe to die one way or another.”

They rode more rapidly now, as the dogs had quickened their pace. The moon had risen, and the riding, for men who hunted recklessly, was not bad. Through woods and across fields, over fences and streams, down by-paths and old roads, they followed the little dogs.

“We're makin' straight for the next county,” the sheriff said.

“We're makin' straight for the old Powis settlement,” was answered. “Nothin' but niggers have lived there since the war, an' that nigger's there, I'll bet.”

“That's so,” the sheriff said. “About how many niggers live there now?”

“There ain't more than half a dozen cabins left now. We can easy manage that many.”

It was a long rough ride, and in spite of their rapid pace it was some time after midnight before they saw the clearing where clustered the few cabins left of the plantation quarters of a well-known place, which in its day had yielded wealth to its owners. The moon was very bright, and, save for the sound of the horses' feet, the silence was intense.

“Look sharp,” the sheriff said; “that nigger ain't sleepin' much if he's here, and he might try to slip off.”

The dogs were going faster now, and yelping a little.

“Keep up, boys!” and the sheriff spurred his horse.

In a few minutes they thundered into the little settlement, where the dogs were already barking and leaping against a close-shut door. Frightened black faces began to peer out. Low exclamations and guttural ejaculations were heard as the armed men scattered, one to each cabin, while the sheriff hammered at the door where the dogs were jumping.

“It's the sheriff!” he called, “come to get Abram Washington. Bring him out and you kin go back to your beds. We're all armed, and nobody need to try runnin'.”

The door opened cautiously, and an old negro looked out. “Abram's my son, Mr. Partin,” he said, “an' 'fo' Gawd he ent yer.”

“No lyin', old man; the dogs brought us straight here. Don't make me burn the house down; open the door.”

The door was closing, when the sheriff, springing from his horse, forced it steadily back. A shot came from within, but it ranged wild, and in an instant the sheriff's pistol covered the open room, where a smouldering fire gave light. Two of the men followed him, and one, making for the fire, pushed it into a blaze, which revealed a group of negroes—an old man, a young woman, some children, and a young man crouching behind with a gun in his hand. The sheriff walked straight up to the young man, whose teeth were chattering.

“I arrest you,” he said; “come on.”

“That's the feller,” confirmed one of the guard; “I've seen him at Mr. Morris's place.”

“Tie him,” the sheriff ordered, “while I git that gun. Give it to me, old man, or I'll take you to jail too.” It was yielded up—an old-time rifle—and the sheriff smashed it against the side of the chimney, throwing the remnants into the fire. “Lead on,” he said, and the young negro was taken outside. Quickly he was lifted on to a horse and tied there, while the former rider mounted behind one of his companions, and they rode out of the settlement into the woods.

“Git into the shadows,” one said; “they might be fools enough to shoot.”

Once in the road, the sheriff called a halt. “One of you must ride; back to Mr. Morris's place and collect the other search-parties, while we make for Pineville jail. Now, Abram, come on.”

“I ent done nuttin', Mr. Parin, suh,” the negro urged. “I ent hot Mis' Morris.”

“Who said anything 'bout Mrs. Morris?” was asked, sharply.

The negro groaned.

“You're hanging yourself, boy,” the sheriff said; “but since you know, where is Mrs. Morris?”

“I dun'no', suh.”

“Why did you run away?”

“'Kase I 'fraid Mr. Morris.”

“What were you 'fraid of?”

“'Kase Mis' Morris gone.”

They were riding rapidly now, and the talk was jolted out.

“Where'?”

“I dun'no', suh, but I ent tech um.”

“You're a damned liar.”

“No, suh, I ent tech um; I des look at um.”

“I'd like to gouge your eyes out!” cried one of the men, and struck him.

“None o' that!” ordered the sheriff. “And you keep your mouth shut, Abram; you'll have time to talk on your trial.”

“Blast a trial!” growled the crowd.

“The rope's round his neck now,” suggested one, “and I see good trees at every step.”

“Please, suh, gentlemen,” pleaded the shaking negro, “I ent done nuttin'.”

“Shut your mouth!” ordered the sheriff again, “and ride faster. Day'll soon break.”

“You're 'fraid Mr. Morris'll ketch us 'fore we reach the jail,” laughed one of the guard. And the sheriff did not answer.

The eastern sky was gray when the party rode into Pineville, a small, straggling country town, and clattered through its one street to the jail. To the negro, at least, it was a welcome moment, for, with his feet tied under the horse, his hands tied behind his back, and a rope with a slip-knot round his neck, he had not found the ride a pleasant one. A misstep of his horse would surely have precipitated his hanging, and he knew well that such an accident would have given much satisfaction to his captors. So he uttered a fervent “Teng Gawd!” as he was hustled into the jail gate and heard it close behind him.

Early as it was, most of the town was up and excited. Betting had been high as to whether the sheriff would get the prisoner safe into the jail, and even the winners seemed disappointed that he had accomplished this feat, although they praised his skilful management. But the sheriff knew that if the lady's body was found, that if Mr. Morris could find any proof against the negro, that if Mr. Morris even expressed a wish that the negro should hang, the whole town would side with him instantly; and the sheriff knew, further, that in such an emergency he would be the negro's only defender, and that the jail could easily be carried by the mob.

All these thoughts had been with him during the long night, and though he himself was quite willing to hang the negro, being fully persuaded of his guilt, he was determined to do his official duty, and to save the prisoner's life until sentence was lawfully passed on him. But how? If he could quiet the town before the day brightened, he had a plan, but to accomplish this seemed wellnigh impossible.

He handcuffed the prisoner and locked him into a cell, then advised his escort to go and get food, as before the day was done—indeed, just as soon as Mr. Morris should reach the town—he would probably need them to help him defend the jail.

They nodded among themselves, and winked, and laughed a little, and one said, “Right good play-actin'”; and watching, the sheriff knew that he could depend on only one man, his own brother, to help him. But he sent him off along with the others, and was glad to see that the crowd of townspeople went with his guard, listening eagerly to the details of the suspected tragedy and the subsequent hunt. This was his only chance, and he went at once to the negro's cell.

“Now, Abram,” he said, “if you don't want to be a dead man in an hour's time, you'd better do exactly what I tell you.”

“Yes, suh, please Gawd.”

“Put on this old hat,” handing him one, “and pull it down over your eyes, and follow me. When we get outside, you walk along with me like any ordinary nigger going to his work; and remember, if you stir hand or foot more than a walk, you are a dead man. Come on.”

There was a back way out of the jail, and to this the sheriff went. Once outside, he walked briskly, the negro keeping step with him diligently. They did not meet any one, and before very long they reached the sheriff's house, which stood on the outskirts of the town. Being a widower, he knocked peremptorily on the door, and when it was opened by his son, he marched his prisoner in without explanation.

“Shut the door, Willie,” he said, “and load the Winchester.”

“Please, suh—” interjected the negro. For answer, the sheriff took a key from the shelf, and led him out of the back door to where, down a few steps, there was another door leading into an underground cellar.

“Now, Abram,” he said, “you're to keep quiet in here till I can take you to 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.

“All day I drifted, and all night. I was so thirsty, and I grew so weak. At daylight this morning I found myself in a wide sheet of water, with marshes all round, and I saw a steamboat coming. I tied my handkerchief to the paddle and waved it, and they picked me up. And, John, I did not tell them anything except that the freshet had swept me away. They were kind to me, and a friendly woman bound up my foot. We got to town this morning early, and the captain lent me five dollars, John—Captain Meakin—so I telegraphed you, and took a carriage to the station and came out. Have—have you caught him? And, oh—but I am afraid—afraid!” And again she broke into hysterical sobs.

She asked no explanation. The negro's guilt was so burned in on her mind, that she was sure that all knew it as well as she.

“You need have no further fears,” her husband comforted. And the judge shook his head, and the sheriff swore again.

A white-haired woman in rusty black stood talking to a negro convict. It was in a stockade prison camp in the hill country. She had been a slave-owner once, long ago, and now for her mission-work taught on Sundays in the stockade, trying to better the negroes penned there.

This was a new prisoner, and she was asking him of himself.

“How long are you in for?” she asked.

“Fuhrebber, ma'm; fuh des es long es I lib,” the negro answered, looking down to where he was making marks on the ground with his toes.

“And how did you get such a dreadful sentence?”

“I ent do much, ma'm; I des scare a white lady.”

A wave of revulsion swept over the teacher, and involuntarily she stepped back. The negro looked up and grinned.

“De hatchet des cut 'e foot a little bit; but I trow de hatchet. I ent tech um; no, ma'm. Den atterwards 'e baby daid; den dey say I muss stay yer fuhrebber. I ent sorry, 'kase I know say I hab to wuck anywheys I is; if I stay yer, if I go 'way, I hab to wuck. En I know say if I git outer dis place Mr. Morris'll kill me sho—des sho. So I like fuh stay yer berry well.”

And the teacher went away, wondering if her work—if any work—would avail; and what answer the future would have for this awful problem.