HEN Carson reached the front door of Blackburn's store about nine o'clock that evening, he found it closed. For a moment he stood under the Crude wooden shed that roofed the sidewalk and looked up and down the deserted street. It was a dark night, and from the aspect of the heavy, troubled clouds high winds seemed in abeyance beyond the hills to the west. He was wondering how he had best make his presence known to his friends within the store, when he heard a soft whistle, and Keith Gordon, the flaring disk of a cigar lighting his expectant face, stepped out of a dark doorway.

“I've been waiting for you,” he said, in a cautious undertone. “They are getting impatient. You see, they thought you'd be here earlier.”

“I couldn't get away while my mother was awake,” Carson said. “Dr. Stone was there and warned me not to leave at night. She can't stand any more excitement. So I had to stay with her. I read to her till she fell asleep. Who's here?”

“The gang and fully fifteen other trusty fellows—you'll see them on the inside, every man of them with a gun. At the last moment I heard Pole Baker was down at the wagon-yard, and I nabbed him.”

“Good; I'm glad you did. Now let's go in.”

“Not yet, old man,” Keith objected. “Blackburn gave special orders not to open the door if any person was in sight. Let's walk to the corner and look around.”

They went to the old bank building on the corner, and stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to the den. No one was in sight. Across the numerous tracks of the switch-yard hard by there was a steam flouring mill which ground day and night, and the steady puffing of the engine beat monotonously on their ears. In a red flare of light they saw the shadowy form of the engineer stoking the fire.

“Now the way is clear,” said Keith; “we can go in, but I want to prepare you for a disappointment, old man.”

Carson stared through the darkness as arm in arm they moved back to the store. “You mean—”

“I'll tell you, Carson. The meeting of these fellows to-night is a big proof of the—the wonderful esteem in which they hold you. No other man could have got them together at such a time; but, all the same, they are not going to allow you to—you see, Carson, they have had time to talk it over in there, and have unanimously agreed that to make any opposition by force would be worse than folly. Pole Baker brought some reliable news, reliable and terrible. Why, he told us just now—however, wait. He will tell you about it.”

Giving a rap on the door that was recognized within, they were admitted by Blackburn, who stood back in the shadow and quickly closed the shutter and locked it again. In the uncertain light of a lamp with a murky chimney, on the platform in the rear, seated on boxes, nail kegs, chairs, table, and desk, Dwight beheld a motley gathering of his friends and supporters. Kirk Fitzpatrick, the brawny, black-handed tinner, who had a jest for every moment, was there; Wilson, the shoemaker; Tobe Hassler, the German baker; Tom Wayland, the good-hearted drug clerk, whose hair was as red as blood; Bob Smith, Wade Tingle, and, nestled close to the lamp, and looking like a hunchback, crouched Garner, so deep in a newspaper that he was utterly deaf and blind to sounds and things around him. Besides those mentioned, there were several other ardent friends of the candidate.

“Well, here you are at last,” Garner cried, throwing down his paper. “If I hadn't had something to read I'd have been asleep. I don't know any more than a rabbit what you intend to propose, but whatever it is, we are late enough about it.”

Hurriedly Carson explained the cause of his delay and took the chair which the tinner, with the air of a proud inferior, was pushing towards him. As he sat down and the lamplight fell athwart his careworn face, the group was overwhelmed with sympathy and a strange, far-reaching respect they could hardly understand. To-night they were, more than usual, under the spell of that inner force which had bound them one and all to him and which, they felt, nothing but dishonor could break. And yet there they sat so grimly banded together against him that he felt it in their very attitudes.

“The truth is”—Garner broke the awkward pause—“we presume you got us together to-night to offer open opposition—in case, of course, that the mob means harm to your client. That seems the only thing a body of men can do. But, my dear boy, there are two sides to this question. For reasons of your own, chief among which is a most beautiful principle to see the humblest stamp of man get justice—for these reasons you call on your friends to stand to you, and they will stand, I reckon, to the end, but it's for you, Carson, to act reasonably and think as readily of the interests of all of us as for those of the unfortunate prisoner. To meet that mob by opposition to-night would—well, ask Pole Baker for the latest news. When you have heard what he knows to be true, I am sure you will see the utter futility of any movement whatsoever.”

All eyes were now turned on the gaunt mountaineer, who was sitting on an inverted nail keg whittling to a fine point a bit of wood which now and then he thrust automatically between his white front teeth.

“Well, Carson,” he began, in drawling tones, “I lowed you-uns would want to know just how the land lays, and as I had a sort of underground way of gettin' at first-hand facts, I raked in all the information I could an' come on to town. I'd heard about how low your mother was, an' easy upset by excitement, an' so I didn't go up to your house. I met Keith, an' he told me I could see you at this meetin', an' so I waited. Carson, the jig is certainly up with that coon. No power under high heaven could save his neck. The report that was circulated this morning, was deliberately sent out to throw the authorities off their guard. Only about thirty men are still on Sam Dudlow's trail—the rest, hundreds and hundreds, in bunches an' factions, each faction totin' a flag to show whar they hail from, an' all dressed in white sheets, is headed this way.”

“Do you mean right at this moment?” Carson asked, as he started to rise.

Pole motioned to him to sit down.

“They won't be here till about twelve o'clock,” he said. “They've passed the word about amongst 'em, and agreed to meet, so that all factions can take part, at the old Sandsome place, two miles out on the Springtown road. They will start from there at half-past eleven on the march for the jail. It will be after twelve before they get here. Pete's got that long to make his peace, but no longer. And right here, Carson, before I stop, I want to say that thar ain't a man in this State I'd do a favor for quicker than I would for you, but many of us here to-night are family men, and while that nigger may, as you think, be innocent, still his life is just one life, while—well”—Baker snapped his dry fingers with a click that was as sharp as the cocking of a revolver—“I wouldn't give that for our lives if we opposed them men. They are as mad as wounded wild-cats. They believe he done it; they know on reliable testimony that he said he'd kill Johnson; an' they want his blood. Five hundred such as we are wouldn't halt 'em a minute. I want to help, but I'm tied hand an' foot.”

There was silence after Pole's voice died away. Then Garner rapped on the table with his small hand and tossed back the long, thick hair from his massive brow.

“You may as well know the truth, Carson,” he said, calmly. “We put it to a vote just before you came, and we all agreed that we would—well, try to bring you round to some sort of resignation; try to get you to throw it off your mind and stop worrying.”

To their surprise Carson took up the lamp and rose. “Wait a moment,” he said, and with the lamp in hand he crossed the elevated part of the floor and went down the steps into the cellar. They were left in darkness for a moment, the rays of the lamp flashing now only on the front wall and door of the long building.

“Huh, there ain't anybody hiding there!” Blackburn cautiously called out. “I looked through the full length of it, turned over every box and barrel, before you came. I wasn't going to run any risk of having a stray tramp in a caucus like this.”

There was some fixed quality in Dwight's drawn face as he emerged, carrying the lamp before him, ascended the steps, and again took his place at the table.

“You thought somebody might be hiding there,” the store-keeper said; “but I was careful to—”

“No, it wasn't that,” Carson said. “I was wondering—I was trying to think—”

He paused as if submerged in thought, and Garner turned upon him almost sternly. He had never before used quite such a harsh tone to his partner.

“You've gone far enough, Carson,” he said. “There are limits even to the deepest friendship. You can't ask your best friends to make their wives widows and their children orphans in a blind effort to save the neck of one miserable negro, even if he's as innocent as the angels in heaven. As for yourself, your heroism has almost led you into a cesspool of reckless absurdity. You have let that old man and woman up there, and Miss—that old man and woman, anyway—work on your sympathies till you have lost your usual judgment. I'm your friend and—”

“Stop! Wait!” Carson stood up, his hands on the edge of the table, the lamp beneath him throwing his mobile face into the shadow of his firm, massive jaw. “Stop!” he repeated. “You say you have given up. Boys, I can't. I tell you I can't. I simply can't let them kill that boy. Every nerve in my body, every pulsation of my soul screams out against it. I have set my heart on averting this horror. Ten years ago I could have gone to my bed and slept peacefully, as many good citizens of this town will to-night, under the knowledge that the verdict of mob law was to be executed, but in the handling of this case I've had a new birth. There is no God in heaven if—I say if—He has not made it possible for the mind and will of man to prevent this horror. There must be a way; there is a way, and if I could put my ideas into your brains to-night—my faith and confidence into your souls—we'd prevent this calamity and set an example for our fellows to follow in future.”

“Your ideas into our brains!” Garner said, in a tone of amused resentment. “Well, I like that, Carson; but if you can see a ghost of a chance to save that boy's neck with safety to our own, I'd like to have you plug it through my skull, if you have to do it with a steel drill. At present I'm the senior member of the firm of Garner & Dwight, but I'll take second place hereafter, if you can do what you are aiming at.”

“I don't mean to reflect on your intelligences,” Dwight went on, passionately, his voice rising higher, “but I do see a way, and I am praying God at this moment to make you see it as I do and be willing to help me carry it out.”

“Blaze away, old hoss,” Pole Baker piped up from his seat on the nail keg. “I'm not a nigger-lover by a long shot, but somehow, seeing how you feel about this particular one an' his connections, I'm as anxious to save 'im as if I owned 'im in the good old day an' his sort was fetchin' two thousand apiece. You go ahead. I feel kind o' sneakin', anyway, for votin' agin you while you was up thar nursin' yore sick mammy. By gum! you give me the end of a log I kin tote, an' I'll do it or break my back.”

“I want it understood, Carson,” said Wade Tingle at this juncture, “that I was only voting against our trying to stop that mob by force, and, to do myself justice, I was voting in the interests of the family men here to-night. God knows, if you can see any other possible way—”

“We have no time to lose,” Carson said. “If we are to accomplish anything we must be about it. Gentlemen, what I may propose may, in a way, be asking you to make a sacrifice almost as great as that of open resistance. I am going to ask you, law-abiding citizens that you are, to break the law, as you understand it, but not law as the best wisdom of man intended it to be. This section is in a state of open lawlessness. The law I'm going to ask you to break is already broken. The highest court might hold that we would be no better, in fact, than the army of law-breakers headed this way with the foam of race hatred on their lips, its insane blaze in their eyes that till recently beamed only in gentleness and human love. But I'm going to ask you to chose between two evils—to let an everlasting injustice be done at the hand of a hate that will drown in tears of regret in time to come, or the lesser evil of breaking an already broken law. You are all good citizens, and I tremble and blush over my audacity in asking you to do what you have never in any form done before.”

Carson paused. Wondering silence fell on the group. Upon each face struggled evidences of an almost painful desire to grasp his meaning. That it was momentous no man there doubted. Even the ever equable Garner was shaken from, his habitual stoic attitude, and with his delicate fingers rigidly supporting his great head he stared open-mouthed at the speaker.

“Well, well, what is it?” he presently asked.

“There is only one chance I see,” and Dwight stood erect, his arms folded, and stepped back so that the light of the lamp fell full upon his tense features. The patch of sticking plaster stood out from his pale skin, giving his perspiring brow an uncanny look. “There is only one thing to do, my friends, and without your help I stand powerless. I suggest that we form ourselves into a supposed mob of disguised men, that we go ahead of the others to the jail, and actually force Burt Barrett to turn the prisoner over to us.”

“Great God!” Garner, stood up, and leaned on the table. “Then what—what would you do? Good Lord!”

Carson pointed steadily to the cellar-door and swallowed the lump of excitement in his throat. “I would, unseen by any one, if possible, bring him here and imprison him, in that cellar, guarded by us only till—till such a time as we could safely deliver him to a court of justice.”

“By God, you are a wheel-hoss!” burst from Pole Baker's lips. “That's as easy as failin' off a log.”

“Do you mean to make Burt Barrett believe we are—are actually bent on lynching the negro?” demanded Keith Gordon, new-born enthusiasm bubbling from his eyes and voice.

“Yes, that would be the only way,” said Carson. “Barrett is a sworn officer of the law, and his position is his livelihood. Even if we could persuade him to join us, it wouldn't be fair to him, for he would be shouldering more responsibility than we would. The only way is to thoroughly disguise ourselves and compel him to give in as he will be compelled by the others if we don't act first. I know he would not fire upon us.”

“It looks to me like a dandy idea,” spoke up Blackburn. “As for me I want to reward originality by doing the thing if possible. As for that cellar, it's as strong as an ancient fortress anyway and, Carson, Pete would not try to escape if you ordered him not to. As for disguises, I can lend you all the bleached sheeting you want. I got in a fresh bale of it yesterday. I could cut it into ten-yard pieces which would not hurt the sale of it. Remnants fetch a better price than regular stuff anyway. Boys, let's vote on it. All in favor stand up.”

There was a clatter of shoes and rattling of chairs, boxes, kegs and other articles which had been used for seats. It was an immediate and unanimous tribute to the sway Carson Dwight's personality had long held over them. They stood by him to a man. Even Garner suddenly, and strangely for his crusty individuality, relegated himself to the rank of a common private under the obvious leader.

“Hold on, boys!” exclaimed one not so easily relegated to any position not full of action, and Pole Baker was heard in a further proposal. “So far the arrangements are good and sound but you-uns haven't looked far enough ahead. When we git to the jail thar's got to be some darned fine talkin' of exactly the right sort, or Burt Barrett will smell a mouse and refuse our demands. In a case like this silence is a sight more powerful than a lot o' gab. Now, I propose to have one man, and one man only to do the talking.”

“Yes, and you are the man,” said Carson. “You must do it.”

“Well, I'm willin',” agreed Baker. “The truth is, folks say I'm good at just that sort o' devilment, an' I'd sort o' like the job.”

“You are the very man,” Carson said, with a smile.

“You bet he is,” agreed Blackburn. “Now come down in the store an' let me rig you spooks up. We haven't any too much time to lose.”

“Thar's another thing you-uns don't seem to have calculated on,” said Baker, as Blackburn was leading them down to the dry-goods counter. “It may take time to quiet public excitement, even if we put this thing through to-night. You propose to let the impression go out that thar was a lynchin'. How will you keep 'em from thinkin' it's a fake unless they see some'n' hangin' to a tree-limb in the mornin'? If they thought we'd put up a job on 'em, they would nose around till they was onto the whole business, an' then thar would be the devil to pay.”

“You are right about that,” said Garner. “If we could convince the big mob that Pete has been lynched in some secret way or place, by some other party, who don't want to be known in the matter, the excitement would die down in a day or so.”

“A bang-up good idea!” was Pole's ultimatum. “Leave it to me and I'll study up some way to put it to Burt—by gum! How about tellin' 'im that, for reasons of our own, we intend to hide the body whar the niggers can't git at it to give it decent burial? I really believe that would go down.”

“Splendid, splendid!” said Garner. “Work that fine enough, Pole, and it will give us more time for everything.”

“Well, I can work it all right if I am to do the talkin',” Pole said, as he reached out for his portion of the sheeting.