IFTEEN minutes later a spectral group in all truth filed out through the rear door of the store and paused for further orders in the shadow of the wall of the adjoining bank building. The sky was still darkly overcast and a drizzle as fine as mist was in the air.

With Carson and Pole in the lead, the party marched grimly two and two, a weird sight even to themselves. Straight down the alley behind the stores along the railway they moved, keeping step like trained military men. Pole, for visual effect, carried a coil of new hemp rope, and he swung it about in his white, winglike clutch with the ease of a cow-boy, as he gutturally gave orders as to turns and tentative pauses. Now and then he would leave the others standing and stride ahead through the darkness and signal them to come on up. In this way they progressed with many a halt, and many a cautious dÉtour to avoid the light that steadily gleamed through some cottage window or chink in a door or some watchman at his post at some mill or factory, till finally they reached the grounds surrounding the court-house and jail.

“I don't know how soft-hearted you are, Carson,” Baker whispered in the young man's ear, “but thar's one thing a man full of feelin' like you seem to be ought to be ready to guard against.”

“What is that, Pole?”

“Why, you know, if we git the poor devil out he'll be sure he's done for, an' he'll be apt to raise an' awful row, beggin' an' prayin' an' no tellin' what else. But for all you do, don't open yore mouth. Let 'im bear it—tough as it will be—till we kin git to a safe place. Thar'll be folks listenin' in the houses along the way to the store, an' ef you was to speak one kind word the truth might leak out. To all appearances we are lynchers of the most rabid brand.”

“I understand that, Pole,” said Carson. “I won't interfere with your work.”

“Don't call it my work,” said Baker, admiringly. “I've been through a sight of secret things in my time, but I never heard of a scheme as slick an' deep-laid as this. If she goes through safe I'll put you at the top of my list. It looks like it will work, but a body never kin tell. Burt Barrett is the next hill to climb. I don't know him well enough to foresee what stand he'll take. Boys, have yore guns ready, an' when I order you to take aim, you do it as if you intend to make a hole in whatever is in front of you. Our bluff is the biggest that ever was thought of, but it has to go. Now, come on!”

Through the open gateway they marched across the public lawn covered with fresh green grass to the jail near by. A dog chained in a kennel behind the house waked and snarled, but he did not bark. There was a little porch at the entrance to the building, and along this the ghostly band silently arranged themselves.

“Hello in thar, Burt Barrett!” Pole suddenly cried out, in sharp, stern tones, and there was a pause. Then from the darkness within came the sound of some one striking a match. A flickering light flared up in the room on the right of the entrance; then the voice of a woman was heard.

“Burt, what is it?” she asked, in a startled tone.

“I don't know; I'll see,” a coarser voice made answer. Another pause and a door on the inside was opened, then the heavier outer one, and Burt Barrett, half dressed, stood staring at the grewsome assemblage before him.

“We've come after that damned nigger,” said Baker, succinctly, his tone so low in his throat that even an intimate friend would not have recognized it, and as he spoke he raised his coil of rope and tapped the floor of the porch.

Barrett, as many a brave man would have done in his place, stood helplessly bewildered. Presently he drew himself together and said, firmly: “Gentlemen, I'm a sworn officer of the law. I've got a duty to perform and I'm going to do it.” And thereupon they saw the barrel of a revolver which the jailer held in his hand. In the awful stillness that engulfed his words the click of its hammer, as the weapon was cocked, sounded sharp and distinct.

“Too bad, but he's goin' to act ugly, boys,” Pole said, with grim finality. “He is a white man in looks, but he's j'ined forces with the black devils that are bent on rulin' our land. Steady, take aim! If thar's less'n twenty holes in his carcass when he's examined in the mornin' it will stand for some member's eternal disgrace. Aim careful!”

There was a startled scream at the half-open window of the bedroom on the right and the jailer's wife thrust out her head.

“Don't shoot 'im!” she screamed. “Don't! Give 'em the keys, Burt. Are you a fool?”

“He certainly looks it,” was Baker's comment, in a tone of well-assumed only half-bridled rage. “Give 'im ten seconds to drap them keys, boys. I'll count. When I say ten blaze away, an' let a yawnin' hell take 'im.”

“Gentlemen, I—”

“Burt! Burt! what do you mean?” the woman cried again. “Are you plumb crazy?”

“One!” counted Pole—“two!—three—”

“I want to do what's right,” the jailer temporized. “Of course, I'm overpowered, and if—”

“Five!—six!” went on Pole, his voice ringing out clear and piercing.

There was a jingling of steel. The spectators, peering through ragged eye-holes in their white caps, saw the bunch of keys as it emerged from Barrett's pocket and fell to the doorstep.

“Gentlemen, you may live to be sorry for this night's work,” he said.

“What do you care what we're sorry for,” Pole said, grimly, “just so you ain't turned into a two-legged sifter? Now”—as he stooped to pick up the keys—“you git back in thar to yore wife an' children. We simply mean business an' know what we are about. An' look here, Burt Barrett”—Pole nudged Carson, who stood close to him—“thar'll be another gang here in a few minutes on the same business. You kin tell 'em we beat 'em to the hitchin'-post, an', moreover, you kin tell 'em that we said that when we settle this nigger's hash them nor nobody else will ever be able to find hair or hide of 'im. A buryin' to the general run o' niggers is their greatest joy an' pride, but they'll never cut up high jinks over this one.”

“Good, by Heaven!” Garner chuckled, as he recalled Pole's diplomatic suggestion at the store.

Without another word of protest the jailer receded into the house, leaving the door open, and, led by Pole, the others entered the hallway with a firm tread and mounted the stairs to the floor above. All was still here, and so dark that Baker lighted a bit of candle and held it over his head. Knowing the cell in which Pete was confined, Carson led them to its door. As they paused there and Pole was fumbling with-the keys, a low, stifled scream escaped from the prisoner, and then, in the dim, checkered light thrown by the candle through the bars, they saw the negro standing close against the farthest grating. Pole had found the right key and opened the door.

“It's all up with you, Pete Warren,” he said; “you needn't make a row. You've got to take your medicine. Come on.”

“Oh, my God, my God!” cried the negro, as with great, glaring eyes he gazed upon them. “I never done it. I never done it. Don't kill me!”

“Bring 'im on, boys!” Pole produced an artificial oath with difficulty, for he really was deeply moved. “Bring 'im on!”

Two of the spectres seized Pete's hands just as his quaking knees bent under him and he was falling down. He started to pull back, and then, evidently realizing the utter futility of resisting such an overwhelming force, he allowed himself to be led through the door of the cell and down the stairs into the yard.

“I never done it, before God I never done it!” he went on, sobbing like a child. “Don't kill me, white folks. Gi' me one chance. Tek me ter Marse Carson Dwight; he'll tell you I ain't de man.”

“He'll tell us a lot!” growled Baker, with another of his mechanical oaths. “Dry up!”

“Oh, my God have mercy!” For the first time Pete noticed the coil of rope and the sight of it redoubled his terror. On his knees he sank, trying to cover his eyes with his imprisoned hands, and quivering like an aspen. Hardly knowing what he was doing, Carson Dwight impulsively bent over him, but before he had opened his lips the watchful Baker had roughly drawn him back.

“Don't, for God's sake!” the mountaineer whispered, warningly, and he pointed across the street to the houses near by. Indeed, as if to sanction his precaution, a window-sash in the upper story of the nearest house was raised, and a pale, white-haired man looked out. It was the leading Methodist preacher of the place. For one moment he stared down on them, as if struck dumb by the terror of the scene.

“In the name of Christ, our Lord, our Saviour, be merciful, neighbors,” he said, in a voice that shook. “Don't commit this crime against yourselves and the community you live in. Spare him! In the name of God, hand him back to the protection of the law.”

“The law be hanged, parson,” Pole retorted, as part of his rare rÔle. “We are looking after that; thar hain't no law in this country that's wuth a hill o' beans.”

“Be merciful—give the man a chance for his life,” the preacher repeated. “Many think he is innocent!”

Hearing that plea in his behalf, Pete screamed out and tried to extend his hands supplicatingly towards his defender, but under Baker's insistent orders he was dragged, now struggling more desperately, farther down the street.

“Ah, Pole, tell the poor—” Keith Gordon began, when the mountaineer sharply commanded: “Dry up! You are disobeyin' orders. Hurry up; bring 'im on. That other gang may hear this racket, and then—come on, I tell you! You violate my leadership and I'll have you court-martialled.”

In some fashion or other they moved on down the street, now taking a more direct way to the store in the fear that they might be met by the expected lynchers and foiled in their purpose. They had traversed the entire length of the street leading from the court-house to the bank building, and were about to turn the corner to reach the rear door of the store, when, in a qualm of fresh despair, Pete's knees actually gave way beneath him and he sank limply to the sidewalk.

“Lord, I reckon we'll have to tote 'im!” Pole said.

“Pick 'im up, boys, and be quick about it. This is a ticklish spot. Let one person see us and the game will be up.”

Pete clearly misunderstood this, and seeing in the words a hint that help or protection was not far away, he suddenly opened his mouth and began to scream.

As quick as a flash Carson, who was immediately behind him, clapped his hand over his lips and said, “Hush, for God's sake, Pete, we are your friends!”

With his mouth still closed by the hand upon it, the negro could only stare into Carson's mask too terrified to grasp more than that he had heard a kindly voice.

“Hush, Pete, not a word! We are trying to save you,” and Carson removed his hand.

“Who dat? Oh, my God, who dat talkin'?” Pete gasped.

“Carson Dwight,” said the young man. “Now hush, and hurry.”

“Thank God it you, Marse Carson—oh, Marse Carson, Marse Carson, you ain't gwine ter let um kill me!”

“No, you are safe, Pete.”

In a rush they now bore him round the corner, and then pausing at the door of the store, to be certain that no extraneous eye was on them, they waited breathlessly for an order from their leader.

“All right, in you go!” presently came from Pole's deep voice, in a great breath of relief. “Open the door, quick!”

The shutter creaked and swung back into the black void of the store, and the throng pressed inward. The door was closed. The darkness was profound.

“Wait; listen!” Pole cautioned. “Thar might be somebody on the sidewalk at the front.”

“Oh, my God, Marse Carson, is you here?” came from the quaking negro.

“Sh!” and Pole imposed silence. For a moment they stood so still that only the rapid panting of the negro was audible.

“All right, we are safe,” Baker said. “But, gosh! it was a close shave! Strike a light an' let's try to ease up this feller. I hated to be rough, but somebody had to do it.”

“Yes, it had to be,” said Dwight. “Pete, you are with friends. Strike a light, Blackburn, the poor boy is scared out of his wits.”

“Oh, Marse Carson, what dis mean? what you-all gwine ter do ter me?”

Blackburn had groped to the lamp on the table and was scratching a match and applying the flame to the wick. The yellow light flashed out, and a strange sight met the bewildered gaze of the negro as kindly faces and familiar forms gradually emerged from the sheeting. Near him stood Dwight, and grasping his hand, Pete clung to it desperately.

“Oh, Marse Carson, what dey gwine ter do ter me?”

“Nothing, Pete, you are all right now,” Carson said, as tenderly as if he were speaking to a hurt child. “The mob was coming and we had to do what we did to save you.” He explained the plan of keeping him hidden in the cellar for a few days, and asked Pete if he would consent to it.

“I'll do anything you say, Marse Carson,” the negro answered. “You know what's best fer me.”

“I've got an old mattress here,” Blackburn spoke up; “boys, let's get it into the cellar. It will make him comfortable.”

And with no sense of the incongruity of their act, considering that as the sons of ex-slave-holders they had never in their lives waited upon a negro, Wade Tingle and Keith Gordon drew the dusty mattress from a dry-goods box in the corner of the room and bore the cumbersome thing through the cellar doorway into the cob webbed darkness beneath. Blackburn followed with a candle, indicating the best-ventilated spot for its placement. Thither Carson led his still benumbed client, who would move only at his bidding, and then like a jerky automaton.

“You won't be afraid to stay here, will you, Pete?” he asked.

The negro stared round him at the encroaching shadows in childlike perturbation.

“You gwine ter lock me in, Marse Carson?” he asked.

Carson explained that in a sense he was still a prisoner, but a prisoner in the hands of friends—friends who had pledged themselves to see that justice was done him. The negro slowly lowered himself to the mattress and stretched out his legs on the stone pavement. An utter droop of despair seemed to settle on him. From the depths of his wide-open eyes came a stare of dejection complete.

“Den I hain't free?” he said.

“No, not wholly, Pete,” Carson returned; “not quite yet.”

“Dry up down thar. Listen!” It was Baker's voice in a guarded tone as he stood in the cellar doorway.

The group around the negro held its breath. The grinding of footsteps on the floor over their heads ceased. Then from the outside came the steady tramp of many feet on the brick sidewalk, the clatter of horses' hoofs in the street.

“Sh! Blow out the light,” Carson said, and Blackburn extinguished it. Profound darkness and stillness filled the long room. Like an army, still voiceless and grimly determined, the human current flowed jailward. It must have numbered several hundred, judged by the time it took to pass. The sound was dying out in the distance when Carson, the last to leave Pete, crept from the cellar, locked the door, and joined the others in the darkness above.

“That mob would hang every man of us if they caught on to our trick,” said Baker, with a queer, exultant chuckle.

Carson moved past him towards the front door.

“Where you goin'?” Pole asked, sharply.

“I want to see how the land lies on the outside,” answered Carson.

“You'll be crazy if you go,” said Blackburn, and the others pressed round Dwight and anxiously joined in the protest.

“No, I must go,” Dwight firmly persisted. “We ought to find out exactly what that crowd thinks to-night, so we'll know what to depend on. If they think a lynching took place they will go home satisfied; if not, as Pole says, they may suspect us, and the most godless riot that ever blackened human history may take place here in this town.”

“He's right,” declared the mountaineer. “Somebody ought to go. I really think I'm the man, by rights, an'—”

“No, I want to satisfy myself,” was Dwight's ultimatum. “Stay here till I come back.”

Blackburn accompanied him to the front door, cautiously looked out, and then let him pass through.

“Knock when you get back—no, here, take the key to the back door and let yourself in. So far, so good, my boy, but this is absolutely the most ticklish job we ever tackled. But I'm with you. I glory in your spunk.”

There was a swelling murmuring, like the onward sweep of a storm from the direction of the courthouse. Voices growing louder and increasing in volume reached their ears.

“Wait for me. Keep the lights out for all you do,” Dwight said, and off he strode in the darkness.

In the gloom and stillness of the store the others waited his return, hardly daring to raise their voices above a whisper. He was gone nearly an hour, and then they heard the key softly turned in the lock and presently he stood in their midst.

“They've about dispersed,” he said, in a tone of intense fatigue. “They lay it to the Hillbend faction, who had some disagreement with them to-day. They seem satisfied.”

“Gentlemen”—it was Garner's voice from his chair at the table—“there's one thing that must be regarded as sacred by us to-night, and that is the absolute secrecy of this thing.”

“Good Lord, you don't think any of us would be fool enough to talk about it!” exclaimed Blackburn, in an almost startled tone over the bare suggestion. “If I thought there was a man here who would blab this to a living soul, I'd—”

“Well, I only wanted to impress that on you all,” said Garner. “To all intents and purposes we are law-breakers, and I'm a member of the Georgia bar. Where are you going, Carson?”

“Down to speak to Pete,” answered Dwight. “I want to try to pacify him.”

When he came back a moment later he said: “I've promised to stay here till daylight. Nothing else will satisfy him; he's broken all to pieces, crying like a nervous woman. As soon as I agreed to stay he quieted down.”

“Well, I'll keep you company,” said Keith. “I can sleep like a top on one of the counters.”

“Hold on, there is something else,” Carson said, as they were moving to the rear door. “You know the news will go out in the morning that Pete was taken off somewhere and actually lynched. This will be a terrible blow to his parents, and I want permission from you all to let those two, at least, know that—”

“No!” Garner cried, firmly, even fiercely, as he turned and struck the counter near him with his open hand. “There you go with your eternal sentiment! I tell you this is a grave happening tonight—grave for us and still graver for Pete. Once let that mob find out that they were tricked and they will hang our man or burn this town in the effort.”

“I understand that well enough,” admitted Dwight, “but the Lord knows we could trust his own flesh and blood when they have so much at stake.”

“I am not willing to risk it, if you are,” said Garner, crisply, glancing round at the others for their sanction. “It will be an awful thing for them to hear the current report in the morning, but they'd better stand it for a few days than to spoil the whole thing. A negro is a negro, and if Lewis and Linda knew the truth they would be Shouting instead of weeping and the rest of the darkies would suspect the truth.”

“That's a fact,” Blackburn put in, reluctantly. “Negroes are quick to get at the bottom of things, and with no dead body in sight to substantiate a lynching story they would smell a mouse and hunt for it till they found it. No, Carson, real weeping right now from the mammy and daddy will help us out more than anything else. Yes, they will have to bear it; they will be all the happier in the end.”

“I suppose you are right,” Dwight gave in. “But it's certainly tough.”