"He was, a while back," said someone.
"That must have been about a hour ago," said some other, looking about furtively at the faces of his neighbors.
"Let's take a stroll over towards the open lots near the jail," suggested someone else.
So, following the first to start with definite purpose, little straggling groups passed on beyond the corner of the square, beyond the jail itself, to a sort of open space not yet encroached upon by public or private buildings.
There was no shouting, no loud talking. The light was dim. The crowd itself moved vaguely, milling about, like cattle restive and ready to stampede, but not yet determined on their course.
"God! Did you hear that music this afternoon—they're done a-buryin' poor old Joel Tarbush by now, but I can hear it yet, seems to me! Now, what had poor old Joel ever done—all his life—to deserve bein' murdered like a dog? It makes my blood sort of rise up to think of that. Now, them that done that—them that was back of that——"
His friend, accosted, nodded grimly, his mouth was shut tight and turned down deep at the corners.
There did not lack one or two willing at least to talk further. One was a young man, rather well dressed, apparently fresh from church. He spoke to any who would listen.
"What I mean to say, men, is this," said he, "we've got to do something to clean up this town. It's the people that's behind the law anyhow. Am I right?"
"He talks like a lawyer—what he says is pretty true," said one farmer to another.