Otis heard the rattle of spurs and the rush of feet. A shot rang out from the jail door. It was followed almost instantly by another. He heard a sharp cry of pain—from the lips of the Sheriff, he thought. Then the sound of raw oaths, grunts, and the trampling of feet on the wooden platform outside the door.
He heard a clanging slam from the rear of the jail. He knew that it must have been caused by the fleeing jailer as he banged the rear door behind him.
Now there was nothing but the confused murmur of hushed voices. Otis could catch but a word here and there.
“Too bad.... We had to do it.... He might ’a’ known better.... No, there’s no use o’ smashin’ it now—git them keys outa his pocket.... Here, gimme that—turn him over.... That’s right.... Gimme a hand here, Slim—don’t leave him lay here—we’ll dump him inside.... You git that horse ready, Spider—that’s the ticket.... Shut yore mouth an’ get busy, Curley.”
To Otis, locked within the cell, it seemed many minutes that the murmur of lowered voices continued outside the jail door. He threw himself against the flat steel bars of the cell door, but succeeded only in bruising his shoulder sorely. With one foot braced, waist-high, against the jamb, he wrenched and tugged at the door.
Was this to be the end? Was he to be dragged out and strung up without a chance for his life? Well, if need be, he hoped that he could meet even the horrible death of lynching like a man. Then, perhaps, when they learned the truth of the murder of Joe Fyffe, they’d remember that he’d met his fate without flinching.
A key grated in the lock of the outer door. A moment later the door of the cellroom was flung open, and a dim mass of human figures surged in. Otis conquered his first impulse to shrink back against the bars, and stepped forward to meet them.
“H’lo, Otis,” came in the unmistakable voice of Simple Sample. “Jest dropped in to pay you-all a social call. Thought mebbe you couldn’t he’p gettin’ lonesome like in this here dump. I bet you’re ’bout ready to move, aint ye?”
What sort of a farce was this? Was this the way the victim of a lynching bee was taunted before he was dragged out to his death? Otis could swear there hadn’t been a trace of animus in Simple’s words.