“Son,” put in Judge Priest in his high, weedy voice, “I reckon maybe you're right. I've been projectin' around cotehouses a good many years, and I've taken notice that when a jury look at a prisoner all the time and never look at his women folks it's a monstrous bad sign. And that's the way it was all day today.”
“The judge will be fair—he always is,” said Hightower, the local lawyer, “and of course Gilliam is only doing his duty. Those jurors are as good solid men as you can find in this country anywhere. But they can't help being prejudiced. Human nature's not strong enough to stand out against the feeling that's grown up round here against Tandy since he shot Ab Rankin.”
“Son,” said Judge Priest, still with his eyes on the darkening square below, “about how many of them jurors would you say are old soldiers?”
“Four or five that I know of,” said Hightower—“and maybe more. It's hard to find a man over fifty years old in this section that didn't see active service in the Big War.”
“Ah, hah,” assented Judge Priest with a squeaky little grunt. “That foreman now—he looked like he might of seen some fightin'?”
“Four years of it,” said Hightower. “He came out a captain in the cavalry.”
“Ah, hah.” Judge Priest sucked at his pipe. “Herman,” he J wheezed back over his shoulder to Felsburg, “did you notice a tall sort of a saddle-colored darky playing a juice harp in front of that there sideshow as we came along up? I reckon that nigger could play almost any tune you'd a mind to hear him play?”
At a time like this Durham was distinctly not interested in the versatilities of strange negroes in this corner of the world. He kept silent, shrugging his shoulders petulantly.
“I wonder now is that nigger left town yet?” mused the old judge half to himself.
“I saw him just a while ago going down toward the depot,” volunteered Hightower. “There's a train out of here for Memphis at 8:50. It's about twenty minutes of that now.”