The moving dustcloud, with legs and arms showing through its swirling front, was no more than a hundred yards away. You could make out details—hot, red, resolute faces; the glint of the sun on a gunbarrel; the polished nose of the blacksmith's sledge; the round curve of a greasy oilcan.
“Dink Bynum,” said Judge Priest, “git that gun out and give it to me—quick!”
“Jedge, listen to reason!” begged Bynum. “You're candidate yourse'f. Sentiment is aginst that nigger—strong. You'll hurt your own chances if you interfere.”
The judge didn't answer. His eyes were on the dustcloud and his hand was extended. His pudgy fingers closed round the heavy handful of blued steel that Dink Bynum passed over and he shoved it out of sight. Laboring heavily down the steps he opened his umbrella and put it over his shoulder, and as he waddled down the short gravel path his shadow had the grotesque semblance of a big crawling land terrapin following him. One look Judge Priest sent over his shoulder. Dink Bynum and Jeff had both vanished. Except for the men from Massac there was no living being to be seen.
They didn't see him, either, until they were right upon him. He came out across the narrow sidewalk of the square and halted directly in their path, with his right hand raised and his umbrella tilted far back, so that its shade cut across the top of his straw hat, making a distinct line.
“Boys,” he said familiarly, almost paternally—“Boys, I want to have a word with you.”
Most of the Massac men knew him—some of them knew him very well. They had served on juries under him; he had eaten Sunday dinners under their rooftrees. They stopped, the rear rows crowding up closer until they were a solid mass facing him. Beyond him they could see the outer door of the jail gaping hospitably and the sight gave an edge to their purpose that was like the gnawing of physical hunger. Above all things they were sharp-set to hurry forward the thing they had it in their minds to do.
“Boys,” said the judge, “most of you are friends of mine—and I want to tell you something. You mustn't do the thing you're purposin' to do—you mustn't do it!”
A snorted outburst, as of incredulity, came from the sweating clump of countrymen confronting him.
“The hell we mustn't!” drawled one of them derisively, and a snicker started.