Margaret turned, confronting both Phil and Ben with revolvers in their hands, and fainted.
Ben hurried Phil out the back door and persuaded him to fly.
“Man, you must go! We must not have a riot here to-day. There’s no telling what will happen. A disturbance now, and my men will swarm into town to-night. For God’s sake go, until things are quiet!”
“But I tell you I’ll face it. I’m not afraid,” said Phil quietly.
“No, but I am,” urged Ben. “These two hundred negroes are armed and drunk. Their officers may not be able to control them, and they may lay their hands on you—go—go!—go!—you must go! The train is due in fifteen minutes.”
He half lifted him on a horse tied behind the hotel, leaped on another, galloped to the flag-station two miles out of town, and put him on the north-bound train.
“Stay in Charlotte until I wire for you,” was Ben’s parting injunction.
He turned his horse’s head for McAllister’s, sent the two boys with all speed to the Cyclops of each of the ten township Dens with positive orders to disregard all wild rumours from Piedmont and keep every man out of town for two days.
As he rode back he met a squad of mounted white regulars, who arrested him. The trooper’s companion had sworn positively that he was the man who killed the negro.
Within thirty minutes he was tried by drum-head court-martial and sentenced to be shot.