"You say you don't see what it is to me," Carlin began, turning abruptly. "But I know the man, if you remember. He was in my company—one of the best in it too—I knew him well—that's why he thought of me, I suppose.... But even if I hadn't known him, if I'd seen any man as he was this morning, if any man talked to me as he did.... I never heard anything like it—I never saw anything so friendless, forlorn.... He's like a lost beaten dog—there isn't a soul in the world that isn't against him...."
"Well, that's right, I guess," said the Judge cautiously. "He's worse than friendless." He turned his head toward the window, giving ear to the noise from the street—a low continuous murmur. "That crowd means trouble.... When do they take him out?"
"By the afternoon train. The Sheriff thinks he can do it—he's got thirty deputies sworn in."
"I've never seen a lynching here," said the Judge, getting up and going to the window. "But—we came pretty near it once or twice during the war. It looked a good deal like this, too.... You see, our people don't make an awful lot of noise about a thing—when they mean business, they're quiet."
The two men stood side by side, looking down on the square, which was by now closely packed.
"Well, I guess we'll get him out just the same," said Carlin grimly.
"'We'?"
"They won't get him if I can help it.... But I'd like to know why they want to—don't understand a mob getting up like this about it—"
"It runs like wildfire, once it starts.... Perhaps the boys want some excitement, we haven't had much lately. And then," said the Judge emphatically, "they don't like it. It was an unprovoked brutal murder of a woman—a good hardworking woman, with little children to look after—and this fellow comes back, takes to drinking, quarrels with his wife and smashes her head with an ax—by God, if they want to string him up, I don't blame them!"