"The mills of the gods grind swift enough in Barlow County," said the schoolmaster.
The scene, the crowd, the flaring lights and harsh voices intoxicated Mason, and he was soon the most enthusiastic man in the mob. At the word, his was one of the willing hands that seized the rope, and jerked the negroes off their feet into eternity. He joined the others with savage glee as they emptied their revolvers into the bodies. Then came the struggle for pieces of the rope as "keepsakes." The scramble was awful. Bud Mason had just laid hold of a piece and cut it off, when some one laid hold of the other end. It was not at the rope's end, and the other man also used his knife in getting a hold. Mason looked up to see who his antagonist was, and his face grew white with anger. It was Dock Heaters.
"Let go this rope," he cried.
"Let go yoreself, I cut it first, an' I'm a goin' to have it."
They tugged and wrestled and panted, but they were evenly matched and neither gained the advantage.
"Let go, I say," screamed Heaters, wild with rage.
"I'll die first, you dirty dog!"
The words were hardly out of his mouth before a knife flashed in the light of the lanterns, and with a sharp cry, Bud Mason fell to the ground. Heaters turned to fly, but strong hands seized and disarmed him.
"He's killed him! Murder, murder!" arose the cry, as the crowd with terror-stricken faces gathered about the murderer and his victim.
"Lynch him!" suggested some one whose thirst for blood was not yet appeased.