Just then a young farmer came galloping up. He was coatless, hatless, breathless.
“They’ve got him!” he shouted excitedly. “They’ve got him!”
A chorus of “whos,” “wheres” and “whens” greeted this information as the crowd gathered about the rider.
“Why, Mathews caught him up here at his own house!” exclaimed the latter, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his face. “He must ’a’ gone back there for something. Mathews’s takin’ him over to Clayton, so they think, but they don’t project he’ll ever get there. They’re after him now, but Mathews says he’ll shoot the first man that tries to take him away.”
“Which way’d he go?” exclaimed the men in chorus, stirring as if to make an attack.
“’Cross Sellers’ Lane,” said the rider. “The boys think he’s goin’ by way of Baldwin.”
“Whoopee!” yelled one of the listeners. “We’ll get him away from him, all right! Are you goin’, Sam?”
“You bet!” said the latter. “Wait’ll I get my horse!”
“Lord!” thought Davies. “To think of being (perforce) one of a lynching party—a hired spectator!”
He delayed no longer, however, but hastened to secure his horse again. He saw that the crowd would be off in a minute to catch up with the sheriff. There would be information in that quarter, drama very likely.