Once in the village, the company was greeted by calls of recognition. Everybody seemed to know what they had come for. The sheriff and his charge were still there, so a dozen citizens volunteered. The local storekeepers and loungers followed the cavalcade up the street to the sheriff’s house, for the riders had now fallen into a solemn walk.
“You won’t get him though, boys,” said one whom Davies later learned was Seavey, the village postmaster and telegraph operator, a rather youthful person of between twenty-five and thirty, as they passed his door. “He’s got two deputies in there with him, or did have, and they say he’s going to take him over to Clayton.”
At the first street corner they were joined by the several men who had followed the sheriff.
“He tried to give us the slip,” they volunteered excitedly, “but he’s got the nigger in the house, there, down in the cellar. The deputies ain’t with him. They’ve gone somewhere for help—Clayton, maybe.”
“How do you know?”
“We saw ’em go out that back way. We think we did, anyhow.”
A hundred feet from the sheriff’s little white cottage, which backed up against a sloping field, the men parleyed. Then Jake announced that he proposed to go boldly up to the sheriff’s door and demand the negro.
“If he don’t turn him out I’ll break in the door an’ take him!” he said.
“That’s right! We’ll stand by you, Whitaker,” commented several.
By now the throng of unmounted natives had gathered. The whole village was up and about, its one street alive and running with people. Heads appeared at doors and windows. Riders pranced up and down, hallooing. A few revolver shots were heard. Presently the mob gathered even closer to the sheriff’s gate, and Jake stepped forward as leader. Instead, however, of going boldly up to the door as at first it appeared he would, he stopped at the gate, calling to the sheriff.