“No lyin', old man; the dogs brought us straight here. Don't make me burn the house down; open the door.”
The door was closing, when the sheriff, springing from his horse, forced it steadily back. A shot came from within, but it ranged wild, and in an instant the sheriff's pistol covered the open room, where a smouldering fire gave light. Two of the men followed him, and one, making for the fire, pushed it into a blaze, which revealed a group of negroes—an old man, a young woman, some children, and a young man crouching behind with a gun in his hand. The sheriff walked straight up to the young man, whose teeth were chattering.
“I arrest you,” he said; “come on.”
“That's the feller,” confirmed one of the guard; “I've seen him at Mr. Morris's place.”
“Tie him,” the sheriff ordered, “while I git that gun. Give it to me, old man, or I'll take you to jail too.” It was yielded up—an old-time rifle—and the sheriff smashed it against the side of the chimney, throwing the remnants into the fire. “Lead on,” he said, and the young negro was taken outside. Quickly he was lifted on to a horse and tied there, while the former rider mounted behind one of his companions, and they rode out of the settlement into the woods.
“Git into the shadows,” one said; “they might be fools enough to shoot.”
Once in the road, the sheriff called a halt. “One of you must ride; back to Mr. Morris's place and collect the other search-parties, while we make for Pineville jail. Now, Abram, come on.”
“I ent done nuttin', Mr. Parin, suh,” the negro urged. “I ent hot Mis' Morris.”
“Who said anything 'bout Mrs. Morris?” was asked, sharply.
The negro groaned.