“Great God, sheriff! how can you mention the thing quietly? You know—”
“Yes, I know; and I know that I'll never do the dirty work of a sheriff a day after my term's up. But we haven't any proof against this nigger except that he ran away—”
“Isn't that enough when the lady can't be found, nor a trace of her?”
“I found the hatchet.”
“And—!”
“It was clean, thank God!”
Mr. Mitchell jerked the reins so violently that his horse, tired as he was, reared and plunged.
“Mr. Morris declines to speak with you,” he went on, when the horse had quieted down, “but he's determined that the negro shall not escape, and the whole county'll back him.”
“I know that,” the sheriff answered, patiently, “and in his place I'd do the same thing; but in my place I must do my official duty. I'll not let the nigger escape, you may be sure of that, and I've telegraphed for Judge More to come out here. I've telegraphed the whole case. Surely Mr. Morris'll trust Judge More?”
Mitchell dragged at his mustache. “Poor Morris is nearly dead,” he said.