“Of course; won't he go and eat and rest till Judge More comes? Every house in the town'll be open to him.”
“No; he'll not wait nor rest; and we're determined to hang that negro.”
“It'll be mighty hard to shed our blood—friends and neighbors,” remonstrated the sheriff—“and all over a worthless nigger.”
“That's your lookout,” Mr. Mitchell answered. “A trial and a big funeral is glory for a negro, and the penitentiary means nothing to them but free board and clothes. I tell you, sheriff, lynching is the only thing that affects them.”
“You won't wait even until I get an answer from Judge More?”
“Well, to please you, I'll ask.” And Mitchell rode back to his companions.
The conference between the leaders was longer than the sheriff had hoped, and before he was again approached Doty Buxton had returned, saying that Judge More's answer would be sent to the jail just as soon as it came.
“You'll stand by me, Doty?” the sheriff asked.
“'Cause I like you, Mr. Partin,” Doty answered, slowly; “not 'cause I want to save the nigger. I b'lieve in my soul he's done drowned the po' lady's body.”
“All right; you go inside and be ready to chain the gate if I am run in.” Then he waited for the return of the envoy.