“Burt, what is it?” she asked, in a startled tone.
“I don't know; I'll see,” a coarser voice made answer. Another pause and a door on the inside was opened, then the heavier outer one, and Burt Barrett, half dressed, stood staring at the grewsome assemblage before him.
“We've come after that damned nigger,” said Baker, succinctly, his tone so low in his throat that even an intimate friend would not have recognized it, and as he spoke he raised his coil of rope and tapped the floor of the porch.
Barrett, as many a brave man would have done in his place, stood helplessly bewildered. Presently he drew himself together and said, firmly: “Gentlemen, I'm a sworn officer of the law. I've got a duty to perform and I'm going to do it.” And thereupon they saw the barrel of a revolver which the jailer held in his hand. In the awful stillness that engulfed his words the click of its hammer, as the weapon was cocked, sounded sharp and distinct.
“Too bad, but he's goin' to act ugly, boys,” Pole said, with grim finality. “He is a white man in looks, but he's j'ined forces with the black devils that are bent on rulin' our land. Steady, take aim! If thar's less'n twenty holes in his carcass when he's examined in the mornin' it will stand for some member's eternal disgrace. Aim careful!”
There was a startled scream at the half-open window of the bedroom on the right and the jailer's wife thrust out her head.
“Don't shoot 'im!” she screamed. “Don't! Give 'em the keys, Burt. Are you a fool?”