“A good white man has been shot,” he cried out—“shot by a man on one of those horses. Be calm. This is a serious business.”
But Carson, with his left hand pressed to his temple, now stood erect.
“Yes, some coward back there shot me,” he said, boldly, “but I don't think I am seriously wounded. He may fire on me again, as a dirty coward will do on a defenceless man, but as I stand here daring him to try it again I plead with you, my friends, to let me put this boy into jail. Many of you know me, and know I'll keep my word when I promise to move heaven and earth to give him a fair and just trial for the crime of which he is accused.”
“Bully for you, Dwight! My God, he's got grit!” a voice cried. “Let him have his way, boys. The sheriff is back there. Heigh, Jeff Braider, come to the front! You are wanted!”
“Is the sheriff back there?” Carson asked, calmly, in the strange silence that had suddenly fallen.
“Yes, here I am.” Braider was threading his way towards him through the crowd. “I was trying to spot the man that fired that shot, but he's gone.”
“You bet he's gone!” cried one of the two remaining horsemen, and, accompanied by the other, he turned and, they galloped away. This seemed a final signal to the crowd to acquiesce in the plan proposed, and they stood voiceless and still, their rage strangely spent, while Braider took the limp and cowering prisoner by the arm and drew him down from the block. Pete, only half comprehending, was whimpering piteously and clinging to Dwight.
“It's all right, Pete,” Carson said. “Come on, we'll lock you up in the jail where you'll be safe.” Between Carson and the sheriff, followed by Garner, Pete was the centre of the jostling throng as they moved off towards the jail.
“What dey gwine ter do, honey?” old Linda asked, finding her voice for the first time, as she leaned towards her young mistress.
“Put him in jail where he'll be safe,” Helen said. “It's all over now, mammy.”