About eleven o’clock, when both had about convinced themselves that all was over for this night anyhow, and the lights in the village had all but vanished, a stillness of the purest, summery-est, country-est quality having settled down, a faint beating of hoofs, which seemed to suggest the approach of a large cavalcade, could be heard out on the Sand River pike as Davies by now had come to learn it was, back or northwest of the postoffice. At the sound the postmaster got up, as did Davies, both stepping outside and listening. On it came, and as the volume increased, the former said, “Might be help for the sheriff, but I doubt it. I telegraphed Clayton six times to-day. They wouldn’t come that way, though. It’s the wrong road.” Now, thought Davies nervously, after all there might be something to add to his story, and he had so wished that it was all over! Lynchings, as he now felt, were horrible things. He wished people wouldn’t do such things--take the law, which now more than ever he respected, into their own hands. It was too brutal, cruel. That negro cowering there in the dark probably, and the sheriff all taut and tense, worrying over his charge and his duty, were not happy things to contemplate in the face of such a thing as this. It was true that the crime which had been committed was dreadful, but still why couldn’t people allow the law to take its course? It was so much better. The law was powerful enough to deal with cases of this kind. “They’re comin’ back, all right,” said the postmaster solemnly, as he and Davies stared in the direction of the sound which grew louder from moment to moment. “It’s not any help from Clayton, I’m afraid.” “By George, I think you’re right!” answered the reporter, something telling him that more trouble was at hand. “Here they come!” As he spoke there was a clattering of hoofs and crunching of saddle girths as a large company of men dashed up the road and turned into the narrow street of the village, the figure of Jake Whitaker and an older bearded man in a wide black hat riding side by side in front. “There’s Jake,” said the postmaster, “and that’s his father riding beside him there. The old man’s a terror when he gets his dander up. Sompin’s sure to happen now.” Davies realized that in his absence writing a new turn had been given to things. Evidently the son had returned to Pleasant Valley and organized a new posse or gone out to meet his father.