“Well, Wiggin and some others _think_ I am yet,” said Braider; “and I reckon I was till this thing come up; but, boys, I guess I've got a little smidgin of good left in me, for somehow Wiggin has turned my stomach. But I hain't got to what I was leading up to. Neither one of you hain't admitted that there is a nigger in that wood-pile yet, and I don't blame you for keeping it to yourselves. That is your business, but the time has come when Jeff Braider's got to do the right thing or plunge deeper into hellishness, and he's had a taste of what it means and don't want no more of it. I may lose all I've got by it. Wiggin and his gang may beat me to a cold finish next election, but from now on I'm on the other side.” “Good,” said Garner; “that's the way to talk. Was that what you were leading up to, Braider?” “Not altogether,” and the sheriff rose and stood over Carson, resting his hand on the young man's shoulder to steady himself. “My boy, I've come to tell you that the damnedest, blackest plot agin you that ever was laid has been hatched out.” “What is that, Braider?” Carson asked, calmly enough under the circumstances. “Wiggin and his gang have found out that a trick was played night before last. The Hillbend men convinced them that they didn't lynch anybody, and the Wiggin crowd smelt around until they dropped on to the thing. The only fact they are short on is where the boy is hid. They think he is in the house of one of the negro preachers. Wiggin come to me, not half an hour ago, and considering me one of his stand-bys, he told me all about it. The scheme is for me to arrest Pete and jail 'im on the charge of murder and then to arrest you fer being the ringleader of a jail-breaking gang, who preaches law and order in public for political gain and breaks both in secret.” “And what do they think will become of Pete?” Carson asked, a touch of supreme bitterness in his tone. “Wiggin didn't say; but I know what would happen to him. The seeds of bloody riot are being strewn broadcast by the handful. They've been to every member of the crowd that lynched Sam Dudlow and warned them, on their lives, not to repeat the statement that Dudlow had said Pete was innocent. They told the lynchers that you two lawyers were on the hunt for men who had heard the confession and intend to use that as evidence against them.” “Ah, that _is_ slick, slick!” Garner muttered. “Slick as double-distilled goose-grease,” said Braider. “The lynchers are denying to friend or foe that Dudlow said a word, and the news is spreading like wildfire that Pete was Dudlow's accomplice, and that you, Carson, are trying, with a gang of town dudes, to carry your point by main, bull-headed force.” “I see, I see.” Carson had risen and with a deep frown on his face stood leaning against the top of his desk. He extended his hand to the officer and said, “I appreciate your telling me all this, Braider, more than I can say.”