“The nigger ain't here!” “I'm no fool, Jim. And I'll hold this jail, me and Doty, as long as possible, and you drive like hell! You see?” “I didn't know you really _wanted_ to save the nigger,” his brother remonstrated; “nobody b'lieves that” “I don't, as a nigger. But you go on now, and I'll send Doty with the telegram, and make time by talkin' to Mr. Morris. I don't think they've found anything; if they had, they'd have come a-galloping, and the devil himself couldn't have stopped 'em. Gosh, but it's awful! Who knows what that nigger's done When I look at Mr. Morris, I wish you fellers had overpowered me last night and had fixed things.” He let his brother out at the back, then went round to the front gate, where he met the man whom he called Doty Buxton. “Go telegraph Judge More the facts of the case,” he said, “an' ask him to come. I don't believe I'll need any men if he'll come; and besides, he and Mr. Morris are friends.” As the man turned away, one of the horsemen rode up to the sheriff. “We demand that negro,” he said. “I supposed that was what you'd come for, Mr. Mitchell,” the sheriff answered; “but you know, sir, that as much as I'd like to oblige you, I'm bound to protect the man. He swears that he's never touched Mrs. Morris.” “Great God, sheriff! how can you mention the thing quietly? You know--” “Yes, I know; and I know that I'll never do the dirty work of a sheriff a day after my term's up. But we haven't any proof against this nigger except that he ran away--” “Isn't that enough when the lady can't be found, nor a trace of her?” “I found the hatchet.” “And--!” “It was clean, thank God!” Mr. Mitchell jerked the reins so violently that his horse, tired as he was, reared and plunged. “Mr. Morris declines to speak with you,” he went on, when the horse had quieted down, “but he's determined that the negro shall not escape, and the whole county'll back him.” “I know that,” the sheriff answered, patiently, “and in his place I'd do the same thing; but in my place I must do my official duty. I'll not let the nigger escape, you may be sure of that, and I've telegraphed for Judge More to come out here. I've telegraphed the whole case. Surely Mr. Morris'll trust Judge More?” Mitchell dragged at his mustache. “Poor Morris is nearly dead,” he said. “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.