“And that?”
“You’ll see and hear in time. What’s
yonder?”
The men were rising, one after another, and bunching
together. Before Vance could answer, there was
a confusion in the hall, running feet here and there.
They heard the hard, shrill voice of Wu Chi chattering
directions and the guttural murmurs of his fellow servants
as they answered. Someone ran out into the hall
and came back to the huddling, stirring crowd in the
living room.
“He’s not dead—but close to
it. Maybe die any minute—maybe live
through it!”
That was the report.
“We’ll get young Hollis and hold him to
see how the sheriff comes out.”
“Aye, we’ll get him!”
All at once they boiled into action and the little
crowd of men thrust for the big doors that led into
the hall. They cast the doors back and came directly
upon the tall, white-headed figure of Gainor.
Gainor’s dignity split the force of their rush.
They recoiled as water strikes on a rock and divides
into two meager swirls. And when one or two went
past him on either side, he recalled them.
“Boys, there seems to be a little game on hand.
What is it?”
Something repelling, coldly inquiring in his attitude
and in his voice. They would have gone on if
they could, but they could not. He held them
with a force of knowledge of things that they did not
know. They were remembering that this man had
gone out with the sheriff to meet, apparently, his
death. And yet Gainor, a well-tried friend of
the sheriff, seemed unexcited. They had to answer
his question, and how could they lie when he saw them
rushing through a door with revolvers coming to brown,
skillful hands? It was someone from the rear who
made the confession.
“We’re going to get young Black Jack!”
That was it. The speech came out like the crack
of a gun, clearing the atmosphere. It told every
man exactly what was in his own mind, felt but not
confessed. They had no grudge against Terry, really.
But they were determined to hang the son of Black
Jack. Had it been a lesser deed, they might have
let him go. But his victim was too distinguished
in their society. He had struck down Joe Minter;
the ghost of the great Black Jack himself seemed to
have stalked out among them.
“You’re going to get young Terry Hollis?”
interpreted Gainor, and his voice rose and rang over
them. Those who had slipped past him on either
side came back and faced him. In the distance
Elizabeth had not stirred. Vance kept watching
her face. It was cold as ice, unreadable.
He could not believe that she was allowing this lynching
party to organize under her own roof—a
lynching party aimed at Terence. It began to grow
in him that he had gained a greater victory than he
imagined.
“If you aim at Terry,” went on Gainor,
his voice even louder, “you’ll have to
aim at me, too. There’s going to be no lynching
bee, my friends!”
