“What ’s the use of kicking, Sheriff,” argued one of the leaders of the mob.  “The nigger is sure to hang anyhow; he richly deserves it; and we ’ve got to do something to teach the niggers their places, or white people won’t be able to live in the county.”

“There ’s no use talking, boys,” responded the sheriff.  “I ’m a white man outside, but in this jail I ’m sheriff; and if this nigger ’s to be hung in this county, I propose to do the hanging.  So you fellows might as well right-about-face, and march back to Troy.  You ’ve had a pleasant trip, and the exercise will be good for you.  You know me.  I ’ve got powder and ball, and I ’ve faced fire before now, with nothing between me and the enemy, and I don’t mean to surrender this jail while I ’m able to shoot.”  Having thus announced his determination, the sheriff closed and fastened the wicket, and looked around for the best position from which to defend the building.

The crowd drew off a little, and the leaders conversed together in low tones.

The Branson County jail was a small, two-story brick building, strongly constructed, with no attempt at architectural ornamentation.  Each story was divided into two large cells by a passage running from front to rear.  A grated iron door gave entrance from the passage to each of the four cells.  The jail seldom had many prisoners in it, and the lower windows had been boarded up.  When the sheriff had closed the wicket, he ascended the steep wooden stairs to the upper floor.  There was no window at the front of the upper passage, and the most available position from which to watch the movements of the crowd below was the front window of the cell occupied by the solitary prisoner.

The sheriff unlocked the door and entered the cell.  The prisoner was crouched in a corner, his yellow face, blanched with terror, looking ghastly in the semi-darkness of the room.  A cold perspiration had gathered on his forehead, and his teeth were chattering with affright.

“For God’s sake, Sheriff,” he murmured hoarsely, “don’t let ’em lynch me; I did n’t kill the old man.”

The sheriff glanced at the cowering wretch with a look of mingled contempt and loathing.

“Get up,” he said sharply.  “You will probably be hung sooner or later, but it shall not be to-day, if I can help it.  I ’ll unlock your fetters, and if I can’t hold the jail, you ’ll have to make the best fight you can.  If I ’m shot, I ’ll consider my responsibility at an end.”

There were iron fetters on the prisoner’s ankles, and handcuffs on his wrists.  These the sheriff unlocked, and they fell clanking to the floor.

“Keep back from the window,” said the sheriff.  “They might shoot if they saw you.”

The sheriff drew toward the window a pine bench which formed a part of the scanty furniture of the cell, and laid his revolver upon it.  Then he took his gun in hand, and took his stand at the side of the window where he could with least exposure of himself watch the movements of the crowd below.