The lynchers had not anticipated any determined resistance.  Of course they had looked for a formal protest, and perhaps a sufficient show of opposition to excuse the sheriff in the eye of any stickler for legal formalities.  They had not however come prepared to fight a battle, and no one of them seemed willing to lead an attack upon the jail.  The leaders of the party conferred together with a good deal of animated gesticulation, which was visible to the sheriff from his outlook, though the distance was too great for him to hear what was said.  At length one of them broke away from the group, and rode back to the main body of the lynchers, who were restlessly awaiting orders.

“Well, boys,” said the messenger, “we ’ll have to let it go for the present.  The sheriff says he ’ll shoot, and he ’s got the drop on us this time.  There ain’t any of us that want to follow Cap’n Walker jest yet.  Besides, the sheriff is a good fellow, and we don’t want to hurt ’im.  But,” he added, as if to reassure the crowd, which began to show signs of disappointment, “the nigger might as well say his prayers, for he ain’t got long to live.”

There was a murmur of dissent from the mob, and several voices insisted that an attack be made on the jail.  But pacific counsels finally prevailed, and the mob sullenly withdrew.

The sheriff stood at the window until they had disappeared around the bend in the road.  He did not relax his watchfulness when the last one was out of sight.  Their withdrawal might be a mere feint, to be followed by a further attempt.  So closely, indeed, was his attention drawn to the outside, that he neither saw nor heard the prisoner creep stealthily across the floor, reach out his hand and secure the revolver which lay on the bench behind the sheriff, and creep as noiselessly back to his place in the corner of the room.

A moment after the last of the lynching party had disappeared there was a shot fired from the woods across the road; a bullet whistled by the window and buried itself in the wooden casing a few inches from where the sheriff was standing.  Quick as thought, with the instinct born of a semi-guerrilla army experience, he raised his gun and fired twice at the point from which a faint puff of smoke showed the hostile bullet to have been sent.  He stood a moment watching, and then rested his gun against the window, and reached behind him mechanically for the other weapon.  It was not on the bench.  As the sheriff realized this fact, he turned his head and looked into the muzzle of the revolver.

“Stay where you are, Sheriff,” said the prisoner, his eyes glistening, his face almost ruddy with excitement.

The sheriff mentally cursed his own carelessness for allowing him to be caught in such a predicament.  He had not expected anything of the kind.  He had relied on the negro’s cowardice and subordination in the presence of an armed white man as a matter of course.  The sheriff was a brave man, but realized that the prisoner had him at an immense disadvantage.  The two men stood thus for a moment, fighting a harmless duel with their eyes.