“Yes, that’s the worst of lynch law,” said Watson; “but we are wasting valuable time,—­it’s hardly worth while for us to discuss a subject we are all agreed upon.  One of our race, accused of certain acts, is about to be put to death without judge or jury, ostensibly because he committed a crime,—­really because he is a negro, for if he were white he would not be lynched.  It is thus made a race issue, on the one side as well as on the other.  What can we do to protect him?”

“We kin fight, ef we haf ter,” replied Josh resolutely.

“Well, now, let us see.  Suppose the colored people armed themselves?  Messages would at once be sent to every town and county in the neighborhood.  White men from all over the state, armed to the teeth, would at the slightest word pour into town on every railroad train, and extras would be run for their benefit.”

“They’re already coming in,” said Watson.

“We might go to the sheriff,” suggested Miller, “and demand that he telegraph the governor to call out the militia.”

“I spoke to the sheriff an hour ago,” replied Watson.  “He has a white face and a whiter liver.  He does not dare call out the militia to protect a negro charged with such a brutal crime;—­and if he did, the militia are white men, and who can say that their efforts would not be directed to keeping the negroes out of the way, in order that the white devils might do their worst?  The whole machinery of the state is in the hands of white men, elected partly by our votes.  When the color line is drawn, if they choose to stand together with the rest of their race against us, or to remain passive and let the others work their will, we are helpless,—­our cause is hopeless.”

“We might call on the general government,” said Miller.  “Surely the President would intervene.”

“Such a demand would be of no avail,” returned Watson.  “The government can only intervene under certain conditions, of which it must be informed through designated channels.  It never sees anything that is not officially called to its attention.  The whole negro population of the South might be slaughtered before the necessary red tape could be spun out to inform the President that a state of anarchy prevailed.  There’s no hope there.”

“Den w’at we gwine ter do?” demanded Josh indignantly; “jes’ set here an’ let ’em hang Sandy, er bu’n ’im?”

“God knows!” exclaimed Miller.  “The outlook is dark, but we should at least try to do something.  There must be some white men in the town who would stand for law and order,—­there’s no possible chance for Sandy to escape hanging by due process of law, if he is guilty.  We might at least try half a dozen gentlemen.”

“We’d better leave Josh here,” said Watson.  “He’s too truculent.  If he went on the street he’d make trouble, and if he accompanied us he’d do more harm than good.  Wait for us here, Josh, until we ’we seen what we can do.  We’ll be back in half an hour.”