“A blackleg himself!” was shouted by two or three voices.

“Blackleg judge, and blackleg lawyers!  Oh, yes!  The law will execute sure vengeance!  Who was in the room gambling with Green and Hammond?”

“Judge Lyman!” “Judge Lyman!” was answered back.

“It won’t do, sheriff!  There’s no law in the country to reach the case but Lynch law; and that the scoundrel must have.  Give him to us!”

“Never!  On, men, with the prisoner!” cried the sheriff resolutely, and the posse made a rush toward the door, bearing back the resisting and now infuriated crowd.  Shouts, cries, oaths, and savage imprecations blended in wild discord; in the midst of which my blood was chilled by the sharp crack of a pistol.  Another and another shot followed; and then, as a cry of pain thrilled the air, the fierce storm hushed its fury in an instant.

“Who’s shot?  Is he killed?”

There was a breathless eagerness for the answer.

“It’s the gambler!” was replied.  “Somebody has shot Green.”

A low muttered invective against the victim was heard here and there; but the announcement was not received with a shout of exultation, though there was scarcely a heart that did not feel pleasure at the sacrifice of Harvey Green’s life.

It was true as had been declared.  Whether the shot were aimed deliberately, or guided by an unseen hand to the heart of the gambler, was never known; nor did the most careful examination, instituted afterward by the county, elicit any information that even directed suspicion toward the individual who became the agent of his death.

At the coroner’s inquest, held over the dead body of Harvey Green, Simon Slade was present.  Where he had concealed himself while the mob were in search of him, was not known.  He looked haggard; and his eyes were anxious and restless.  Two murders in his house, occurring in a single day, were quite enough to darken his spirits; and the more so, as his relations with both the victims were not of a character to awaken any thing but self-accusation.

As for the mob, in the death of Green its eager thirst for vengeance was satisfied.  Nothing more was said against Slade, as a participator in the ruin and death of young Hammond.  The popular feeling was one of pity rather than indignation toward the landlord; for it was seen that he was deeply troubled.

One thing I noticed, and it was that the drinking at the bar was not suspended for a moment.  A large proportion of those who made up the crowd of Green’s angry pursuers were excited by drink as well as indignation, and I am very sure that, but for the maddening effects of liquor, the fatal shot would never have been fired.  After the fearful catastrophe, and when every mind was sobered, or ought to have been sobered, the crowd returned to the bar-room, where the drinking was renewed.  So rapid were the calls for liquor, that both Matthew and Frank, the landlord’s son, were kept busy mixing the various compounds demanded by the thirsty customers.