Look at ’em spreading out! Whyn’t they come up like men and get him? There’s Jim Archer’s brother! Bang! Got him! Look at ’im squirm!
That’s two Archers won’t run after coloured girls any more! Bang! Damn it, I missed ’im! Can’t waste ’em like that! Got to be more careful! Must take better aim next time! Bang! Bang! Hell, I missed again! Nope! Got one of ’em!
One—two—three—four gone! Six left! Five for the “Crackers”! One for me! Bang! Bang!
Got another! Must reload! One—two—three four! Nearly all gone! Five—ten—fifteen minutes to live! Why did they pick on Mamie?
Whyn’t they take one of those girls that live in those houses on Butler Street? That’s always running around after men? Why’d they bother a nice girl like Mamie?
Bang! Listen at ’im howl? That’s music for you! Listen to the damn “Peck” squalling!
What’s th’ matter? Looks like they’ve gone! Wonder if I can make a run for it? Th’ damn cowards! Fifty—one hundred—a thousand—five thousand—to one! That’s the way “Crackers” always fight coloured folks! Never heard yet of one “Cracker” fighting one Negro! Have to have thousan’ to kill one little fellow like Bob Harper!
Smoke? Can’t be smoke! Yes, it is! Goin’ t’ burn me up! Bang! Bang! Got one of ’em!
My God! Only one bullet left! Never take him alive! Lynch him! Might burn him! Burned coloured boy last month ’n Texas! Better not let ’em get him! Goodbye, everybody! Goodbye!
Goodbye! Good—Bang …
It was some time after Bob had died before the posse dared enter the barn which by this time was burning rapidly. They feared the cessation of firing was only a ruse to draw them into the open. At last, after riddling the burning structure with bullets, a few of the more daring cautiously approached the barn, entered, and found Bob’s body. After the bullet from his own gun had entered his head, killing him instantly, his body had fallen backwards from the box on which he had been sitting. His legs were resting on the box, his thighs vertical, his body on the floor and his head slightly tilted forward as it rested against a cow-stall. His arms were widespread. The empty revolver lay some ten feet away, where he had flung it as he fell backwards. His face was peaceful. On it was a sardonic smile as though he laughed in death at cheating the howling pack of the satisfaction of killing him.
The mob dragged the body hastily into the open. The roof of the old barn was about to fall in. Before dragging it forth, they had taken no chances. A hundred shots were fired into the dead body. Partly in anger at being cheated of the joy of killing him themselves. They tied it to the rear axle of a Ford. Howling, shouting gleefully, the voice of the pack after the kill, they drove rapidly back to town, the dead body, riddled and torn, bumping grotesquely over the holes in the road. …
Back to the public square. In the open space before the Confederate Monument, wood and excelsior had been piled. Near by stood cans of kerosene. On the crude pyre they threw the body. Saturated it and the wood with oil. A match applied. In the early morning sunlight the fire leaped higher and higher. Mingled with the flames and smoke the exulting cries of those who had done their duty—they had avenged and upheld white civilization. …
The flames died down. Women, tiny boys and girls, old men and young stood by, a strange light on their faces. They sniffed eagerly the odour of burning human flesh which was becoming more and more faint.
… Into the dying flames darted a boy of twelve. Out he came, laughing hoarsely, triumphantly exhibiting a charred bone he had secured, blackened and crisp. … Another rushed in. … Another. … Another. … Here a rib. … There an armbone. … A louder cry. … The skull. … Good boy! Johnny! … We’ll put that on the mantelpiece at home. … Five dollars for it, Johnny! … Nothin’ doin’! … Goin’ to keep it myself! …
The show ended. The crowd dispersed. Home to breakfast.
XVIII
Three men sat around a table that evening in the office of Sheriff Parker in the courthouse. The sheriff was one. Another was Commissioner Henry Lane. The third was Ed Stewart.
The latter was talking.
“Yep, after I talked to that nigger Williams, I rustled ’round among the niggers on my place. At fust, they wouldn’t talk much. But I found a way to make ’em! By God, a taste of a horsewhip’ll make any of ’em open up! Found they’s only two niggers we got to worry ’bout. One’s this nigger doctor. The other’s my nigger Tom Tracy. She’ff, if you hear’n tell of an accident out to my place in the nex’ few days, you needn’t bother to come out to investigate. It’ll be se’f-defence. Tom Tracy’s goin’t come up on me with an open knife. I’m goin’ t’ shoot t’ save my life.”
The three laughed at the good joke. The sheriff agreed not to bother. “Good riddance!” he commented.
Stewart went on:
“Now ’bout this other nigger. He’s the brains of the whole thing. But we’ve got to be mighty careful, ’cause these other niggers thinks he some sort of a tin god. Ef they think he’s bumped off ’cause of these lodges he’s been organizing, they might raise hell. Ev’ry nigger out my way would go through hell ’n’ high water for him. Never seen ’em think so much of another nigger befo’. Mos’ the time they’ll come and tell me ev’rythin’ that any them other niggers doin’. This nigger Harper’s got ’em hoodooed or somethin’.”
The sheriff broke into Stewart’s monologue in a complaining, reminiscent fashion:
“Don’t know what’s gettin’ into the niggers nowadays. They ain’t like they useter be. Take this nigger’s daddy, f’r example. Old
