He spun away from the condemned man and walked quickly to the sheriff. For just a moment the eyes of the prisoner twinkled with a laugh of contempt, but the priest had already turned away.
“The man is innocent,” he said to the sheriff. “How can you sit there and let them believe what is not true? I implore you. Have you no human feelings left? Have you slipped so far as to condone murder?”
“You say he’s innocent How d’you know?” the sheriff asked and took another drink, for time was running out.
“He told me so.”
“And you believe him?”
“He wouldn’t lie to me, Sheriff. What would he gain?”
“Don’t ask roe to figure ’em. I never could.”
“You’ve never tried.”
“Maybe I never wanted to try.”
The saloon across the street exploded with the final release from the bounds of human dignity.
“They’re coming,” the priest heard himself say half-aloud.
The sheriff removed his gun once again from its holster and pointedly lay it on the desk before the priest. “They’re doing what they want to do and doing it’ll solve their problem.”
“They’re going to lynch him.”
“Ain’t never had a lynching in Dobart. Maybe they figure it’s their turn,” he said, but he took another drink.
The priest was white. His trembling limbs quivered under his cloak as another roar came rolling across the dusty road. It was louder than before and with more assurance.
“Reckon they found the spark they needed.” The sheriff mumbled, for already the alcohol was numbing his tongue.
Their spark appeared in the form of Eben Lawrence, a crony of Frank Craven’s from the hotel-porch set. Eben never really slept, but he lived most of his daylight hours in the cradle-like grasp of a porch rocker. So, when he appeared now in the saloon, all the morning’s events had slipped past him. He only knew that some few minutes before he had become aware that the chair beside him was not holding its usual occupant and anything that important needed looking into.
“Seen Frank Craven?” he asked one of the men on the outer ring of the crowd. “I been looking for Frank and I ain’t seen him.” Eben was like family and he got family treatment as they eased him through the mob and up to the bar.
“Frank’s dead,” somebody told him and Eben learned the assassin was resting across the street behind bars.
“I’ll kill him,” the old one said as he began to shake with anger. “He killed Frank and I’ll kill him. Frank was my friend. My friend,” he repeated, and the tears began to trickle down the sun-dried old face.
So this was the spark. An old man with an antiquated love of a dead friend.
“We’ll take care of him for you, Eben,” they said and the chorus grew in numbers. “Won’t we?” they shouted and from somewhere came a rope. Glasses were emptied and the saloon spilled men out into the street. The men stumbled, but marched in force, for only in force, despite all the time and whisky, did they possess the courage for such an act.
And Eben sat down on the floor of the empty saloon and he cried. When you’re an Eben Lawrence you can’t afford such a loss for there is nothing to take its place. So you cry for it is best and it is easy and suddenly it makes you feel good because so many people really care.
As the wave rolled on, the four men fought their separate battles.
The priest found himself staring at the gun before him. His ineffectiveness had ground him to immobility as each beat of his pounding heart stabbed him for his inadequacies.
The sheriff held the near-empty bottle to his lips. Pass out, he prayed. Let me pass out right now, he begged silently.
The intended victim, when he realized the time had come, could only gather his helpless form in one last swing at the ugly world and curse it up and down in the two languages he knew. “Pigs!” he screamed and his mocking words fell in with the storm from outside and echoed aimlessly in the air.
And the boy, the hero, melted from the crowd. His role had faded from importance with the advent of old Eben and he clung more and more desperately to his obscurity as the tension mounted.
They came as an army through the door. They pressed past that atrophied man of justice, the sheriff, and seized their goal within their hands. They passed the screaming, kicking animal among them until once more they reached the street.
Down the road they pulled and dragged the half-breed toward the single oak silhouetted against the merciless sky.
Almost without knowing it, the young priest followed. His steps were faulty and his eyes blurred from the scene as he repeated feebly his prayers for forgiveness.
The sheriff stumbled out of his sanctuary and leaned drunkenly against the porch rail. Watch, you miserable slob, he said to himself. Watch it and try your damnedest to forget.
When Jerry saw the struggling man being tossed from hand to hand, he bolted. As fast as his weakened legs would carry him, he ran for the cover of the empty saloon. Over the roar of the mob the sobs of the dead man’s friend came to him. He put his hands over his ears, frantically trying to close out all sound from his terrified mind.
The rope went up and over the limb and the noose came down and swayed lightly in the heavy air. They brought up a horse and started to boost the man up. His eyes came to rest on the big knot with the loop below and suddenly he stopped squirming. His tense body relaxed as he looked from the rope to the nearest man. “Priest!” he said, and the men lowered him to the ground. The word worked its way through the crowd and presently, as they had in the saloon, the mob parted and from the end of the gantlet came the priest.
He knelt beside the still figure as a hush fell over the mob. They pushed the ring back to give space, if nothing else, to the solemn moment.
“May I help you, my son?” There was a quiver in his voice, but he didn’t care. He did not feel impersonal about the act which was coming.
“Father,” he began in a whisper, as he put his lips close to the priest’s ears. Some few heads turned and others bowed and for the moment no man spoke.
Jerry crouched behind the bar still trying to stifle the sound from without. Then he became aware of no sound save Eben’s quiet sobbing and out of this sudden silence came a memory from the dim past. The memory took the shape of a word and it reached out and seized its owner by the throat and held him in its terrifying grip. The boy fought and swung his arms wildly, as the word increased its hold. Hero! the memory cried. Hero! Hero! Hero! the beat continued and the boy slumped flat on the floor. Hero! Hero! Hero! the punishment increased and through it all came the constant accompaniment of Eben’s tearful moans.
“I kill him, Father,” the man confessed. “He was old. Near deadlike and I kill him. I no think he live here. I swear, Father, I never kill before.” The man babbled on, but his words suddenly lost definition after the first sentence had reached the listening ear of the priest He felt himself stiffen as the blood drained from his face. “What difference does it make?” he heard the sheriff say. “Now or in a month?” “But he’s innocent! He told me!” “And you believe him?” Believe? Believe? Dear God in Heaven, do I believe in anything any more?
Somehow he listened, giving solace when he could and absolution and blessing when the man was through. Their eyes met at the last and the man smiled simply at the priest Then he stood up stiffly.
As the man rose, the crowd moved in and the silence stopped. They needed momentum now and shouting helped, so they shouted loud and long. They pushed and shoved one another, because pushing was striking out and shoving made one mad and when one was mad one could do all kinds of things.